Misery Loves Cabernet

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  I hear a key in my lock downstairs. I quickly put down the pitcher, and head downstairs to see Liam, looking ridiculously fantastic in a gray cotton T-shirt and blue jeans. He walks to my dining room, carrying a tray of coffees and a white paper bag.

  “Good morning,” he says brightly, flashing an altogether unhungover smile. “How are you feeling?”

  That’s a very good question.

  And, of course, I have two options to that very good question: be a charming little minx, and act like I’m lovely, thank you very much. Last night was wonderful, thank you very much. Oh, and, by the way, did we sleep together? And should I be thanking you? And by how much?

  Or I could go for the truth.

  “Well . . . ,” I begin, looking around and trying to piece together the evening, “I finally found something to replace my cigarette cravings—I’d give up a kidney for a bottle of fruit punch Gatorade right now.”

  Liam smiles, and pulls a bottle of fruit punch Gatorade from the white bag. “Oh, I think you’ll be needing both of those today to keep your poor liver company.”

  “Oh God!” I say, letting my head fall.

  Liam laughs. “I’m kidding. Man, you were funny last night.”

  I open the bottle of Gatorade, and chug down half of it in one greedy gulp as Liam pulls a bottle of Advil from the bag. “I’m just going to jump right in,” I say to Liam. “How fun was I?”

  “I said funny,” Liam says, chuckling as he opens the Advil bottle and hands me three tablets. “I think you would have been fun. But you were pretty inebriated. And there are rules against that. Although after you insisted to me for the third time that there’s a nine-to-one shot I must be bad in bed, I must say I was tempted to prove you wrong.”

  “Oh, God!” I whine as I take the tablets from him. “I swear there was a compliment buried in there somewhere.”

  “Well, it would have to be buried, wouldn’t it?” he jokes. “So, how much do you remember?”

  “Oh, enough,” I lie, then throw the Advil into my mouth, and chug the rest of the Gatorade.

  Liam smiles, and looks deep into my pink eyes. “Good,” he says, then gives me a quick kiss on the lips. “Are you still up for taking me to the airport this morning?”

  “Sure.”

  “Because I can take a cab.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I say. “I have to be at LAX in a few hours anyway. My mother is making all of us kids meet the grandparents when they get in from St. Louis.”

  “I’m so sorry I’m gonna miss that,” Liam says. “But I’m taking the red-eye back Wednesday night, so I’ll be bright-eyed and bushytailed Thursday morning for your mother’s dinner. I can’t wait to meet the rest of your family.”

  He can’t wait to meet my family?!

  Okay, what in God’s name happened last night?

  Thirty-six

  There are no such things as mistakes, just lessons.

  “I’m never drinking again,” I whine as I let my head fall between my knees at the airport baggage claim a few hours later.

  “He can’t wait to meet your family?” Jamie asks me from the blue plastic chair on my left.

  “Yeah, I know, right?” I respond nonlinearly, lifting my head, and rubbing my temples to try and rub out the pain of a full-blown headache.

  “Well, then, obviously you slept with him, and just can’t remember,” Andy tells me from the blue plastic chair to my right.

  “No,” Jamie says, shaking his head. “If she had slept with him, he’d have been in her bed trying to get in a quickie before his flight. Instead, he was fully clothed, not in bed, and talking about being excited to meet everyone. That means he’s still in full-on ‘lying to get her into her pants’ mode.”

  Jamie, Andy, and I are sitting around baggage claim, waiting for our grandparents to arrive for Thanksgiving week. Once it was determined that no one could get Mawv back home to St. Louis against her will, Grandma and Grandpa decided that they would come out to Los Angeles for Thanksgiving, and stay at my mother’s house to enjoy the holidays with her.

  Enjoy. Destroy. Same difference.

  “Do you want me to just call him, and ask how you guys are doing?” Andy asks me.

  “I think he’s smart enough to figure out I put you up to that,” I tell her.

  “It’s okay. We can figure this out on our own,” Andy says. “Did he have you park and walk him all the way to the security line, or did you just drop him off at the airport?”

  Jamie shakes his head. “You know, When Harry Met Sally was, like, a billion light-years ago. That proves nothing.”

  “False,” Andy counters. “If he had her drop him off at the curb, it would mean he wanted to get away from her, no matter what he said about her family.”

  “Or, it could mean that he was being polite, and didn’t want to trouble her,” Jamie points out.

  “Guys, it doesn’t matter. I had to be here anyway, so I parked.”

  “Well then, the next question is the kiss,” Jamie suggests.

  “What about it?” I ask.

  “Well, for one thing, did it exist?” Jamie asks.

  “And, if so, was it great?” Andy asks, possibly a little dreamy-eyed.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask her.

  “I’m married. From now on, I have to live first kisses vicariously through you.”

  “Great,” I mutter.

  “It was great?” Andy asks hopefully.

  “No. I meant great that you . . . forget it.”

  “So it wasn’t great?” Andy asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, torn. “I’m not even sure what kind of kiss it was.”

  “Meaning what?” Andy asks.

  “Well, I’m not sure if—” I stop and look at Jamie. Embarrassed, I lean into Andy and whisper, “I’m not sure if it was a French kiss or not.”

  “You don’t know if he slipped you the tongue?” Jamie asks incredulously.

  “I think he did,” I say to Jamie, embarrassed and unsure of myself. “Possibly.”

  Off Andy’s look I add, “It’s like he sort of opened his mouth, but sort of didn’t. And then afterwards he pulled away, looked at me with concern, and said, ‘You look like you’re going to throw up.’ ”

  Jamie shakes his head slowly. Andy just purses her lips together so much they disappear.

  “In his defense, I was planning to do so within five minutes of leaving him. I was starting to get that baking-soda taste in my mouth . . .”

  “Yummy,” Jamie says dryly. “Who wouldn’t want a piece of that?”

  I shake my head. “I knew I shouldn’t have had that last Ray’s Mistake.”

  “That what?” Andy asks.

  “It’s a rum drink. Which reminds me.” I take out a little notepad, and jot down:

  Never have that last rum drink.

  My mother walks up to us, carrying four Venti Starbucks cups in a brown four-cup carrier.

  “Okay,” Mom says, putting down the cardboard tray, and handing us each a cup. “I have decaf vanilla latte for Andy; Christmas blend, nothing added, for Jamie; and a mocha for Charlie.”

  Mom hands me my cup, and I take a sip.

  Then I gag. “Ew! This takes awful!”

  “I added a shot of bourbon to yours,” Mom says. “I would have added brandy, but it was all I had in my flask. Hair of the dog.” She sits down. “So, what did I miss?”

  “Nothing,” all three of us kids say in unison.

  Mom eyes us suspiciously. “Were you talking about your father and me?”

  “Yes.” / “Of course.” / “Caught.”

  Dad walks up to us. “Okay, Jacquie, wanna give the kids a quick rundown on what your parents don’t know as of late?”

  Mom points to Dad. “Good idea,” she says as she turns back to us. “Okay, first of all, they don’t know your father and I were trying to have a baby.”

  Andy’s chin juts out. “What are you talking—”

  I lean into her and wh
isper, “Don’t ask. I’ll explain later.”

  “They also don’t know Chris and I split up,” Mom continues.

  “Do we know Chris and you split up?” I ask.

  “Well, you do now. It happened two weeks ago, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “He found out you were still sleeping with Dad, didn’t he?” Jamie surmises.

  “No,” Mom says nonchalantly. “I found out he was sleeping with our dog walker.”

  Andy looks thoroughly confused. “Dad, when did you start sleeping with Mom?”

  “When we had that one-night stand back in the late seventies,” Dad answers.

  “Why did Chris need a dog walker?” I ask Mom. “He doesn’t own a dog.”

  “Yes, but he used to,” Mom explains. “And when the dog died, he couldn’t bear to fire the dog walker. So, they would go on walks together instead.”

  “No,” Andy clarifies to Dad, “I mean when did you and Mom start sleeping together again, post divorce?”

  “You mean post our divorce, or post my divorce with my second wife?” Dad asks her.

  “I never trusted Chad,” Mom says.

  “Who?” Jamie asks.

  “Chris’s dog walker,” Mom answers.

  “Let’s go with your second divorce,” Andy says.

  “Um . . . your wedding, I guess. Your mother needed my sperm,” Dad explains.

  Andy looks at Mom in disgust. “This isn’t like the lamb placenta moisturizer you tried to make at home last year, is it?”

  “Oh, it’s so much worse than that,” Jamie tells her.

  And from behind us we hear my grandmother’s irritated voice. “Well, we’re finally here.”

  All five of us turn to see my grandmother Rose, wearing a light blue sweatshirt with a picture of a turkey wrapped in an American flag, light blue polyester knit pants, and a look of scorn.

  Never wear polyester.

  My mother is as confused as the rest of us as to how Grandma snuck right past us. “Mom, where did you come from?”

  “We decided to take the Winnebago, so we could see Vegas on the way home. Your father’s parked at the meters.”

  Use public transportation, and carpool whenever you can.

  And so the eight of us proceeded to drive to my mother’s house in a typical Los Angeles caravan of four cars and one thirty-foot-long Winnebago. (Okay, I’ll admit that part isn’t typical.)

  When we get to my mother’s home, Grandpa parks his Winnebago in front, and the rest of us find spaces in the garage, driveway, and street.

  I get out of my car, and walk up to my mother, staring at the back bumper of Grandma and Grandpa’s RV. Mom glares at the bumper sticker of a red, white, and blue ribbon with the words FREEDOM ISN’T FREE.

  Don’t put a bumper sticker on your car. You will never change anyone’s political or cultural opinions based on what your fender is telling them.

  “I thought you weren’t going to put bumper stickers on the new ’Bago,” Mom says to Grandma as she walks out to meet us.

  “I only used that to cover up the sticker your Mawv put on the car!” Grandma screeches.

  I turn to Grandma. “What did she—”

  Grandma glares at me. “ ‘My letter got published in Penthouse. Ask me how.’ Where is she, anyway?”

  “Drew took her parachute-jumping in the desert,” I tell Grandma. Off her horrified look, I add, “Only he’s going to jump. She’s just going along to keep him company so I can be with you.”

  Mom leans into me. “Lost the coin toss, huh?”

  “Best two out of three,” I confirm.

  Dad walks into the Winnebago, and emerges carrying Grandma’s luggage. Grandpa pops his head out the door. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks my dad.

  “Basking in the glow of your unconditional family love,” Dad retorts as he begins lugging the bags toward my mother’s house.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m just bringing the bags inside,” Dad answers.

  “Oh, you don’t have to bring the bags inside,” Grandma says. “We’re staying in the Winnebago.”

  Dad turns around to return the bags.

  Mom looks mortified. “You’re going to sleep on my street?”

  “Don’t use that tone of voice with me, young lady,” Grandma warns. “Now, everyone inside the Winnebago. I’ve made a tuna casserole and a big macaroni salad for lunch.”

  “But Mom, I’ve made a lovely lobster salad for our lunch.”

  “So you can freeze yours,” Grandma says, disappearing into the motor home.

  Mom turns to me as Andy and Jamie get out of their cars to join us. “You kids are so lucky you don’t have parents who embarrass you.”

  Jamie puts his hand over Andy’s mouth just as she opens it to respond.

  We all follow Grandma into the Winnebago, fill up blue plastic plates with tuna casserole and macaroni salad, grab canned sodas from the refrigerator, and take seats where we can find them.

  Before our first family meal of the week can officially begin, Grandma hands each of us two stapled sheets of paper. I look down at the top sheet to read:

  Thanksgiving List

  Abortion

  Any politician with the last name Clinton or Bush

  Gay Rights

  L.L. Bean

  Paris, France

  Any war—from Gulf to Vietnam

  Paul Lynde, the center square from the Hollywood Squares

  Cats

  I blink several times. Hm. As Grandma hands us each a ballpoint pen, I turn to see my mother scrutinize the list, then take her pen and add a word to the bottom of page two.

  “You’re going to have to add ‘Catherine,’ ” Mom says.

  Grandma mutters, “Right,” and pulls out her own pen to write down “Catherine” in blue ink.

  Grandpa lights up a Camel, then leans over to look at Grandma’s paper. “Who’s Catherine again?”

  “Ed’s mistress,” Grandma says.

  “She’s not his mistress!” Mom yells, frantically waving away Grandpa’s secondhand smoke as she explains, “She’s his—”

  “Didn’t you just say she’s on the list?” Dad asks as he reads his copy.

  “Hold it,” Andy asks. “What is this list?”

  Grandma turns to her, “This year, in order to promote family harmony, we have come up with a list of topics that no one is to discuss over Thanksgiving week, and then throughout the Christmas season.”

  Mom smiles. “All of the topics on this list are subjects that have brought acrimony to past family get-togethers. We figure we’ll head that off at the pass with this list.”

  I continue perusing the list:

  9. The expansion of the strike zone

  10. Global warming

  11. Tattoos

  12. Gerbils

  13. Dr. Phil

  “What strike zone are we talking about?” I ask, confused. “From which country?”

  “I specifically said we were not to argue about the strike zone at all this year,” Grandpa admonishes firmly. “Let’s not limit it to the expansion.”

  “Don’t even get him started about the Cardinals last season . . . ,” Grandma mutters.

  “They were robbed,” Grandpa’s voice booms.

  “Grandpa, do you really want to compare the Cardinals to the Angels this past year?” Jamie asks innocently.

  “Listen, young man, you are not too big that I can’t still put you over my knee.”

  “Better put Cardinals on the list . . . ,” Mom says.

  And we all write Cardinals at the bottom of the second page.

  I flip back to page one of the list:

  14. Priests, Pedophiles, and Popes

  “Isn’t number fourteen three things?” I ask.

  “All the same scandal,” Mom reasons.

  “How did you decide on what’s on the list?” Jamie asks. “Because I’d like to put down why I’m not married yet.”

  “Why? Are you one of the gay
s?” Grandma asks him.

  “No, he’s a slut, Mother,” Mom counters matter-of-factly. She turns to Jamie. “Although apparently there was a young lady he was so enamored with that he planned to miss Thanksgiving with us just to meet her parents. I was so excited for this new addition to the family that I insisted we have a brunch together before they left for Aspen.”

  “Unfortunately, we broke up,” Jamie admits, mentally kicking himself for getting caught in his lie.

  Mom can’t help but give him a self-satisfied smile before saying, “Anyway, darling, the list started as any topic that has caused a brawl, temper tantrum, or crying at the Thanksgiving table in the past thirty years.”

  “Or, grabbing car keys, leaving the table, and slamming out the door,” Grandpa reminds Mom.

  “Right. That too.” Mom agrees.

  “Actually, the year that white-trash in-law of yours with the missing front teeth did that was pretty funny,” Dad says.

  “Are you kidding?!” Grandma gasps. “That Thanksgiving was our family’s personal low.”

  “I got to go with Ed on that one,” Grandpa says. “Anything that gets someone who lives in a trailer out of my house is a good thing.”

  Mom looks around. “Dad, aren’t you staying in a trailer?”

  “It’s a recreational vehicle, not a trailer,” Grandpa admonishes Mom. “If you had stayed in St. Louis instead of moving to this den of sin, you’d know that.”

  “If I had stayed in St. Louis, I’d have killed myself.”

  15. Leviticus 18:22, 19:1-35

  Okay, this argument I remember. My great-aunt Doris told my uncle Colin, who is gay, that he is going to hell. And to read Leviticus 18:22. Then she quoted the phrase: “You shall not lie with a male as with a female: it is an abomination.” Colin assured her that he had never lied with a female, so this was really beside the point. An argument ensued, which led my Jesuit-educated uncle to quote Leviticus 19 in its entirety, thus damning her to hell for wearing a cotton/poly blend sweatshirt adorned with a faux jewel turkey.

  “If you’re not taking out all of Leviticus,” Dad asks, “can I damn everyone to hell with the quote about touching unclean pigskin again this year?”