by Kari Lizer
Just a job. A massage. A night alone. A big break. Likely story.
The Californian
On the fortieth anniversary of Saturday Night Live, Robert De Niro is standing on the stage with his famous smirk telling the story of sometime in his career when he was in LA filming a movie, probably holed up in the Hotel Bel-Air or Chateau Marmont, no doubt making millions—when he turned on SNL and saw real work being done in a real city and what a comfort it was to know that this place, New York, and this show, Saturday Night Live, existed in the world. It gave him such comfort to know that while he suffered in the soulless shithole that was Los Angeles, they were keeping the dream alive. Or something like that. It might have been a great story if Robert De Niro could tell a story. But he can’t. He stumbled over every word. Couldn’t find the punch line to save his life, didn’t know which words to land on, mumbled through—he was a fucking disaster. It was live television, after all, and if Robert De Niro had to rely on New York theater or live television like SNL to make a living, he would starve to death. I love Robert De Niro, but Robert De Niro clearly needs a script. And some rehearsal. Editors. Takes two, three, four, five, and fifty-seven. Robert De Niro is a movie star, and he should be on his hands and knees thanking Hollywood for taking him in. Thanking the film industry for making him seem articulate and interesting and fluent in English, but instead, he’s shitting on the place that made him who he is, which also happens to be my town—which is why I’m mad at Robert De Niro.
Adding insult to injury, I’ve had a houseguest for the past six days who also happens to be from New York, sleeping in one of my kids’ empty rooms.
She leaves wet towels on the wood floors and doors open so my cats escape into the backyard where they could be eaten by Valley coyotes that roam the streets in search of a good meal—usually cat, kitten, or Yorkie. She borrows my car and doesn’t refill the gas tank and puts empty half-and-half containers back into my refrigerator as a surprise when I go to prepare my morning coffee.
I don’t see her much during the day—she’s working in Century City—but when she does come back to the house, I get an earful about the ways in which Los Angeles is not New York while she drinks all my wine on my back porch and asks how long it would take for me to heat the pool.
“A couple of days,” I tell her.
She sighs and tells me, “That’s the beauty of my health club at the Chelsea Piers. Year-round heated swimming. It’s amaaazing.”
Grouchy, I ask, “Yeah, but didn’t you tell me they have ‘poop in the pool’ scares several times a year? And it shuts the whole thing down?”
She shrugs as if to say, “Poop is a small price to pay for getting to share a pool with hundreds of strangers in the greatest city on the planet.”
I take to hiding in my bedroom in the morning until she leaves for work because I don’t trust myself not to heave the empty half-and-half carton at her head if she tells me one more time that she misses public transportation.
My houseguest finally left on Saturday, and I should have felt better, but I didn’t. I woke up Sunday, still annoyed. Furious with her, Robert De Niro, and every other disgruntled transplant who complains about LA’s lack of seasons, culture, transit, traffic, and lousy bagels. Who eats bagels anymore anyway? Haven’t they heard of gluten intolerance? Everyone has it.
I wanted to scream at someone, but in Los Angeles, we don’t like confrontation, so we keep it inside and instead have imaginary fights with people from inside our cars, which causes us to have road rage against innocent people who inadvertently cut us off in traffic. So on Sunday, Robert De Niro made me a bad driver. By Monday, the feeling hadn’t left me; in fact it was growing. And it happened to be President’s Day, so my therapy appointment was postponed until Tuesday, meaning there was nothing to stop my irrational rage at a movie star I didn’t know and would probably never meet. Then I started stewing about all the people who complain about LA that I’ve met in acting classes and in writers’ rooms—guys who had come from one-horse towns that had nothing to offer them but subzero winters and tractor-pull summers, and they were shitting on LA. “It’s not a real city,” they’d say, coming from Bumfuck, Wisconsin. I realized my reaction was overblown, and I wondered why. Because it wasn’t just a small something stuck in my craw, it was blossoming into full-blown rage-y resentment.
I decided to go to the beach. Maybe that would put me in a better mood. I dragged along my youngest son and my biggest dogs. It took us two and a half hours to drive less than forty miles to Ventura, one of the few beaches that still allowed pets. When we finally got there, we circled the parking lot sixty-three times before we found a spot, then walked to the far edge of the dog-friendly beach away from the dogs who weren’t friendly. I found a spot where I wouldn’t be able to hear people’s inane conversations because I knew that was only going to make me crankier.
I sat watching the seagulls while my kid was fly-fishing in the surf, wading into the low tide waist deep while my dogs chased a tennis ball in the seventy-degree temperature in the middle of February, and it was there I realized the source of my fury: all of these people who hate my California are exactly the ones who have ruined it for those of us who used to love it.
In 1982, I lived in Venice Beach. I was an out-of-work actress who could afford to live at the beach—two houses from the sand. My friends were other actors, and we lived actor lives. We went to scene study class every night and lay on our towels most days. We waited tables and had big dreams. We were every bit as serious as our counterparts in New York. We were just happier. Because we were warm. And tan. And it wasn’t so terrible to be poor. Because we were warm. There were pony rides where the massive mall called the Beverly Center is now. A disco called Oskos that was hilarious and easy to get in to. We didn’t value places by how hard they tried to keep us out. We had deep conversations about serious subjects—we just happened to be wearing bikinis at the time. I used to drive my 1969 Fiat from my apartment in Venice to my acting class in Hollywood. It would take me about thirty-five minutes. Today that same drive would probably take four days. I’d zip up Fountain Avenue, which was my secret shortcut. There was never a car on it because nobody knew it existed. The San Fernando Valley, where I live now, seemed like the country to us. That was a place you went when you were ready to join AA or have a house with air conditioning or kids.
My friend Brian and I went to every home game the Dodgers played. We called them “three dog nights” because we had to eat three Dodger Dogs each—that was the rule. And we never gained a pound. I also knew where Steve Garvey, the first baseman for the Dodgers, lived. His beach house was right where we set up our towels when we went to the old Malibu Colony during the day. A couple of times, I let my dog, Dudley, a spectacular cocker spaniel and love of my life, off his leash and pretended I couldn’t catch him so he would run up the stairs onto Steve Garvey’s deck and into his house in pursuit of Steve Garvey’s own cocker spaniel—then I would run after him so I could chat up my favorite player, hoping to score free tickets for Brian and me. He never offered any tickets, and after a couple of times, Steve Garvey was on to me and started locking the lower gate that led to the stairs of his beach house.
I sang in an a cappella group, and one year we got one of those maps of the Hollywood stars’ homes and went Christmas caroling. Gary Morton enjoyed our performance, but his wife, Lucille Ball, screamed from the top of the stairs, “Tell them to get the fuck away from our house.” Glenn Ford answered the door in his pajamas and invited us in. He gave us cookies and, before we left, handed us each a ten-dollar bill and wished us all a merry Christmas. Danny Kaye wasn’t well, but he had his caretaker bring him to his balcony in his wheelchair so he could listen to us sing. Which we did, for forty-five minutes. This was when celebrities were great. Before security cameras and electric gates and armed patrols and Kardashians ruined California.
I also blame the Rose Parade. New Year’s Day never fails to be gloriously sunny and clear—sparkling blu
e skies, dotted with just enough white cotton ball clouds to make it festive. The sun glints off our Rose Queen’s tiara and her beautiful, young court of princesses wave to the crowd that line Colorado Boulevard in their shorts, T-shirts, and sunglasses on January fucking first, while most of the country watches from their living rooms, dreading the walk outside to let the dog pee in the snow. It never rains on the Rose Parade. It beckons people: Come, you’ll be happy here! But they aren’t. Because they forget what brought them. Because the grass is always greener. And pretty soon they’re gathering in groups, with other transplants, at backyard barbecues in March or October or any other day (because it’s Southern California and every day is great for a barbecue) to wax nostalgic about what they left behind in their midwestern, East Coast, Canadian, Floridian, New England, northwestern, Upper Peninsulan, Great Lakes, Plains States, Rust Belt, Bible Belt, Dust Bowl–rooted past. “Go home then!” I want to scream. Maybe then I can find a fucking parking place in Venice again. Maybe a shitty ranch house in North Hollywood won’t cost a million three. Get. Out.
And by the way, I’ve been to New York. When my car finally died, I had to review my options. Where could I be an actress without a car? So I moved to New York. Brian knew the manager of a comedy club that had a fairly terrible Mediterranean restaurant upstairs where I got a job as a waitress. I’m a fairly terrible waitress, so it was a good fit. I snagged a $2,000-a-month sublet the size of a closet on the Upper West Side.
I slept all day, too broke for acting class, then went back to the restaurant at night to serve up greasy falafels for minimum wage and no tips. Then winter came. Shivering down the sidewalk, wondering if this was what people missed when they came to LA and complained, “You have no seasons!”
One day my feet slid out from under me on the ice on the sidewalk, my butt landing squarely in a mushy, frozen, and filthy puddle. Not a single person stopped to help me up. They didn’t even laugh, which I think was even worse. So I left that city that never sleeps or smiles or says, “I’m sorry,” and came back home to thaw out. And it’s possible I carried with me a small grudge against the place that didn’t welcome me with open arms. People say to me, “You didn’t love the energy of the city?” No. I didn’t. I didn’t love the energy. And then they always make a face that means I’m not cool enough for New York. Which is fine. I’m not cool enough for a lot of things.
I finally got to my therapist appointment. My therapist, Gene, is a native New Yorker who left in 1995 and loves LA so much he thinks the Hollywood Freeway is beautiful. I told him about my rage of the past few days, but as usual, he won’t get on board. I think Gene actually used the words chill out and started rhapsodizing about the azaleas blooming in February. “Let the LA haters do their worst. We have California,” he bubbled. He told me his sister comes out to visit every couple of years and he’ll take her to some beachside restaurant. Once they saw dolphins, really close to shore. They watched them for about twenty minutes, jumping and flipping and fooling around, while he and his sister sipped their bottomless mimosas. After the dolphins were gone, his sister turned to him and said, “God, Gene, how do you stand it out here?”
Gravity
I am a loner, a deeply reluctant socializer. I would rather sit in my bed with two dogs and a bowl of popcorn watching Law and Order: SVU than be anywhere with anyone that requires me to wear a bra. One or two friends have always been enough for me. In fact, my children as my only friends suited me nicely. Until they left me. The only problem with making your children the center of your social universe is that when they orbit away from you, you find yourself like Sandra Bullock in Gravity: spinning in the dark, alone in your underwear, thinking about George Clooney. It also leaves you with no one to reach out to when you need a ride because you’re going to be mildly sedated.
On Wednesday, the wind was so powerful it was blowing down palm trees as I made my way to Beverly Hills, creating an obstacle course over Coldwater Canyon. I parked my Prius at a meter on Wilshire and was digging in my purse for quarters when suddenly cash started flying out of my bag, picked up by the wind, then sailing out into the middle of Wilshire Boulevard. I clutched my purse to my chest and was about to dash into the street after my dollars when a little old man passing by on the sidewalk said in a very calm voice, “Not worth it. Not worth it,” then just kept right on walking down the street without even looking up at me. His words stopped me, though. He was right. There were a lot of speeding cars, and it probably wasn’t worth it. They were only singles. And only about four had escaped. I stepped back onto the curb, put a credit card in the meter instead, and went into the imaging center for my appointment.
“Routine,” Dr. Norman said. “It’s important to keep tabs on your uterus during menopause.”
“Keeping tabs on my uterus”—this is what it’s come to.
Inside there were three people waiting. All old. All yellow. No kidding, I didn’t need an MRI to tell me—these people were about to get some bad news. I just hoped they weren’t thinking the same about me. I smiled at one lady, but she didn’t smile back. So I tried it on the other two people waiting, but all three just stared back at me like they couldn’t figure out what I was up to. I pretended to be very interested in something on my phone until they called me into the exam room.
I’ll spare you the details of my pelvic ultrasound, but let me say this: anyone who makes their living squirting freezing-cold lube onto a penis-shaped instrument and inserting it into women’s vaginas should have a way better sense of humor than my lady did, even if I was the thousandth person to say, “Really? You’re not even going to buy me dinner first?” Because that’s still funny.
I asked her if she could see anything troubling on the ultrasound. She told me I’d have to wait and get the results from my doctor. I said, “I know, but just tell me this: Based on what you see, what would your advice be for my lunch? Stick to your diet and order the salad, or with the shit I’m seeing in your uterus, you might as well enjoy yourself now and go for the double cheeseburger?” She wouldn’t budge. There are some whole days when not a single person is delighted by me.
When I was back at my office, Dr. Norman called right away. I’ve been seeing him since I was twenty-five years old, and he always has the tone of someone who is about to deliver bad news—loving, serious, and sorry.
Twenty years ago when he told me he saw two heartbeats on my pregnancy ultrasound, I thought he was telling me my baby was going to be born with two hearts, not that I was having twins. It took me a minute to realize the news was exciting, not devastating. Although to be fair, I’m always looking for devastating news, so between his tone and my expectations, we’re a disaster together.
This time the news was no news. He tells me they couldn’t see anything in the ultrasound. No. Here’s what he says exactly: “They got a pretty good view of your giant uterus.”
What? Why? Why giant, Dr. Norman? No one ever wants to hear the word giant used in connection to anything unless it’s their brain, vocabulary, or penis. God. It was unkind. I would never say to Dr. Norman, “Oh. Hey. You’ve got a little something on your giant nose.” He said I was going to have to go back for another test. Something called a sonohysterogram. He said the problem was my endometrial lining. They weren’t able to see it clearly with the regular ultrasound because due to my age and hormonal changes, it gets quite thick. “Like a shag carpet,” he said. And it could be hiding something. Jesus. Giant uterus. Shag carpet? Could you take it easy, Steven?
You know, there was a time when Steven Norman was smitten with me. He would stroke my leg while giving me my pap smear and tell me he would run away with me in a heartbeat. Obviously, that was when my endometrial lining was a gorgeous tightly woven Berber, not a hideously matted shag, hiding old Barbie shoes and green plastic army guys and backs of earrings and God knows what. Was there no end to the indignities of menopause?
“Okay. A sonohysterogram. What’s the procedure?” I ask him.
“Well, they i
nject saline into your uterus—it helps illuminate abnormalities.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
Right. Of course not. Since I was twenty-five, his only answer to this question has ever been “a little pinch or mild cramping”—that’s for everything from cervical dilation to childbirth.
“How much saline goes in?” I inquire.
“Quite a bit. They fill it up like a water balloon.”
“And how does it come out?”
“Some comes out right away, when you stand up. That’s why they put a pad on the floor.”
“Je-sus.”
“And the rest comes out over the next forty-eight hours.”
“What?”
“Your body releases it.”
“When?”
“Whenever.”
“Where?”
“Wherever.”
Pause.
When my beautiful yellow lab Sophie stopped knowing when poop was dropping from her bottom, I knew it was time to say goodbye. She was much too dignified to live that way. Was no one going to offer me the same kindness?
Dr. Norman tells me he’s set it up for Friday at Cedars and I would need a friend to drive me because they would be giving me a mild sedative for the procedure. A friend? Who’s going to want to be my friend when I’ve got salt water dribbling out of my uterus?
That night in bed, I was alone, mulling over what could be hiding in my uterus, when a Facebook message popped onto my computer from someone named Jen Sutherland. I didn’t immediately recognize the name. Which happens to me a lot. My dad was a management training executive with the phone company, and we moved every year or two when he got a new assignment, so I was always starting new schools, never staying in touch with the kids I left behind. Because of this, I might have that attachment disorder that orphans get, which is probably why I can’t bond to anyone but my dogs and chickens. People remember me though because I used to make up lies about myself to make me seem more interesting, knowing I’d be moving along at the end of the year, leaving only a mysterious memory in my wake. “Remember Kari Lizer? Did you know she could only see in black-and-white?” “Her parents bought her in Haight-Ashbury off a hippie.” “They have to move so much because her dad is in the Mafia.” “Her middle name is Ferta?”