First, as promised:

I think I am finally sufficiently over my horrendous jetlag (which, by the way, is significantly worse going backward in time than going forward) and have familiarized myself with the family members I was cut off from while in Ireland. I still don’t feel normal, but then again, I can’t remember the last time I did.

Since I’m now in the “sexually active” category, I knew I’d have to go to a gynecologist. Once I made the appointment, I suddenly realized that the real reason I’d put off having sex until the ripe old age of 20 was to avoid this necessary evil. And I promptly wished I could get my virginity back so I could wait at least another year until a doctor said, “It doesn’t matter if you’re cherry or not, you’re an old bitch and you need your cervix poked BEFORE you get cancer.”

I’ve read about good and bad experiences with OB-GYNs, but honestly had no idea what to expect. In the waiting room of the health center, I tried to focus on the screaming/laughing toddlers and the Doodlebops on TV rather than consider what may or may not be inserted into my body in a few moments. Fortunately, my mother was with me in case I needed someone to hold my hair back in an emergency.

I was quite fortunate to have a very good, gentle nurse practitioner give me my exam. It felt very weird to get totally naked (except for my pink Tinkerbell ankle socks) in a doctor’s office, because I’d never done it before. But that wasn’t half as weird as the nurse practitioner standing next to my face with a model plastic vagina in one hand and the speculum in the other, demonstrating what she’d be doing to my cooch.

But first, she had to play with my boobs. This was awkward mostly because the giant piece of plastic I had draped over me - that’s right, I didn’t even get an actual paper GOWN that covered my ass - was causing my underboob to sweat profusely. That, or the impending fear that she would take one look and go, “Oh, that looks different,” or, “Hey, your tits sag almost as much as my grandma’s!” But she pulled down the plastic, had me vogue in various Playboy poses, and squeezed away. Then I lied down and she rubbed on them some more. She never said a word about how they looked.

Then was the fun part. First, she said, “I’m going to insert a finger and feel your cervix, which is RIGHTHERE.” And with little warning my pinhole had been poked. Then she inserted the speculum - which was plastic, thank god, and not the cold metal I had been dreading. She said, “You’re going to feel a little pressure.”

Then when she put it in and opened it, I experienced something that I had not read or heard about ANYWHERE. I felt… like I had to poop. I swear, if I’d had a fart bubble on deck, I would’ve blown her hair back. But it wasn’t bad or painful at all. She swabbed, brushed my cervix (which later caused me to spot a bit), and scraped extremely gently. Then she took out the plastic tool and shoved two fingers WAY up in there, then pressed on my tummy, proceeding to play foosball with my uterus and ovaries.

Then it was done! I got dressed and felt very womanly. I had survived my first pap smear and pelvic exam without hearing a single word about my utter lack of bare cooch (sorry, guys, but I can’t deal with the itch of regrowth) and made an agreement to start the depo shot on my next period. Then I was given lots of condoms and a multivitamin and sent along my merry way.

Afterwards, all I could really think about was the fact that my mother felt the need to answer every pre-exam health question for me, complete with anecdotal evidence for anything answered with “yes.” This includes the sexual history questions - because she OBVIOUSLY knows it better than I do.

Too bad she doesn’t know about that eighteen-person orgy I had the week before I came home from Ireland.

No Comments   -   Link directly to this entry   -  

First of all, I am home and I am not yet settled and so I am going crazy. But I’ll be okay once I have birth control and a new bite guard, because my to-do list will be significantly shorter.

Secondly, I had a daydream two days before I left Dublin that Josh would propose to me at the airport. Crazy? Yes. I mean he just gave me a promise ring in March and for god’s sake, we’ve only been a couple since JULY. Of LAST YEAR.

Doesn’t mean I wasn’t sort of kind of maybe hoping it would actually happen.

When I finally made it through the full day of traveling - the cab refusing to take both me and Sam to the airport because we had too much stuff between us, the $50 charge for having an overweight suitcase, U.S. customs digging through my underwear to find and confiscate Grow-Your-Own-Shamrock-Seeds I stupidly was honest enough to declare, and Chicago security swabbing each of the 23485 electronic items in my carry-on because my external hard drive was clearly a self-operating bomb - I found Josh at the baggage claim, and he walked up and hugged and kissed me, and we found my suitcases surprisingly fast, and we got in the car, and everything was happy and normal. Okay, I thought. It’s not going to happen yet, and that’s fine.

We got home, my family greeted me semi-enthusiastically (I mean, how could I compete with Sonic and the Secret Rings on Wii?), I ate my favorite dinner (meatloaf and mashed potatoes), and just relaxed.

Then, I stood up to get something, I don’t remember what. But Josh stopped me in the doorway of the living room, and gave me an odd look - a mischievous smile. What? Let me get through, butthead.

Then, in front of my mom and sister and brother-in-law and two dogs and cat, he went down on one knee. I could barely hear the words as he breathed them out, but I was certainly tuned in enough to catch them:

“Will you marry me?”

People, let me tell you, I didn’t even have to think about it. I smiled, and with equal quietness, I said “Yes,” then said, “Get up,” and we hugged and kissed and I blushed at my family as they all giggled and cheered.

Then my mom said, “You have to put it on her finger, dumbass!” and Josh took it out of the box and I moved the promise ring to my right hand and he slid on the three-stone white gold band ever so slowly.

I love the way it sparkles. And I loved updating my relationship status on MySpace and Facebook.

The ring is absolutely perfect. Simple and elegant and not round or yellow. And I will of course post a picture as soon as I’m unpacked and fully settled.

It’s going to be a great summer.

3 Comments   -   Link directly to this entry   -  

“That Michelle, she’s so silly. It’s the new millennium! Women should be the ones to take charge in relationships. If Josh won’t propose, she should do it herself!”

This is what you may be thinking of me at this point. If I’m so desperate to be married to Josh, why haven’t I just popped the question myself? After all, I am a confident, self-sufficient woman of a modern generation.

Well, ladies, you can disagree if you want, but sometimes it’s nice to be more traditional. There are always going to be inequalities between men and women. Our physiological differences will make sure of that. (And as a heterosexual, I’m quite glad we’re different.) So traditions spawned of the dichotomy between masculinity and femininity will also always exist. But not all of them are bad.

It’s not just about wanting him to give me a ring - although, I must admit, rings are quite nice… No. It’s about having a sense of someone wanting to take care of me, of knowing that he really loves me. The reason I think men proposing is a tradition that should not be destroyed is because part of men’s genetic makeups will always make them prone to be promiscuous, sexual creatures. Whether women like it or not, being monogamous is not in a man’s nature. But to me, a man proposing to a woman is like him saying, “Hey, baby. There are lots of hot chicks out there I could score with… but I’m going to try my hardest to keep myself devoted to you, because boy, do you melt my butter.” I mean, how ROMANTIC is that?!

Also, Josh knows I’m ready to be engaged. By allowing him to propose, it gives him the control to do it when he’s ready as well, which is also important. I don’t want to shove him into a situation that he’s not prepared to handle. So when he does propose, I’ll know his heart is, without a doubt, set on me, and ONLY me, and that he’s completely comfortable with that.

No Comments   -   Link directly to this entry   -  

This is a long one, I suppose to make up for the lack of posts the past few days.

Sunday was quite possibly one of the most stressful days of my life. I got up early and got ready all over again, then headed out to the bus stop because Josh hadn’t answered my text asking if he was doing okay. I waited in Spar for about an hour… No sign of Josh. I walked back to my room and Skyped his brother, Bobby, to tell him I was worried. Bobby couldn’t get in touch with him either.

After walking the ten minutes back and forth from the bus stop four times, I finally found out that Josh’s plane had landed 80 minutes late. I also realized that his phone probably wasn’t working here in Ireland. But I still couldn’t find him. His plane landed at 10AM, and come 2PM, still no Josh. I had no idea what to do, and I was freaking out.

The fourth time I walked back to my apartment, I saw a message from Bobby saying that Josh had called his grandma collect to tell her to tell Bobby to tell me that he was going to wait for me at Trinity College - about ten yards from where I’d just spent the last hour standing, hoping to see him. So I grabbed my shit and RAN back down to Grafton St.

I found my poor baby doubled over, sitting on his carry-on suitcase in the entrance of the college, freezing to death. I started crying, he started shaking, but then all was well. I walked him back to my room - where he had apparently walked to, passed, and left to go back to the college earlier that morning. I didn’t care; he was here with me now.

I warmed him up, made him some toast, let him talk to his brother, and put him to bed. I got some groceries while he slept and made some mediocre pasta and garlic bread that he said was fabulous. Then we went to bed and passed out next to each other on my hard, tiny twin mattress. It was fabulous.

When he first got here, he gave me some stuff my sister had sent for me, like magazines and vitamins and chapstick. Then, he said, “I was gonna wait but I’m just going to give you this now because I’m already too stressed.” He handed me a beautiful purple box. I half expected it to be earrings or something, I guess so I wouldn’t get my hopes up. I opened the box, and there was a beautiful, absolutely perfect ring inside.

No, he didn’t propose. But it is a promise ring, and he said someday I’ll have to move it to my right hand when he has a new one to put on my left. I am quite happy.

I wish I could tell you about all the not-so-exciting touristy shit we did while he was here, but we really didn’t do anything. We ate at some good restaurants, including the Hard Rock Cafe, and looked around the National Photographic Archive. But he didn’t feel well the first couple days, and after that, he said he was just happy to be with me. Now, this is important. This is a new discovery of something else we have in common: When we’re on vacation, we don’t like being made to feel that we should do certain things because of where we are. We don’t like learning about various histories and shit; if it ain’t a beach or an amusement park, forget it. And let’s face it: Dublin is not Islands of Adventure. So we both happily lied around the apartment most of the time he was here, soaking up each others’ hormones. And boned.

Oh yes, there was boning. And it was fabulous. And I’m pretty sure Kate and her friend Janet heard it Tuesday night.

So what was the actual plan Josh had to execute while he was here? Let’s just say it’s not appropriate for children. But I was right about one thing - he gave me a ring. And I am loving having this thing on my finger.

No Comments   -   Link directly to this entry   -  

At first, I thought that I’d prefer it if a guy proposed with an empty box and said, “Okay, now pick out your ring and I’ll pay for it!” I mean, it’d be a real downer if a guy gave me some ornate yellow gold round cut ring (um, ew). But I’ve realized that I am far too picky to ever actually make a decision for myself. The best I can really do is give guidelines and let someone else do the actual picking, so that there’s less pressure on myself to choose the “perfect” ring.

I’ve told Josh my preferences. White gold, silver, or platinum. Doesn’t matter what kind of diamond, as long as it’s real. Heart or princess cut. Not too elaborately designed. Doesn’t matter how many stones.

See? I’m not too hard to please, I just couldn’t ever make up my mind. I don’t care how much it costs, or what grade the diamond is, yada yada yada. I just want it to look pretty on my finger. At the same time, it’s something you’re essentially stuck with once it’s purchased. (At least, it is if you’re working class or below.) So it’s something that should be given a little thought. Kind of like having a vague idea of what kind of kid you want to adopt. Let’s face it: people want certain breeds, whether or not they say they would love any child as their own. But that’s why I’d rather give birth to my own - it cuts out the option of choosing size and color. You get what you get.

Even though I’d rather Josh picked out a ring for me, I can’t help but look at potential choices. So like any classy girl, I’ve been checking out the engagement rings on Amazon. Some girls may gasp at the idea of not having a three-months’-salary fine jewelry store rock, but I’m much simpler. If the picture looks good and it comes in my size, I’m down for it.

No Comments   -   Link directly to this entry   -