Aunt Flo is so...old. And crotchety. And she wears stiff dresses that only look appropriate at church in Kansas in the 50s (with no offense meant towards church, Kansas, or people living in the 1950s). She is forever in a state of balancing a jello mold on her impatient, crotchety hand. And she says things like, "do you think you should be doing that?" And she has a little magnet on her refrigerator that says, "a slip on the lips is forever on your hips" so that you feel like freakin crud when all you wanted was one of the goddamn cookies you saw in there when she opened the refrigerator door to pull out the jello mold. And the worst thing...the absolute worst thing about freakin Aunt Flo is that she always shows up too early. You think you have two more hours to relax and there she is, primly ringing your doorbell, that goddamn jello mold balanced on her hand.
Can you tell that I have a luteal phase defect?
And no progesterone?
And as my husband and I have spent the last three days gleefully speaking to each other like Truman Capote, dramatically slamming the salad bowl on the table while hissing, "you. will. be. stunned!", I have decided to relegate Aunt Flo to sorting hymnals and hire Truman Capote to be my new period.
But Melissa, you say as you gasp, you can't fire Aunt Flo. That's her job. Being a period is what she does!
To which I answer: um...not anymore. Not in this uterus. From now on, it's my TC. My Truman Capote.
Because while no one would invite Aunt Flo to a party, Truman Capote (according to the documentary that accompanies the movie as a "special feature") was one of the most sought after guests on the New York literary scene. And he's adorable. And he has that great voice. And he's very talented. And these are all things I want in my period.
Plus, I noticed a strong resemblance between Truman Capote and my cycle. He's as manipulatively seductive as my CD1, filling me with hope for the month. And then he's good-time-Charlie, partying through ovulation. He's never there when I need him in the anxiety of my two week wait. And finally, Truman ends my cycle like he's screwing over Harper Lee at the To Kill a Mockingbird screening, showing up to ruin the party when he's supposed to be my good friend.
So, from now on--my TC.
And speaking of Harper Lee...I watched the exchange between them at the screening with an absolute pit in my stomach. A make-your-husband-hit-the-pause-button pit. In case you haven't seen Capote, Harper Lee is his good friend and research assistant. While he is struggling to write In Cold Blood, she hits major success with To Kill a Mockingbird. He reluctantly goes to the screening of the film adaptation and he sulks at the bar. When she approaches him to collect accolades from her dear friend, Truman makes it all about him and doesn't offer her any congratulations. It's all about his pain--his frustrations with the novel. And the hit-pause question was...is that me with pregnant friends? Do I do that? Do I make it all about my pain and not celebrate with them? My husband reassured me that it wasn't. But it all hit a little too close to home. Made me want to stand in front of the mirror and recheck my smile as I say with mock excitement: I'm so happy for you!
That is, if you told me via email or a letter. Beforehand. And if I'm not having my TC. I'm not sure I can be happy for anyone when I'm entertaining Truman.