tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27546358968757242012-01-29T21:42:42.390-05:00A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.comBlogger3491100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-14399672555675397502011-08-06T23:17:00.007-04:002011-08-07T23:53:37.227-04:00

That instantaneous, instinctive response to a stimulus. Your body and mind coming together in a moment, having already decided what your counterpoise is to whatever just happened. You have as little control over the flinch as you did over the pin that pricked you. That's the thing about reactions - they just happen. And in so doing, they reveal truths that you can't pretend away."Glad to see

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-83776918031833764402011-07-31T21:26:00.004-04:002011-07-31T23:22:29.199-04:00

During this week of the IndieInk Writing Challenge, subcultural, punk-rock, dissatisfied chick, posing as a mild-mannered, slightly-wild professional woman Stillie, presented me with the following challenge: "He watched as the topaz and silver ring spiraled, the sparkle of the stone from the moonlight slowly darkening as the ring descended to the bottom of the river." The piece below is my

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-70933762874872750542011-06-08T23:02:00.004-04:002011-06-08T23:17:50.653-04:00

During this week of the IndieInk Writing Challenge, first and always a writer MelissaR presented me with the following challenge: "You're on a train heading to your sister's wedding. Go!" The piece below is my response.~The doors opened on either side of the train, creating a hallway between the platforms at Jamaica station. Smoke drifting in from the passengers’ cigarettes. Quick drags before

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-33177205941600959742011-05-29T21:22:00.004-04:002011-05-30T01:02:26.528-04:00

During this week of the IndieInk Writing Challenge, (mostly) happy housewife Trish presented me with the following challenge: "What's in a name?" The piece below is my response.~Mommy when I was four years old. A head full of curls and unicorns. Playing Make Believe in the backyard, leaving carrots out for Rudie each December 24th. Mommy when I didn't know she had another name. When I

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-47429983495040122582011-05-24T23:10:00.004-04:002011-05-26T01:34:46.748-04:00

During this week of the IndieInk Writing Challenge, the talented Cacophoenix presented me with the following challenge: "It is bright and cheery spring day, and you are strolling down NYC, loving life. You come near an alley and suddenly a tiny figure all sparkly pops out and says "Psst!!! Yes you! Come here!" Describe your magical journey." The piece below is my response.~We'd gone straight

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-45834213866842605582011-04-19T22:45:00.000-04:002011-04-19T23:35:58.860-04:00

The sweater has been draped over the arm of my couch for two weeks now. The wool, coarse and grey. The leather, soft and brown. It’s cashmere, the sweater, so it itched when I wore it. Burlap rubbing my skin raw wherever it touched. It hit me mid-thigh and the arms flopped formlessly, several inches past my hands. Like a little girl wearing a grown-up’s clothes. But I’d pulled it over my

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-24132184370520009132011-03-31T21:42:00.004-04:002011-03-31T22:55:56.530-04:00

During this week of the IndieInk Writing Challenge, the talented Marian presented me with the following challenge: "You hear your neighbors in a loud, heated argument. What next?" The piece below is my response.~I don't ever need to meet them to know them. That's just how it is in this city.They're above me, below me, and on either side. Most of them I never see. Others I might pass in the

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-37452817558174013352011-03-16T18:57:00.000-04:002011-03-17T00:00:30.112-04:00

During this week of the IndieInk Writing Challenge, the talented San Diego Momma presented me with the following challenge: "Write an inspirational “speech” in 350 words. Speak to any audience you want: an unborn child, college grads, the elderly, the dying, your younger self, whoever. You can make this silly, serious, sad, angry, scary. Anything goes." The piece below is my response.~This is

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-83770730813576516182011-03-12T13:05:00.005-05:002011-03-13T20:39:56.042-04:00

Dating on the heels of another relationship is always difficult. It takes a while to stop looking for Him in every man you meet. Takes a while for you to stop being disappointed when you don't find Him. As you walk towards each new date, there's a little part of you hoping that this one will be the one that takes the sharp edge off your pain. The one that makes you think about Him a little

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-64745254585938138832011-03-10T15:08:00.007-05:002011-03-10T16:48:30.100-05:00

During this fourth week of the IndieInk Writing Challenge, the talented myplaidpants presented me with the following challenge: "The Suspense of Not Knowing." The piece below is my response.~I used to love that feeling. As August crept to a close, the jitters would begin. Those little vibrations in my chest - part anxiety, part excitement - each time I looked at the calendar and counted down

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-44238496023819279292011-03-06T23:36:00.005-05:002011-03-07T01:42:30.828-05:00

Thirty-six hours of baby food and applesauce and I was ready to shoot something. And I really wanted that something to be a beefy little cow.Being off hard food is difficult for most people. But for a die-hard foodie like me, it was a distinct kind of torture. The kind that drives you mad. The kind that leaves you dreaming of demi-glaced steaks and artisan flat-bread pizzas.By Day Two

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-1674802159370050532011-03-03T11:02:00.006-05:002011-03-03T18:04:50.717-05:00

During this third week of the IndieInk Writing Challenge, the talented Future4Fina presented me with the following challenge: "One word: Redemption." The piece below is my response.~I don't quite remember how I ended up in our garage. But, here I sit, with a bottle of Bacardi in my right hand. Drinking it straight tonight. Jaime forgot to pick up more Coke when she went to the store this

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-45913007145618750932011-03-02T13:16:00.000-05:002011-03-03T01:25:43.433-05:00

For someone who's single, I've had an alarming number of men poking around in my mouth over the past few months. And, I assure you, it's not nearly as much fun as it sounds.Both my sister and I are plagued with horrific dental problems, and not those of the cavity-and-root-canal variety. We've known since we were little that our mouths were genetic disaster areas. One specialist informed

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-7899375178149535942011-02-24T11:43:00.007-05:002011-02-28T00:51:56.205-05:00

This week didn't do much in the way of reassuring me that our male counterparts have any idea what's going with the fairer sex of the species. In fact, I'm pretty certain that their relationship to the reality of being a woman is tangential. At best."You know," Colby said, leaning forward. "Women can't even have orgasms. It's so sad."He said it with complete certainty. As though he was an

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-43456024892022961042011-02-23T21:12:00.000-05:002011-02-24T03:47:56.529-05:00

I walked past them at the bar, not realizing. Not at first. But then I felt the eyes on me. One pair not wanting me to turn around and notice; the other desperate that I see.I wasn't going to say anything. Thought it better to look as dignified as I could manage and just keep walking. But then the smirk on her face. The eyes that bore into me, the slight upturn of the lips."Lil," she said.

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-67700757028752922372011-02-21T23:23:00.003-05:002011-02-22T02:41:40.479-05:00

My email crashing wasn't something new. A simple click of the refresh button or a swift kick to the tower would usually get me receiving and sending again. But when an error message popped up as I tried to access the shared drive, I knew that this wasn't our typical server glitch.I left a voicemail with our office tech support and leaned back in my chair. Without a computer, there wasn't much

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-13392870043322900912011-02-19T14:43:00.007-05:002011-02-19T17:03:43.921-05:00

The date had been amazing and, despite my uneasiness, I'd had a good time with Raphael. He was easy to talk to, to be myself with. But there remained the speed with which he apparently wanted to move. I was still trying to decide if I wanted to see him again and he was talking about Hamptons and the holidays.The email he sent me the morning after Daniel made me decide to try one more time.Hi

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-90835617917754376322011-02-18T16:05:00.005-05:002011-02-19T16:11:53.953-05:00

I took a deep breath as I stepped out of the cab and onto the East 65th Street sidewalk. It was nearly eight o'clock, but I could still feel the heat of the day radiating up from the pavement beneath my feet. Despite the late hour, the air was heavy and thick as though it were only midday.I was eager to get inside. Eager to keep the feeling that had begun to prickle across my skin from

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-55473687038952201402011-02-17T15:53:00.008-05:002011-02-17T17:55:24.704-05:00

For the rest of the evening, I couldn't get that number out of my head. Forty-eight. Two years away from fifty. From AARP and senior citizen discounts. The frugal side of me recognized the opportunity, but I'm a pragmatist at heart. I knew that I could never dine at 4:30, Early Bird Special or no.In truth, I was surprised by my reaction. Age had never been an issue for me before; after all,

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-77300936842341577312011-02-16T16:48:00.006-05:002011-02-16T17:24:52.841-05:00

@font-face { font-family: "Times New Roman"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: Times; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; } It took me a few days to email. I would take the business card out of my wallet, out of the zippered pocket where I’d stashed it, and look. Flip it around in my fingers. I’d feel the sharp edges of the

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-53002066273678334472011-02-15T21:19:00.004-05:002011-02-15T23:43:06.097-05:00

At first, I hadn't wanted to put myself out there. Hadn't wanted to find another man to take his place. Hadn't wanted to try.Ciaràn had been a distraction. A detour. A six-foot-four confection that I'd enjoyed for a week. When his cab pulled away from the curb, taking him to a plane bound for some distant hell-hole where he'd strive to save the world, I'd waved with a light heart and a smile

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-83953851994180268542010-07-05T22:02:00.006-04:002010-07-11T21:04:06.650-04:00

I didn't recognize the number on the caller ID. I had a sense that it was somehow familiar. A client most likely. A number I'd seen before, but couldn't place at the moment. Couldn't connect to a name.I took my headset from its holder and clicked onto the call. Said the usual words. Waited for the person on the other end to respond. To connect the number to a name.To hit me going ninety

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-59525690220019852172010-05-24T22:28:00.006-04:002010-05-24T23:27:24.731-04:00

Crossing the street on Friday evening, near the spot where Broadway and Amsterdam intersect and everyone gets confused, I caught my reflection in the window of a car. Five foot eight in black flip-flops, with jeans riding low on my hips. Only a few inches of the strand visible between the spread of the collar points of my tailored, French cuff shirt. Little spheres of pearl on a smooth plain of

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-58077124465322818052010-04-28T20:50:00.007-04:002010-04-28T23:20:07.284-04:00

"So," she began slowly, swirling the Tempranillo around her glass. "He asked me to move in with him. And I said yes."I looked across the table at Margarita, pausing before I let words pass my lips. Because she was my best friend, I wanted to tell her that I was happy for her. Because she was my roommate, I wanted to curl up into a little ball and cry. Just five short days ago The Latin had

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-54531311878240021662010-04-14T21:14:00.006-04:002010-04-27T00:36:49.841-04:00

"I couldn't sleep at all last night," he texted me the next day. "It's your fault you know. If you were half the woman you are, I wouldn't have been so hot and bothered.""My sincerest apologies," I insincerely typed back."No apologies. You're truly an indescribable experience - I don't think there can be anything better than you."I looked down at the words on the back-lit screen of my cell

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-25204148487072674992010-04-05T22:02:00.005-04:002010-04-13T23:20:30.002-04:00

I'd been working from home all week. Cooped up in my apartment, laptop on my coffee table and cell phone wedged against my shoulder. For hours and hours. Alone. Trying not to think my thoughts about The Latin.At 2:30 that Friday afternoon, I decided that I needed a break. Just a quick jaunt to Central Park to catch a few minutes of the spectacular early spring sunshine. Just a quick jaunt

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-78863018006005918622010-03-26T00:22:00.004-04:002010-03-26T00:40:49.442-04:00

But really, what about that dvd and the bottle of wine?I emailed back. Just send it to my apartment. Here's the address. Thank you. Please leave me alone."I don't think I'm allowed to mail wine, I can write u a check included with the bag and DVD or I could meet u."First, the email written like someone who wasn't exactly all-in when it came to their new relationship with their old girlfriend.

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-68652643234203499912010-03-25T12:33:00.000-04:002010-03-26T00:22:19.482-04:00

I had thought that my email would be the end of it. I had said everything I needed to say. Told him how I felt and wished him luck and happiness.When I received his email in response, I was surprised to say the least. Surprised to get an email telling me that he'd loved me. Would miss me. Had lost something here too. It seemed strange to write such things to the woman you'd just left. When

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-12203551410993025642010-03-24T00:24:00.003-04:002010-03-24T00:24:00.342-04:00

Lil,This was not an easy decision to make. To say I never loved you would be a lie. I did, and spending time with you made me happy. There are other factors that influenced me though which I won't get into. I hope you know that I never meant to hurt you nor did I want you to feel like I was leading you on.I appreciate you looking past my "inglorious flaws and fuck-ups" ;) I'm sorry this

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-79779358819336516582010-03-23T00:18:00.002-04:002010-03-23T00:21:09.035-04:00

One thing I’d always been struck by in my breakup with Beave was how suddenly it all happened. How abrupt the transition from being on this side of the line to being on that. Eighteen months dissolved in just seven-or-so brief minutes. If the speed of that ending was jarring, the efficiency of this one was breathtaking. 1m8s the timestamp reads. One minute and eight seconds at 10:24pm.

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-77748825866853392822010-03-14T20:48:00.003-04:002010-03-23T00:22:54.982-04:00

Part of me wants to call you and tell you that I hate you. That I wish you'd never come into my life. That I regret the months we spent together and would give anything to take them back.But those awful, hurtful words would just be lies. A knee-jerk response to try and inflict a pain reciprocal to my own. And I don't want to - I can't - do that. Because to be dishonest, or to make you wrong,

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-29734261702944999862010-02-06T23:42:00.004-05:002010-02-07T01:27:29.964-05:00

I don't know how I ever could have stopped. Just walked away from something that was so much a part of who I am. Of how I am. So many times, I've wanted to write. To feel the smooth keys beneath my fingertips. Hear the loud clickety-clicking as the letters formed words across the screen. My words, telling my stories. Opening my mind, my heart, my soul. My life.But so much time kept passing

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-50081024811957793922009-10-08T07:13:00.002-04:002009-10-08T07:15:46.598-04:00

I promise an update soon, but if you're missing your Lil' Irish fix in the meantime, check out my post on Indie Ink.And yes, I did just whore out my blog.

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-86738207373538885122009-10-04T20:25:00.004-04:002009-10-04T21:04:58.190-04:00

It's 8:30 Sunday evening and I have that night-before-the-first-day-of-school feeling. That slightly nervous, mostly excited twitter in the pit of your stomach. I've showered, set up the coffee for the morning, and laid out my clothes. Because tomorrow is It. The first day of work at my new job. The first day of my new beginning. Of my new life.I've been waiting for this for a long, long

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-88125646467272447662009-09-21T16:38:00.004-04:002009-09-24T11:06:07.465-04:00

I felt nauseous and lightheaded and my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I knew what was coming, but no amount of forewarning would make this any easier. Nothing would."Can we talk?" I began. My voice as shaky as my hands. I wondered if he knew where this was going. I wondered how he could not."I'm not happy anymore and I've decided that it's time for me to move on." He stared at me. Saying

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-83024699988682525222009-09-20T16:39:00.002-04:002009-09-21T01:14:28.046-04:00

"I have to bail on tonight, I'm sorry."I texted back to ask him why, already knowing the answer."She's coming over, we had a fight last night."The answer was expected. Just like my instantaneous, angry response."Great. Have fun making up."I put my phone in my purse and tried to ignore it. Tried to put him out of my mind. Failed.He texted me a few more times throughout Thursday afternoon.

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-90964811473626991892009-09-18T10:54:00.001-04:002009-09-18T10:54:00.255-04:00

Games. Five months of them. The waiting game, the guessing game. Feeling like I'd get more answers from a Ouija Board or Magic 8 Ball than from him.The word games. Cute little sayings and mnemonic devices that stopped being cute almost immediately."I'm fine," I'd text. When I was anything but."FINE - Feeling Insecure, Neurotic, & Emotional," he'd respond. Thinking himself so clever.He tried

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-20061359684175980672009-09-17T11:42:00.004-04:002009-09-17T14:36:53.879-04:00

Our leftovers from lunch near Grand Central. At a fancy restaurant midway between our two offices because he knew I was uncomfortable meeting him at his. Where everyone knew. Where I felt judgmental eyes that he swore weren't there.The leather bound portfolio he uses for important client meetings. Like the one he came from to meet me at my apartment at noon that Wednesday. For a lunch hour

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-29328995373055180322009-08-27T15:18:00.003-04:002009-08-28T16:22:17.652-04:00

When Beave and I were dating, there was one disagreement that kept cropping up. One argument. One fundamental difference of opinion."Is it more important to you that our kids be good people or be successful?" he would ask."Successful," I would respond. With unwavering conviction. Without a moment's hesitation.He would be horrified and the fighting would commence.Perhaps it was how I was

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-57227865565016772142009-08-20T09:23:00.005-04:002009-08-20T16:56:18.202-04:00

The same wine bar. The same glasses of Aglianico on the table before us. Even the same suit. Same tie."When we broke up, I thought I was doing the right thing because I wasn't able to give you what you wanted," he began. Pulling my chair towards him. Across the space between us that I'd been careful to put there. That I wished wasn't."But the thing is," he continued, "I miss you. I miss

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-14193807893180647222009-08-18T09:54:00.007-04:002009-08-19T11:10:00.396-04:00

The silence lasted longer than I'd thought it would. Twelve days since the last text message. Seventeen since last I'd seen him. Long enough to convince myself that he was over it. Short enough that it still broke my heart.But then that Monday morning came. A few messages back and forth. Catching up. What's going on? How've you been? Questions about the trip I just returned from. How

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-67848778827645014402009-08-17T08:11:00.002-04:002009-08-18T09:54:29.132-04:00

“When do u start at BofA?”I didn’t see the text right away. My phone had been in my office and I had been up and around. Surely hearing that familiar beep, that subtle buzz of the vibration against the desktop, that momentary flash of the screen lighting up – surely, had I been at my desk, those things would have set my heart to beating just a little bit faster. Wondering if it was his name

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-42470025756289998452009-08-03T17:22:00.005-04:002011-08-14T21:25:12.363-04:00

"M, what the fuck is wrong with me?" I whimpered, very near tears, sitting on Margarita's bed on Friday night. "Lil, seriously, nothing is wrong with you," she assured me in that way that only Margarita can. But I wasn't buying it. "I can't handle anything," I insisted. "Every little thing that happens totally throws me for a loop. It's ridiculous. I try to stay in control and I just...

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-1944998091573929452009-07-31T15:45:00.005-04:002011-08-14T21:22:49.260-04:00

Rarely do I dream. Or, at least, I never remember them if I do. I might wake up with a feeling. Some intangible, impossible-to-put-my-finger-on aura. But that's as much as my dreams ever step out of my subconscious and into my life. But then, last night, one tip-toed across the boundary and tap-danced through my morning mind. I think I started out at a party. A bar sort of thing where

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-69505546144298830902009-07-29T09:55:00.012-04:002009-07-29T11:19:29.968-04:00

I was more antagonistic than usual after three glasses of Aglianico at the wine bar. More conflicted than usual, more eager to pick a fight.I loved him and I wanted him, but my patience was wearing thin. The more time that went by, the more my insecurities crept in. The more I wondered if this was all just a part of some game. If I was just a mark. If he was laughing with his friends about

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-18949708468454751022009-07-28T01:01:00.003-04:002011-08-14T21:14:47.724-04:00

I haven't sat down to write a new post in weeks. Things got tumultuous and the words just stopped. The feelings grew too big to reduce to a typeface. To compact into a few paragraphs made up of only words - letters and spaces and punctuation. Characters too small to hold the vast contents of my heart. But I wish that I'd kept writing. Wish that I'd forced myself to try. Because now it's

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-12555987427998167322009-07-27T10:45:00.001-04:002009-07-27T10:45:00.509-04:00

It's not how I usually am. Not the normal way of things, normal way of doing or being.I'm usually so ordered. So controlled. So in control. So very smart about everything, I am. Usually.But now I'm letting him kiss me on street corners. Push me up against building walls, the roughness of the bricks scratching at my back and shoulders. The roughness of his mouth reddening my lips and

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-57340042019958677522009-07-24T11:01:00.001-04:002009-07-24T11:01:01.106-04:00

Sometimes you don't know.That sticky September evening after the barbecue in the Quad. On the bed in my dorm room on the thirteenth floor.Half an hour before check-out in our hotel room in Chicago. Rushing because my godfather was on his way over to pick us up. Take us to the ball game.In my apartment. My old room. Stunned that he'd been so abrupt, so rough with me. That he'd said those

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-38648010047691733762009-07-23T11:06:00.001-04:002009-07-23T11:22:23.393-04:00

I keep waiting for things to get bad. Sure that each time is just a fluke. Sure that the next time will rip the gossamer veil from my eyes.I keep waiting for things to get bad. I keep waiting and waiting. But they only keep getting better.I thought our first date would be disappointing. After years of repressed longing. Weeks of furious flirtation. Surely a meeting in the flesh, of the

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-17472205108534913152009-07-22T11:38:00.001-04:002009-07-22T11:49:18.166-04:00

"I can't do this anymore."Those five words had been in my mouth for hours. Days. Weeks. I don't know that I'd really intended to let them out. But now they were there, hanging in the air between us.His fingers stopped moving, stopped knotting his tie. His eyes moved from his reflection to mine in the mirror. I never could have said those five words to his face.I told him how I was starting

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-5508866612541276732009-07-21T10:15:00.000-04:002009-07-21T10:43:12.281-04:00

I propped myself up on my arms and looked down at him. Smiling. Looking up at me. Smiling back. His eyes moved across my face. His hands brushed my stray curls out of his. Collecting them at the back of my neck and holding them there. Gently pulling me down, closer to his face until our foreheads touched."What are you thinking?" I whispered, in that sweet, I'm-yours-now voice. Soft as

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-11230137470511111212009-07-20T09:50:00.001-04:002009-07-20T11:22:19.446-04:00

"I pegged u for a good girl, that's all""I am a good girl""Not if ure flirting with me""Then I'll stop""What if I don't want u to?"I felt my pulse quicken and that familiar flush heat my face. My thumbs hovered over the keys, immobile. Unsure of what to respond. Knowing that this was a tipping point. The moment when the line would be crossed. Or not.The phone vibrated in my hands. Another

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-87162847257619697252009-07-16T14:09:00.005-04:002009-07-16T15:58:50.368-04:00

I didn't mean to disappear. Honest, I didn't. But one day became one week. And life just kept happening until the weeks became several and two months had passed.I hadn't meant to disappear, but I did just the same.The thing I wanted to write about, needed to write about, I couldn't. Wouldn't. I had the words, but was reticent to share. Reserved for the first time in my life, not wanting to

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-65683536403505031642009-05-20T11:19:00.003-04:002009-05-20T12:47:04.684-04:00

"Time to apply for new jobs, Ms. Pass."As soon as the message popped up in my chat box, I wanted to X out of it. Or tell him to mind his own business. Or tell him to fuck off. If anyone rode me about getting a new job, it was him. Any time I'd complain about Shuffles. Any time I'd mention that it had been a slow day. And every time he'd say it, I'd want to punch him in the face. Hard.There

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-11013428738141361172009-05-16T09:59:00.003-04:002009-05-16T11:54:57.088-04:00

MARCH 2009 CFP® EXAM STATUS: (Updated May 12) Exam results will be released this week by first-class mail to the preferred mailing address of each examinee. Exam results will also be posted online next week through examinees’ online CFP Board accounts. This message will be updated when the online results are available. Exam results will NOT be released over the phone, by fax or by e-mail. CFP

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-73706208808570281692009-05-15T10:29:00.005-04:002009-05-15T13:10:29.693-04:00

Neither one of us can remember quite how we became friends. We work together, so that's how we met. That's obvious. That part we know. But as for becoming friends, it's a mystery to us both.It must have been a lunch. Or maybe a company happy hour. Because, in the office, we don't interact all that much. Not even now. I'm the bouncy chatterbox who dances at the printer and says "fuck" way

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-65717056738073085822009-05-11T09:28:00.002-04:002009-05-11T11:24:15.792-04:00

In a culture where we freely talk about politics, religion, money, and sex, nothing seems taboo. Not anymore. You know this friend's end-of-year bonus. You know that friend's preferred sexual position, how many lovers she's had, which one's best in bed. People you don't even know that well tell you about eating disorders and pregnancy scares. Secrets and fears.There's a compulsive need to

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-53622465292954253912009-05-08T09:23:00.002-04:002009-05-08T11:01:17.902-04:00

If it weren't for Shuffles, I think I'd rather enjoy my job. Or, at the very least, enjoy my office. Because the people, well, they're my kind of people.I was having my daily morning chat with Margarita's boss. Killing time. Ignoring my clients in favor of snark and crumbs of office gossip when the conversation turned to marriage as it so often does."I can't tell you how many times I've run

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-1707918538237199322009-05-01T14:38:00.003-04:002009-05-01T15:36:22.711-04:00

"Premium Bullwhips!!!"They're two words I'm not exactly used to seeing at the top of my inbox; and I was more than a bit disturbed to see them in one of my sponsored links in Gmail. Why the hell are they pitching this to me? I wondered.And then it hit me. Pun fully intended.I looked at a recent email thread and thanked the gods that we don't have an internet compliance department here at

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-27132417981400202232009-04-29T10:57:00.003-04:002009-04-29T11:55:03.388-04:00

"Lil has been silent lately, huh?"This from a friend over GChat yesterday afternoon. A friend who knew me before The Craic. In real life. As an actual, flesh and bone and beating heart woman. A friend for whom my posts are more than just stories about some quirky character with curls and pearls. A friend who knows the stories aren't really stories at all, but moments plucked from my actual,

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-13094406857137674182009-04-14T11:36:00.004-04:002009-04-14T14:30:46.602-04:00

I've never been one much for the star gazing. Sure, I had an astrology kit when I was younger. Charts and graphs and books that told me what the stars portended. How my life would turn out based upon what house Mars was in on the day of my birth. What planet was in retrograde. But this coincided with my tarot card obsession. With my asking for Runes and spell books the Christmas I was

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-27160301587261454022009-04-06T11:37:00.005-04:002009-04-06T17:15:02.146-04:00

The Spa of Extreme Nakedness was, well, extremely naked.Maria and I stepped down off of the shuttle and through the front doors at 6:30 on Friday, not quite sure what to expect. We paid our $35 at the front desk and were waved on to another set of doors to the right. Women. Easy enough so far.At the next desk, now in solidly girls-only territory, we were given our electronic wristbands,

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-81339494907333120942009-04-03T12:11:00.003-04:002009-04-03T14:04:58.324-04:00

My sense of style, a term I use very loosely, has been a subject of ridicule for as long as I can remember. In college, Meredith commented that she'd never met anyone under the age of sixty who liked knit tops as much as I did. Polly has been telling me that I dress like a "tool" for about ten years now. Even Mabel, my own mother, has criticized my wardrobe as being far too "old-ladyish" and "

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-30605888278463663492009-04-02T15:58:00.005-04:002009-04-02T17:22:45.214-04:00

"I don't think that people get that I'm a whore for a funny anecdote," I said to Margarita over GChat this morning.Sure, I could have asked Luz to just finish the Brazilian as Raj suggested via comment. And yeah, I could have done a Bic fix when I got home. But that story would have gone something like this: "I went for a wax. It didn't turn out well, so I fixed it. Now it's fine." And that

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-32083872006973191892009-03-30T14:40:00.007-04:002009-03-31T13:57:58.216-04:00

With a little over a week to go until the CFP Board Exam, I was achy and overworked and dealing with toxic levels of stress. The only thing that kept my delicate sanity intact was frequent conversations with my fellow sufferers. Maria, in particular.It was during one such late-night GChat conversation, commiserating about how we "cycled between frustration and confidence pretty regularly," that

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-85622051551379961872009-03-27T11:25:00.011-04:002009-03-27T15:03:54.534-04:00

In looking through files on my office computer earlier this week, I came across some archived folders. Old contracts, proposals addressed to defunct companies, various memoranda that Shuffles had dictated to my predecessor. One, labeled "Bulletin Board," begged opening.Because no amount of creative flourish, no literary license of mine, could possibly add to this piece. Because any

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-7818485859996692272009-03-26T15:23:00.003-04:002009-03-26T17:29:24.937-04:00

I'm not very good at this. This lack of structure. This freedom. This having nothing that I have to do. It puts me on edge.Everything since Saturday afternoon seems hazy. Draped in a film of fatigue and shiftlessness. By 4:30PM, the five of us had stumbled into a downtown pub just five minutes from the test site. Within seconds, I had a bar stool beneath my ass and a cold pint of

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-17682677597758234592009-03-23T13:58:00.005-04:002009-03-24T17:24:44.846-04:00

"You may begin."I ripped the seal of the exam booklet and looked down at the first page. Looked down at the letters, the words. The strings of sentences that were supposed to make sense. The multiple choices listed beneath. The answer one amongst them.I looked down, and I panicked.Everything I knew suddenly fled from my mind. I didn't understand what was being asked. A, B, C, and D looked

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-8611292152651625052009-03-13T15:25:00.004-04:002009-03-13T17:24:39.180-04:00

In exactly one week, I will be sitting at a desk in a room in a building downtown. Just me, my pencils, and my HP10BII. And my March 2009 CFP Certification Examination Booklet. Part I.In just a few short days, I will sit for one of the most difficult certification exams in the financial services industry. An exam that will test material that I've been learning since January of 2007. A

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-7149676608458582942009-03-10T15:01:00.004-04:002009-03-10T17:06:23.407-04:00

Incensed.Livid.Irate.All favorite words of mine. All words I so rarely get to use. Or, at least, I rarely get to use them in a situation that actually warrants them. Even I can recognize that it's a bit extreme to be livid over the shoddy service at a restaurant. To be incensed by the way Ilene Chaiken ended The L Word.But today, it would seem, is my special day. I get to use these words

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-33696492775781679542009-03-06T12:15:00.008-05:002009-03-06T12:59:33.497-05:00

Because I've nothing better to do and my brain is still on furlough...#5. Leighton MeesterSure, I feel a little "dirty ol' man" for having the hots for someone my baby sister's age, but I can't help myself. I have to believe it's nine tenths due to her headband-and-pearls role on Gossip Girl.#4. Natalie PortmanI've been in love with her forever. Forever and ever and ever.#3. Henry CavillThe

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-84200020688603933072009-03-05T16:29:00.006-05:002009-03-05T17:30:16.443-05:00

No, my stalker hasn't shown up on my doorstep. He hasn't followed me home from the subway. Hasn't showed up at my gym. I didn't disappear for a week because I've been tied up in his closet with duct tape over my mouth.So far, so good.I disappeared for far less exciting reasons. I disappeared because I've got Fuzz Brain. Big time.I present the preceding paragraph as evidence of this appalling

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-27118221320911571032009-02-27T12:08:00.005-05:002009-02-27T13:13:38.653-05:00

hey.It's a subject line that usually portends disaster. An email, the body of which, you don't want to read. The beginning of a fight with a friend. A passive-aggressive complaint from a roommate. A response to an email that you second-guessed from the moment you sent it. You feel queasy as you move the cursor over the unread email. You hold your breath as you click. You might not know

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-15340339424377343402009-02-25T13:12:00.004-05:002009-02-25T16:20:50.083-05:00

Perhaps it's because I've finally joined the cult that is Twitter. Maybe it's because I've been reading this gem of a site whenever I get the chance. Or, possibly, it has something to do with the fact that I've been spending at least five hours each night reducing my thoughts to a few bullet-pointed lines. Only what can be squeezed onto the back of a 3x5 index card.Whatever the reason, the

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-25327251821235154242009-02-18T15:02:00.008-05:002009-02-19T11:39:10.824-05:00

I never really thought for a second that I’d never speak to Him again.While I knew that we would have nothing to do with each other through the rest of college, I always knew we’d cross paths again. That’s what happens when you’re soul mates. And He was mine. I knew with every fiber of my being that we belonged together and that, somehow, when I least expected it, He’d fall into my life again

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-46887196895500353722009-02-17T15:09:00.004-05:002009-02-17T20:10:36.852-05:00

I'm usually a pillar of strength. The very picture of self-restraint. I love the structure, the discipline, the ordered way I keep my life. I love it because it gives me control. And control makes me feel safe.I have a daily schedule. A specific way that my week is going to go. It's inviolable. I know that I'll be waking up at 6AM to go to the gym on weekday mornings. I know exactly what

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-54407958752339929812009-02-12T12:31:00.007-05:002009-02-12T17:08:00.088-05:00

Despite my recent descent into cynicism when it comes to anything vaguely romantic, I'm not dreading this Saturday. While I've never been a huge fan of Valentine's Day, I've never exactly been one of the binge-drinking, black-wearing, fuck-you-I'm-single-and-proud-of-it types either. It's just a day like any other.Except if you're in marketing. Then, apparently, it's a day to revel in the very

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-77474920696067374252009-02-09T15:49:00.004-05:002009-02-09T17:12:13.818-05:00

I swear to God, I'm not nearly as depressed or psychotic as I come across in The Craic. Except in the posts I wrote about Peg; those pretty accurately portrayed the complete breakdown of my mental health at the time. But, truth be told, I'm happier than I've been in a long time. Content in a way that I haven't seen for years. I'm proud of what I've accomplished, satisfied with where I'm at.

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-81156182056154977282009-02-06T14:42:00.005-05:002009-02-09T10:54:31.785-05:00

My mother, up on her tip-toes, tried to reach the afghan stored away on the top shelf of the closet in the spare bedroom. The top shelf that, at 5'4", she can never quite reach."Want me to get that?" I asked.She didn't respond, but continued to reach and mutter under her breath. I sat on the edge of the bed and watched.As the struggle with her closet intensified and my mother's patience wore

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-25348228122157284732009-01-30T12:25:00.005-05:002009-01-30T16:34:47.861-05:00

I get off on really weird things.With the complete dissolution of my dating career, I've sought pleasure from other quarters. Other, less difficult yet simultaneously more rewarding, quarters. These days, I get off on activities that leave me in a happy afterglow, despite all the hassle. Activities that give me a thrill and a rush without any of the troublesome emotional involvement.Activities

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-33777400830877552812009-01-26T15:21:00.005-05:002009-01-29T11:55:48.539-05:00

"You don't understand; Lillie eats glass for breakfast."Or so my mother said during her parent meeting with my sixth grade teacher. Mrs. Potter, like many of my elementary school teachers before her, was concerned about my overall level of stress. About my obsession with grades. My drive to excel. My worship at the altar of perfection.She warned my mother of future ulcers and impending

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-23279431199781445192009-01-16T10:53:00.008-05:002009-01-16T14:23:41.072-05:00

You've all seen it in the streets before. After a hard rain, when there's nothing but ugly puddles everywhere you look. Inconvenient puddles at every intersection. You try to avoid them, but five inches of your pants ends up soaked anyway. And then the five year old walking next to you decides that now would be a great time to jump in and splash about. Filthy dirty speckles of rainwater over

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-17814085326488858912009-01-13T16:24:00.007-05:002009-01-14T10:53:33.181-05:00

If something can go wrong, it will. You belong to this family and that's just how it works.I'm not quite sure when it was that my mother appropriated Murphy's Law. When she started believing that bad luck and black clouds were inextricably linked to everything we did. But I know that I grew up hearing it. Know that every decision was informed by the assumption that the worst possible outcome

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-62140420703941481402009-01-12T15:56:00.005-05:002009-01-13T10:23:26.583-05:00

In many ways, it was the perfect weekend. The ideal antidote for an emotionally challenging week. A week that piled homesickness atop anxiety and wrapped the whole bundle up in a little melancholy package. My ovaries' way of letting me know that, Pill or no, they're going to wreak havoc upon my delicate mental state for those five days out of every month. And there's nothing that I can do

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-90903750793858145132009-01-05T15:41:00.003-05:002009-01-05T17:08:13.693-05:00

After spending a blissful two weeks back home on Long Island for the holidays, I'm somewhat depressed to look at my calendar and see "Jan 5" staring back at me in big, bold letters.No more vacation. No more waking up at 9:30. No more Golden Girls after midnight, curled up with Polly in her bed. No more of my mother's phenomenal homecooking (the other source of that notorious noise referenced

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-83282873873067429552008-12-22T15:11:00.008-05:002008-12-23T15:20:02.135-05:00

Every inch of me hurts.And no, it's not from the pummeling I've taken over that last post. That last post that was written with my tongue firmly embedded in my cheek. As anyone who knows me will tell you, and by "knows" I mean "reads," I don't frequently use phrases like "nasty wanker." Rather, I favor ladylike constructions, phrases like "fucking scumbag" and "cock-sucking whore." It's how

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-82334640543766987272008-12-17T16:44:00.006-05:002008-12-18T15:49:24.070-05:00

You're all a bunch of nasty wankers.You all leave lovely comments when I'm down and out. You offer up support, you tell me that I'm wonderful, you send eloquent words of encouragement. You express heartfelt wishes that things get better soon.And none of you mean it at all.You're all over my depressing, looney posts like flies on shit. But I post one vaguely positive, mildly optimistic piece

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-82692305861997151922008-12-16T11:51:00.004-05:002008-12-16T12:59:46.089-05:00

Twenty-six.It's been my "sticking age" for as long as can remember. When I was a little girl playing house with my sister, it was always the age I pretended to be. When I was a little girl laying awake in bed at night, imaging what it would be like to be a grown-up, that was the age that came to mind. The age when, surely, I'd be married with a house and with children. Twenty-six. My "

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-47240577520918839652008-12-11T15:24:00.008-05:002008-12-12T11:02:04.996-05:00

Being a bit of a Christmas fanatic, I look forward to the time of year when the holiday season officially commences. That first day after Thanksgiving when it's finally acceptable to listen to Christmas music, string twinkle lights, and watch old holiday specials on TV. The smell of turkey still hangs heavy in the air, but now there's evergreen and gingerbread wafting through the house as well.

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-66635441843424088462008-12-10T14:57:00.004-05:002008-12-10T17:19:45.632-05:00

I've kept the Shuffles stories to a minimum of late, though not for any shortage of ridiculous anecdotes and ludicrous occurrences. He continues to get under my skin, push my buttons, and do all of the other clichés that mean "piss me the fuck off." Lately, in fact, it's been worse than ever.But my Shuffles posts, while entertaining, always incite a rash of a very specific type of comment. The

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-17230200284757312412008-12-05T10:34:00.004-05:002011-08-14T09:44:37.183-04:00

I didn't mean to show up late to class. I hadn't planned it that way. Hadn't tried to leave work at 5:32 instead of 5:15, hadn't meant to miss that E train. But I'd be lying if I said I didn't breathe a sigh of relief when I rushed in a few minutes past six as my professor waxed about the importance of proper succession planning. I was happy to avoid the potentially awkward pre-class

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-83337506245392178702008-12-04T15:46:00.007-05:002008-12-05T10:34:00.301-05:00

Imagine a sweet-as-pie eight year old girl. A girl with a big Shirley Temple personality to match her big Shirley Temple curls. A girl who still wore white lace anklets and black patent leather Mary Janes on the holidays. A girl who was innocent and fanciful. Who still believed in things like unicorns and fairies, still believed that wishing really hard could make things so.That little girl

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-62152292297724088262008-12-02T16:19:00.005-05:002011-08-14T09:41:00.225-04:00

Only five of us have made it all the way through the program together. Two years of struggling through difficult financial material. Two years of studying, stressing, and sitting for exams. Twenty-four months of all of that. Together. Just me and My Banker Boys. We've become a tight-knit little group that cloisters itself away in conference rooms on the weekends before exams. That drinks

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-15408338002425781342008-11-26T10:41:00.004-05:002008-11-26T11:49:46.537-05:00

I'm not one much for the typical Thanksgiving posts. The ones you see throughout the internet, listing in bullet-point fashion the very many things for which the writer is thankful that year. It's just not my style.But, this year, such a post seems uncharacteristically apropos. When I look back at the twelve months stretching out behind me, I can't help but recognize how fortunate I've been.

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-19558007785212496962008-11-25T14:41:00.006-05:002008-11-25T17:23:57.181-05:00

It feels as though I've been lugging around a ninety pound bag of expectations and finally (finally!) let it go. For over a year, I've been shouldering the weight of a million shoulds and supposed to bes and what's wrong with yous. Dragging them with me everywhere I went. A ninety pound bag, strapped to my back. I had no idea how heavy it was until I put it down and felt its absence.Now, I

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-2322554779475764442008-11-24T14:52:00.004-05:002008-11-24T17:09:51.503-05:00

I don't know when I got this old.In just a few days I will be turning twenty-six. This is not the problem. Sure, it gives me pause to know that I will now be closer to thirty than twenty - and still single, and still working at a job I meant to leave three years ago, and still renting, and still eons away from being a mother - but my age isn't quite the thing that's been on my mind. It's not

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-77759584863296801802008-11-17T15:21:00.006-05:002008-11-19T16:35:51.923-05:00

"Do you remember what that felt like? I mean, how did you know?"These are the kinds of questions that keep my mother from picking up her phone when she sees that I'm the person on the other end of the line."What do you mean 'how do you know' if you like a guy? You just know. Period.""Well, but what if you don't. I mean, what if I'm just not open to it because of my other hang-ups and I need

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-50196525611677214252008-11-13T11:52:00.002-05:002008-11-13T13:04:20.432-05:00

Yes. Yes it is.Twenty days is a long time for fingers to be still. Particularly if they're my fingers. And, if the appalling length of time it took me to write these first two paragraphs is any indication, twenty days is far too long.Most blogs, I'd venture to guess, lie fallow when their writers' lives have grown dull. When the dating ceases, when the job is same-old-same-old, when life is

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-62915383865603934262008-10-25T12:06:00.000-04:002008-10-26T00:14:14.450-04:00

I thought about him here and there over the three days I was in Boulder. How could I not? The room. The fact that, the last time I’d been there, we’d promised to come back. We’d talked about moving out there. Together. We’d even looked at houses. On the second day of this trip, someone suggested that I might want to check out Sanitas. I laughed to myself, wondering who would drag me

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2754635896875724.post-25277373762536825792008-10-20T14:39:00.007-04:002008-10-21T17:52:55.251-04:00

"Okay, you're going to be staying in Room 239. Take the elevator over there up to the second floor. Your room is right on the other side of the skywalk."The number didn't sound particularly familiar when the girl at the front desk said it. I've been handed key cards and given the numbers for so many different rooms across the country over the past four years. The names of hotels are so often

A Lil' Irish Lasshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08097756919669746821noreply@blogger.com16