Suggest Your Own Title

The middle-aged lady at the Tesco till gives me a friendly smile and an approving nod as she scans through my soon-to-be purchases. Potatoes, milk, strawberries and a tube of KY. Now there, she thinks, is a single girl who knows how to look after herself.

Reader's Choice #6

Stockings vs. Tights - Which is Cooler?

For Andrew, who probably sticks to socks.

Stupid fucking question really, it's like comparing jeans to leg warmers. Stockings are cooler - they don't have a gusset.

He was very much what I would regard as the typical uptight Englishman, not quite a gent but certainly conservative. His interests included poker and tits, both his own and large ones of the lady variety. His interests also briefly included me, and of course I was completely besotted with him, as I generally am with entirely unsuitable men. He had the typical uptight Englishman's tastes in fun and frolics too - a little discipline, a little dressing up. High heels and stockings, if you don't mind, and it's far from that I was reared. But I am an indulgent sort.

So I swapped the thick opaque tights and sensible flats for silk stockings, a suspender belt and some spiky heels. Not permanently, you understand, just in the bathrooms at the airport. With the pencil skirt and the slim-fitting black poloneck, I felt every inch the sophisticate. I set off with a sexy swing to my gait, brimming with bravado. But I couldn't walk too well in the shoes. And the suspender belt was too big for me - I sized it to skim and flatter my bovine hips rather than to stay put and hold up my stockings. I sat on the tube, thighs clenched, fidgeting, sweating into my slim-fitting poloneck, unable to cross my legs for fear that I might further strain the straps precariously preserving my modesty. By the time I arrived at his door, I was an agitated and decidedly unsexy mess.

Stockings may be cooler, but I can't quite pull them off. Or keep them on.

Deá-Nós

This month's Randy Rosie section in Nós* is a measured piece on size, tastefully illustrated with some photos of boys in their knickers.

Dig in.

And dig deep if you like it - we still need some subscriptions before we can get this baby into shiny shiny print. That would make me very happy; to see my name printed on something other than a speeding fine or an ESB bill.

Boats Afloat

Another tiresome meme; Andrew wants me to list six things I like. His list was full of sweet things like his comfy spot and his little friend Baxter, but I have neither a snuggly girlfriend nor a beautiful Tanzanian child to dote on. So, in order of preference (if your preference happens to be for the alphabetical):

1. Deep, dreamless sleep.
2. Eloquent turns of phrase.
3. John Banville's The Sea.
   
4. Memes.
5. My beau's freckles in the early morning sun.
6. Tingly lube.

Nah, just kidding. I fucking hate memes.

At Least Spellcheck It

I got an email yesterday from a former lover. An ex lover? I don't know what's appropriate in this case. There was never a relationship, so it's difficult to articulate. We met through a friend two or three years ago (how time flies when you're not paying her any attention!) and spent a debauched night together, but he moved to Cork the very next day, having lived on my street for a year. A friendship of sorts evolved; we'd talk, and email, sometimes sharing confidences and sometimes just sauce. We met a couple of times but he planned on travelling, had commitments at home and had no interest in pursuing anything more with me. Not that I ever asked, but it was abundantly clear.

Of course I kept up appearances with the mutual friend, allowed her to think that it might become more than it was. I was too embarrassed not to, crawling with mortification at my spineless lack of self-esteem. She thinks the world of me. I didn't want to let her know that I thought so little of myself, and that I'd managed to make nothing more of it than a tawdry, take me for granted so long as you'll take me affair.

He stood me up one night, leaving me standing on the street for an hour because he'd blacked out just after he'd called me. Two days later he called to apologise. Two days. "If I ring from the pub, ask me how many pints I've had. If I say more than eight, hang up." He knew that it was a problem, and planned on giving up smoking and drinking once he turned 30 - revelling in the damage meanwhile. He probably will quit, and I'll probably continue to court my hangovers at weekends and call it a habit. Or a hobby.

And now, after a year abroad, he sends me a mail. One line, fishing. Saying nothing and splattering it carelessly with typos; a bored and halfhearted tap on the shoulder. Time was, I would have been thrilled at his lazy dangling of the bait. Time was? Time might be again, but right now I'm working hard to cultivate a sense of self-worth that sees me hope for more than an occasional booty call.

Reader's Choice #1

A Time Before I Was Old

for B, the cheeky little Longford bollix

Looking back, I am mature enough to recognise that my greatest success during my teenage years was not the 8 As and 2 Bs I got in my Junior Certificate examinations, but the acquisition and retention of a boyfriend.

I was not an early bloomer by any means, so it was quite the unexpected coup when I managed to land myself a fella at 15 and hold on to him for two and a half years. It remains my record, which is something I am both disappointed by and embarrassed about at my now tender age of 27 (I know that I shouldn't be, and that makes it worse).

Our romance began as most do - with a little cack-handed help from a friend. One of his mates told me that he wanted to meet* me around behind the school, so I broke away from the herd and went to wait for him - I had to go first, because he was more popular than I, and couldn't be seen to wait on me (yes, even then I was the submissive). But I was thrilled. Thrilled that anyone liked me, but more particularly him because he was popular, and when you're 15 that's pretty much all that matters. He eventually sauntered around the corner and without so much as a how's-yer-father proceeded to wear the face off me for about 45 minutes straight. It was crap; messily uncomfortable and magnificently exciting. He asked me to "go out with him" about a week later (it was all very formal back in the day) and I became, for the first time, a girlfriend. We broke up after two years, but got back together again for a miserable six months during which I tried desperately to please him, and failed. He had noticed that there was greenish grass on yonder hills and fancied a roll in it, and nothing comes between a sexually confident teenage boy and his egotistical imaginings. I remember the agony of the aftermath, the crushing defeat. I cried for the longest time, sure that my heart was broken beyond repair. I didn't sleep or eat for, oh, two days. I ached physically with gut-wrenching sorrow. I wanted to die, and everything was in italics. SOMETIMES EVEN IN CAPS AND ITALICS.

Such melodrama is mortifying to remember. I was as tempestuous in my love as I was in my loss, and for the longest time I couldn't even think of him (or more specifically of me with him) without wincing. But now that I am contemplatively meandering through my twenties I have come to realise how much that relationship has given me. I was happy through the toughest times of my teens, happy and secure. I felt attractive, confident and occasionally even loved. Sure, I got a knock, but I've managed to carry that self-assurance into my relationships and though my love life may be an unmitigated disaster for the most part, my friendships endure. He was a bit of a gonk, but I have to give him some credit for who I've become.

Because she's not that bad.

*it was Clondalkinite for "shift" back in 1996.

Puball Dom' Phobal

Huzzah! Féach ar seo - Puball na Gaeilge ag an Picnic EkelektriK! Ní bheidh orm dul ó chrusty go crusty ag lorg duine éigin le Gaoluinn a labhairt liom a thuilleadh, mar beidh Manchán ina emMCee! Tá mé thar a bheith excited, thaitin No Béarla chomh mór sin liom go bhfuil mé meidhreach macnasach leis an nóisean go mbeidh sé ann sa flesh.

Ní gá go gcuirfí mo mhacnas meidhreach amú ach oiread mar feicim go mbeidh scóráil sciobtha (luaschliúsaíocht?) acu sa phuball, so tá seans (cuíosach) ann go n-éireoidh liom fear breá a aimsiú dom féin (rud nach dtarlaíonn ariamh domsa ag féilte ceoil, ach measaim go mbeidh ratio níos fábharaí anseo - ó mo thaithí ar imeachtaí Gaeilge sa phríomhchathair ar aon nós). Beidh Karaoke CLG acu chomh maith (nó "Karaoke GAA" dóibh siúd nach tréanghaeilgeoirí iad - níl Gaoluinn líofa agat muna mbaineann tú úsáid as na hacrainmneacha, ambaiste!) ach toisc nach bhfuil suim dá laghad agamsa i gcúrsaí spóirt, sílim go bhfanfaidh mé leis an mBingo le Hairy O'Mara. Taithníonn liathróidí go mór liom. Tá drámaíocht agus seó puipéid geallta dúinn chomh maith, ach má éiríonn leis an muppet áirithe seo bualadh le MC Muipéad arís tá chuile sheans ann go ndéanfaidh sí exhibition ceart di féin os comhair pé lucht féachana a bheas ann (is leor nod don eolach).

Feicim go bhfuil leathanach ar shuíomh na Picnice féin mar gheall air, ach níor thuig mé focal dá raibh ann de dheasca é a bheith scríofa i dteanga aisteach éigin. Chur mé ríomhphost acu láithreach bonn le gearrán a dhéanamh mar go raibh mílitriú acu ar an bhfocal "Gaeilge" fiú amháin, agus nach bhfuil an téacs acu i nGaoluinn bhlasta. Manchán! Get the finger out! Sin a dhéanann Gaeilgeoirí maithe, no? Gearáin faoi mionmórphointí gramadaí? Anyhoo, feicim ón suíomh go mbeidh "prompters" acu, dóibh siúd atá ólta a dhóthain le freastal ar imeachtaí ann ach nach bhfuil dóthain Gaoluinn bhlasta acu le fuck-all a thuiscint. Sílim go gcuirfidh mé m'ainm chun tosaigh le bheith mar duine de na cigirí pokers seo, samhlaigh an chraic a bheadh agat. Aistriúchán chomhuaineach don scóráil sciobtha - "cad is ainm duit?" "eh, nice tits".

Bhí mé ag iarraidh smaoineamh ar conas go bhféadfainn slot a fháil dom féin ar an mbille. Seó beo an Chailín sa Chathair, bhur mbarúil?

On My Lonesome

The Leitrim Lady left me a week ago, she's off frolicking out foreign for the next eleven weeks. I'm not bitter; or at least I wasn't until the Swede fucked off to Kenya for a few weeks on Friday. Now I'm just scared. He left me with a fridge full of liquid sustenance and a plea not to burn the flat down in their absence - I'm trying hard, but to be honest I'm more concerned that I'll adopt a cat and start wiping my arse with my hair in the absence of human company of an evening.

Obviously they've left me unsupervised before, just never for this length of time. I worry that I will start talking to myself. Or become so accustomed to walking around naked that I'll turn feral. So in a desperate plea for some form of human company, I broke the washing machine. Saturday morning then was spent in the company of deliverymen and plumbers, and while none of them quite lived up to my bored housewife fantasies (I really must lay off the porn) they were affable and chatty. Also, one of them is a helicopter pilot in his spare time. None but the finest of hired help for Rosie! Sadly, he charges by the hour, and is very bloody expensive.

Having exhausted his patience for demonstrations of the spin cycle, I put on an overdue wash of dirty knickers and set forth into the sunshine in search of some convivial company. I met the SWF and the Vet for a stroll around the chocolate market in Temple Bar. The place was jammed with wild-eyed women in search of of a cocoa fix who, like me, just read "chocolate" and bolted for the square, neglecting to check times or dates - the chocolate market is in fact on today. We ditched in favour of a spot of accidental handbag shopping (a little brown leather mini-suitcase from Urban Outfitters) and a table in sunny Bloom's Quarter where we drank wine, talked shite and snarfed tapenade.

From there I headed off to dinner with a pretty lady, feeling all cosmopolitan now that I was full of wine and olives. My date had chosen our destination because the waiter is "one hot motherfucker" (and she figured we could both do with a little sexy distraction) but she proved to be more than ample distraction herself. We spent a pleasant few hours gossiping about boys and bloggers, comparing lies and statistics and solving the world's ills. A few drinks and a charming young man later I tottled home, slightly squiffy and chuffed at the idea of having the flat to myself. Why, I could do what I liked! ("Have lots of sex" counseled Annie. Which is great in theory, we agreed, but short of my stopping men on the street it is unlikely to transpire over the next three weeks).

In the end I had a cigarette on the balcony, with a cup of earl grey and two paracetamol to ward off this morning's hangover. I texted my date to tell her how lovely she is, while slathering my lips in the honey balm she'd so thoughtfully brought as a present for me. I somewhat ill-advisedly texted last week's date to see if he has indeed disappeared in a puff of smoke up his own hole. Quite probably - I didn't get an answer. Then, reasonably full of tea, affection, and philosophical thoughts, I went to bed happy. Saturdays on your Todd aren't so bad after all. My Rabbit may not cuddle but it gives good head, and I don't need to make it breakfast on a Sunday morning. What more could a girl want of a weekend?

One Hand In My Pocket

The latest edition of Nós* is out and they've published my piece alongside a photo of some budgie with her hand down her knickers, which makes me look like a right wanker.

They may have a point.

Sos Cogaidh

Friday's post* was some shitstorm in a teacup, eh? The rest of my weekend was pretty quiet by comparison, I spent Saturday afternoon washing every stitch of clothing I own and ironing none of it (new policy) and Saturday night in Naas watching Kindergarten Cop, eating chocolate and huffing over nothing much at all. Good times.

My sprawling, bawling critique will likely have lost me a reader or two, so to balance things out I did something I had been meaning to do for a while - I emailed the link to my Crash Grandadicoot posts to my mother. She spent a few hours shuffling through them in reverse chronological order, had a browse around some of the other posts and then emailed me to tell me how reading them had made her laugh and cry. Most importantly she told me that she loves me, even though I'm puking this stuff all over the internet for strangers to read. Confident that I hadn't lost her affections, I decided that this might be a good time to break it to her about the sex column... and the TV3 exposé. So I did as any savvy kid would do and waited until I had cover - in the form of my Nana and some of my parents' friends who had come for Sunday dinner. Over roast beef and Yorkshire puddings I told them all about my secret double life as a peddler of filth and they took it very well. Nana even said she was proud of me (though she added that she's proud of all her grandchildren so I think she was speaking of a general pride, not one specific to my smutty scribbles). My coming clean to them happily coincides with my getting my arse in gear and republishing the columns in English. It'll be a little like waiting for the VHS release instead of forking out for the cinema but if you're curious and have a few hours to spare (they're as long as some of Friday's comments) I'll be publishing them in the sidebar from now on.

*It's sparked a few posts elsewhere; AJ reckons an apology is in order, Alexia offers an alternative view, Andrew and Darragh think it's a topic worth discussing, and Eli Mordino plans to wax lyrical on it himself. Jazz Biscuit, meanwhile, called me a super heroine (albeit one who likes to headbutt things) and then shot his load. I'm flattered. It's the closest I've come to pleasing a man in some time.

Keeping Score

It's a bank holiday Tuesday after a long and sunny weekend, and I'm back in work (-1). My proffered olive branch is still being met with a cold shoulder (-1) and I can't post about it because the post ends up reading "fuck you and the horse you rode in on" no matter how reasonably I try to phrase it (-1). On another matter entirely, I sent a snotty email and was replied to in kind (-1) which is probably no more or less than either of us deserves. Ho hum.

But in other news today; I got an email from a pretend friend suggesting pints of Campari and orange juice (+1) and I got a phonecall from another pretend friend who is experimenting with being "nice" (+1) and reckoned cheering me up might be a good place to start. Buoyed by jolly conversation I ventured out to get some lunch; the lady in the shop across the road got the ridey till boy to make my sandwich (+1) and then she gave me a stack of free magazines (+1) because "we only send the covers back to them an all an annyway". As I whiled away the afternoon flicking through photographs of fat, spotty and sweaty celebrities (+1) I got an email back from Red Pepper Productions, addressing all of my concerns about the programme they've asked me to take part in and showing admirable restraint and humour in the face of my ripping the piss out of them (+1).

In conclusion: Fuck you, Karma. The margin may be tight, but I'm winning.

To Don't List

Prompted by this letter to Dear Lover, I have a confession of my own to make. I keep lists of pros and cons for my objects of affection; the pros in my head and the cons on paper (as they are the ones I tend to need most reminding of). I have such an embarrassment of shortlived relationships and friendly encounters behind me at this stage that I'm considering opening a spreadsheet in Excel. Looking back at some of the written examples that I've kept, it seems that the only absolute dealbreaker occasionally listed among what I perceived as people's faults was that they didn't interest me. My willingness to put up with most else is no doubt unhealthy and a symptom of low-self esteem; I should probably stop billing it as tolerance. Some of the gripes listed are petty, some are not. Some are funny, some are unreasonable; I suspect a lot of them are all too common - I identify very much with the author of the Dear Lover post. Here's a selection of them, a meascán meidhreach of different times, different lovers and different Rosies in some cases (depending on whether or not I'd had breakfast that morning):

• You smother me, and it gives me the creeps.
• You're not affectionate enough.
• Your cock is too small. Not just small, far too small.
• You have nothing to talk to me about.
• You never compliment me how I look.
• You don't get my jokes but you laugh at everyone else's.
• Your constant flattery absolutely mortifies me.
• You make me feel stupid, and you do it on purpose.
• You make me feel bad about being smart.
• You're too short.
• You're not interested in listening to me, just in having someone to listen to you.
• You tell the same stories all the fucking time.
• You're too lazy.
• Your libido disappoints me and you make me feel guilty for it.
• You start every text message with "ha ha" and finish most with a smiley face.
• You put me in a headlock while you sleep. Always.
  

I'm not sure if it's a good or a bad habit, to be honest.

Dear Lover

A new blog on the block: I [heart] it.

Thank fuck he's not my lover though.

Rosie Does Her Sexy Irish Thing

Get your dictionaries out, kids. Tá an t-eagrán is déanaí de Nós* ar fáil...

(ar fáil mar PDF anseo chomh maith, muna n-oireann Issuu duit)

Iascaireacht

Cé gur gheall mé dom féin nach ndéanfainn gearba a scrabhadh a thuilleadh, ar ndóigh sin go díreach a bhí ar bun agam ag an deireadh seachtaine. Chuaigh mé thall go Londain le cuairt a thabhairt ar fear atá mar chara agam, agus mar leannán anois is arís. Nó b'fhéidir mar leannán agam agus mar chara anois is arís... ní fheadar. Thar a bheith simplí ach casta mar sin féin, mar a bhíonn na cúrsaí seo i gcónaí. B'fhearr dom deireadh a chur leis an caidreamh, b'fhéidir, ach níl an misneach agam seasamh siar agus rud éigin níos fearr a éileamh dom féin i láthair na huaire. Easpa féinmhuinín, an ghnáthrud.

Agus le breis crá agus creach a tharraingt orm féin, chinn mé ar teagmháil a dhéanamh le fear eile fad agus a bhí mé sa chathair, iar-leannán eile, an fear céanna a chur fonn filíochta orm ar an mblag seo i mí Dheireadh Fómhair (I know, an náire. Filíocht!). Theastaigh uaim bualadh leis arís chun go bhféadfainn mo cheann a réiteach, ionas nach mbeinn ag brionglóideach air a thuilleadh. Bheadh deoch againn agus thuigfinn nárbh é an duine céanna a bhí i mo cheann agam, bheadh díomá orm, agus faoiseamh, agus rachainn abhaile arís le leanacht lem' thóraíocht.

Pfft. Ar ndóigh, níor oibrigh sé. Bhí mé ag insint do mo dheartháir mar gheall air agus bhí mé buíoch dó as an tuiscint agus an chomhbhá a léirigh sé dom, mar a bhím i gcónaí. "It never seems straightforward for you alright..."

I'm even more grateful to him because he didn't say what I was thinking - that I really don't make it easy for myself.

Lonely Hearts

A Warning Sign

Look what AJ's made! Apparently it's inspired by my relentless whingeing about being single and my half-baked notion to use my blog as a means of getting laid meeting my potential soulmate. Slowly but surely I'll turn the blogging world into one giant ugly plentymoremaybemates.com.

Or not. That kind of thing would probably get me kicked off teh internets. Anyway, I can't help thinking that posting a photo might be a better idea. If I looked like Mrs. Sarkozy.

Dating Service

I see that that Disgrace has been pondering his single status of late, which I suppose makes a change from him just muttering direly about his last relationship.

My honeymoon period as novelty single guy has come to an end. I'm now becoming an embarrassing loveless lump of drunken typical single sleaze bag.

[in conclusion] Ok girls, come and get it...

This has me thinking once more about blogging as a dating strategy. I read recently (via JazzBiscuit) about the British Psychological Society's advice to women on choosing an online dating name, advice which seemed to support my previous feminist(ish) rant about men not being attracted to clever or funny women. "She advised female lonely hearts to avoid screen names which attempt to be classy, or show how clever they are."

I've had two affairs* as a result of this blog, though you know that already. It makes for an interesting way to meet someone and I'm not sure if I prefer it to conventional methods (getting wankered and seeing what fate has to offer by way of entertainment). I met LC sight unseen and took my chances, I ended up spending two fantastic long weekends with him. I went out as a pretend friend with OneFor (whom I had met once before but didn't pay any mind to) and ended up sticking my fingers in his beard and asking him to kiss me.

Neither of my affairs were disasters, exactly, but nor were they raging successes; I still sleep alone. Both were short lived and disappointing in their way, both were a little easier because they keep blogs too (and I had read them) so I knew more or less what I was letting myself in for and both were a little more difficult because they had read my blog (and it was far too late to try to make a good impression). It can make for frustrating conversation, having your own flippant remarks and faux pas quoted back to you almost verbatim. It also drastically reduces your stock of witty anecdotes with which to fill conversational lapses, "I read that!" effectively unravelling your yarn and leaving you looking like a one-trick pony.

I'm not sure how accurate a picture I paint of myself with my writings here (SWF reckons I'm pretty true to form) but I do try to be classy and even when recounting my most idiotic adventures I try to do it in an articulate and clever manner. Because I find classy and clever attractive, though I suspect my definitions of both are a little different to the ones one might find in a dictionary. So am I fishing for romance through my blog, in some long winded form of online dating?

In between odes to my family, my friends and the demon drink, maybe.

*What else to call them? They were neither relationships nor one night stands. Can anybody suggest a more suitable term? (Note: anyone suggesting "thing" will be barred.)

Gang Aft Agley

The Plan was to:

• Meet the Jock and the SWF for a drink.
  
• Keep it close to home (Kennedy's) and stay for three drinks, maximum.
• Be in bed by 11pm and fresh for study by 9am.
  
• Ignore the New Daddy's taunts and resist getting a taxi over to Sin É.
• Remain unswayed by that strange man with alarmingly straightforward manners (again).

It was a good plan, but I'm afraid the execution was very poor.

Fat Bottomed Girls

Like many if not most women, I'm insecure about my shape. My teenage preoccupations were with my feet and my teeth (I still tend to hide my smile when I can) but these days it's all about my size. Small breasts, a soft belly and a lardy bum. My weight is one of the few taboo subjects I have. I will occasionally joke about my fat arse and will often joke about my non-existent diddies but I find I can't speak to anyone about how I really feel about my looks without getting teary eyed. It's embarrassing that at 27 years of age I am still so insecure about it.

Twice recently I have raised it in a very matter-of-fact way with friends and I got the impression that both of them were shocked by what I said. The Jock and I were out carousing and she was telling me about a friend of hers that she wants to set me up with for a blind date. She reckoned we'd be a great match, I wasn't so sure. I was pretty confident that I'd like him, but terrified that he'd meet me and wonder why she had set him up with some fat bird. So I said as much. She looked appalled. The second instance was in a text I sent to GingerBeard; I was smarting from another little disappointment and his sympathetic "his loss" text message elicited an angry "why it's really not his loss" response from me (centering around the fact that I think I'm fat and maybe mental). He got angry with me, disgusted that I'd say such a thing about myself.

I paused in front of the mirror this morning as I dried myself after my shower. Let the towel fall and took a long look at myself. Not posed, not poised, just nude. Drank in the curves, the paler-than-pasty skin, flushed with the heat of the shower. Thought of all the lovers I've had who were less than perfect physical specimens but whom I've lusted after regardless and tried to see myself as a lover might see me.

Stupid MEME

Fucking Terence broke my record of no MEMEs on the blog and tagged me with one the other day. I'm the girl who can't say no, so I'll humour him on the condition that he (a) doesn't do it again and (b) removes the word verification from his blog as promised because it drives me mental. Oh, and maybe (c) too - that he buys me a pint should I ever happen to be in Cavan again.

So... The rules. Link to the idiot that tagged you (see above). Post 7 random facts about yourself and then lumber 7 other poor shites with the same MEME by naming them and leaving a comment on each of their blogs. I won't be doing that because I don't want to nominate some grumpyhole who'll verbally abuse me like I did poor Terence. A new game though - I'd like you, dear readers, to add to my list of 7 by posting in the comments any other random facts about me that you know to be true (should you be fortunate enough to know me in the flesh) or that you suspect to be true, if all you have to go on is the blog. The most accurate will win a prize (yet to be decided but it will be an actual prize, I promise you).

1. The first CD I ever bought was The Spin Doctors' Pocket Full Of Kryptonite, which I bought in a little record shop in Chester. I still love it. The first album I ever bought with my own money was Nirvana's In Utero, on tape. A bit of a departure for me - I was mainly into Neil Diamond at the time.
2. When I was 25 I had a fling with a man 9 years older than me, and then another with a man who was 7 years younger. I regretted both but for very different reasons.
3. I vomit instantly if I drink shots, though in my teens I was very very good at it.
4. I write a sex column.
5. My first kiss was with my first boyfriend, and wasn't until I was 15 years old. We ended up together for 2 1/2 years, and I think that first kiss lasted for about 2 1/2 days.
6. I suspect I have dyscalculia (numerical dyslexia). Apparently that's just Irish for "shit at maths".
7. The first concert I ever went to was Chris de Burgh. On the same night, my brother had his very first Big Mac (as compensation for being too young to go to the gig). Only one of those love affairs has stood the test of time.

So, is there anything else you think I might like the world to know about me?