This Friday, Catalan Man arrives.
Oooooh! I’m as happy as a little girl….. picture Mike Myers as Dieter on SNL, looking like he just swallowed a lemon and pulling with both hands on his shirt to simulate little girl nipples. Am I ready?
I think I’m ready.
Here’s a checklist, just to make sure:
Frederick’s of Hollywood trashy lingerie order received, check (includes crotchless panties with a built-in garter belt, assorted thigh-high stockings that I am praying are not too tight around the top lest I be sporting “muffin-top” legs, and frilly boy-short-style undies in hot red lace).
Apartment cleaned, not checked, but with a little snapping of the fingers, a little singing of “A Spoonful of Sugar Helps the Medicine Go Down (In the Most Delightful Way)”, and some English schoolchildren slave labor, that will take care of itself in no time.
Friends alerted that I will be MIA for a week and a half save for one night that I want him to meet everyone, check (and as much as I think my friend Krista’s idea to have a bunch of bald Spanish men parading around a bar wearing nothing but their speedos and having my friends play “Guess Joanne’s Boyfriend” is kinda funny, it is highly offensive and I slap her 3 times in Catalan Man’s honor.)
Stocked fridge, not checked. Although I do have a bottle of Cava I dragged all the way from Spain chillin’ in there, which I predict will definitely come in handy one of these nights.
Fridge that smells kind of funny and needs to be cleaned out but I am too afraid to face the music and do so, check.
Neighbors’ doors bestowed with little handwritten notes that read, “When apartment 5B is a’rockin’, don’t come a’knockin’”, not checked but that may be necessary.
Cuticles bitten down to little bloody stubs in anxious anticipation of Catalan Man’s visit which I know should be a happy joyous occasion but I can’t help it; I’m just a neurotic freak who needs some serious Transcendental Meditation Therapy, check.
Fantasies swirling around in my head about how magical and romantic the next 2 weeks are going to be, including visions of me and Catalan Man romping around in our earmuffs in the snow and tackling each other playfully and rolling around and kissing; me and Catalan Man sitting in cozy jazz café nuzzling each other’s necks and then the band invites me up to sing and I sing something sad and melancholic and I sound like an Angel Sent Down from Heaven and Catalan Man is so moved he can’t bring himself to speak afterwards and 1000s of cute hipster groupie guys throw themselves at my feet, proving to Catalan Man how awe inspiringly desirable I am, but I wave them away with a flick of my wrist because I Have My (Catalan) Man; me and Catalan man taking the Acela train up to Boston together for a romantic weekend and we play Spanish cards the whole way up, laughing, and making sexy bets that we pay up on once we’re in Boston, etc etc etc., CHECK (and re-checked every 5 minutes)
Watching this funny talking cat video instead of doing my job right now, check.
So I got my period a couple of days early this month (THANK GOD) but I’m still not sure Aunt Scarlett is going to pack her bags and be on the train completely by the time Catalan Man arrives to NYC. This is causing me some distress. I mean, crotchless panties don’t really have the same effect if there’s a tampon string hanging out of them.
A month ago, I go to the gyno to take advantage of my last day of work-sanctioned insurance and as she’s prodding around in my Family Jewelbox with some elongated Q-tip or some other equally modern piece of cooch-probing equipment, I get the bright idea to ask,
“Hey, do you---ouch! ooh!---have any ideas about how to hide an imminent period from a boyfriend who is coming from far away and who I want to have monkey-sex with in the airport as soon as he walks off the tarmac?”
She suggests the Pill. No way, I say. The Pill makes me even more neurotic than I already am, and who wants to have sex with a sobbing, despairing woman who’s torn out half of her hair in little clumps, screaming at you to “STOP LOOKING AT HER!!!”?
She thinks about it for a bit.
Then, almost conspiratorially (why? It’s not like I asked for a back-alley abortion or anything), she leans in and says, “I could fit you for a diaphragm.”
Aha. Genius. I say “let’s go for it” with much enthusiasm, excitement, and morbid curiosity. If the Pill is the digital, modern-age way to prevent pregnancy, the diaphragm is the sticks-and-stones Neandrathal equivalent, and I can’t believe I’m about to embark on the same gynecological adventure that GRANDMOTHERS of the 1920s’ flappers embarked on. Back then, you had to smoke-signal to the pharmacy one town over that you would pick up your diaphragm on Tuesday, and make sure your trusty steed would be up for the day’s journey for you to pick it up.
She fits me with the smallest size available (“Does that mean I have a small cooch?” I ask her, hopefully, but she explains to me that it’s just the way my body is shaped internally; darn) and tells me to do some “acrobatics” after she leaves the room so I can make sure it stays in place and is comfortable.
Before she closes the door behind her, she turns around and whispers to me again, putting her hand to one side of her mouth so we’re really in cahoots with each other now. “And make sure you get on your back and put your legs over your head!”
She winks at me, and with that, she leaves.
Then I’m all alone, left to my own (contraceptive) devices.
It’s a bit tough to choreograph inspired sex moves in the sterile captivity of a gyno’s office, but I do my best. I kick my legs up in the air (in case Catalan Man and I do some Moulin Rouge role-playing). I squat into a doggie-style position and bounce around a little bit. The smiling people on the Big Pharmaceutical Company-sponsored calendar on the wall snicker at me, I swear to God. I get on my back and put my legs over my head, as advised, and am relieved that nothing flies cannonball-like out of my nether-regions and bounces off the walls.
Houston, we’re a go.
I pick it up at the pharmacy the next day. It’s now sitting under my bathroom sink, currently, mewing to be let out and played with.
Other than that….met good-looking upright bassist at a jazz bar last week who just finished a major world tour with a quite-famous female jazz singer who I’m going to see play on Wednesday…girl’s gotta keep her options open.
Will keep you alllllll posted.