Misery Loves Cabernet

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  “Well, you’ve got about eight months to—”

  Andy’s voice then gets a bit shrill. “Plus there’s this thing in the book about all the different kinds of baby cries! The ‘I want to be changed’ cry. The ‘I want to be held’ cry. All I hear when a baby is crying is shrieking.”

  “All right, take a breath,” I say calmly. “After all, you’re breathing for two.”

  “And to top it all off, Hunter wants to name the baby after his great-grandmother!”

  I don’t even want to ask. “What’s his—”

  “Zelda!” she shrieks. “And I’m almost positive that name was outlawed during the Geneva Convention.”

  Andy attempting a bit of humor was a good sign that mostly she thought that her pregnancy was good news. After a few more minutes of listening to the dramas of cribs, infant car seats, and preschool applications (seriously?!), I suggest to Andy that if she has any major concerns about parenting, she should call our cousin Jenn. I specifically don’t have her call Mom, as I don’t think she needs to hear about Mom’s latest project just yet.

  Two more minutes of talking and I hang up the phone, and start thinking about my life.

  Babies. Now I’m behind schedule with babies. It was bad enough that it seemed like all of my friends were either married, or were on track with their perfect careers, or both. Now I’m behind on the parenthood track as well.

  Everyone else has figured out their lives. They’ve gone on to become doctors, professors, radio show hosts, producers, actors, writers: whatever it was they set out to be. I have a golden handcuff kind of job that I got by accident, that I like just enough to not look for anything else.

  That’s not true, I like my job. But it’s definitely been a glass-half-full kind of week. Most women my age are married, or have babies, and I can’t even figure out if I’m dating a man.

  I snuggle up in my new white down comforter and white six-hundred-thread-count sheets, and try to fall back asleep.

  How can I? I bought these sheets just so the bed would be so luxurious and fantastic that Jordan wouldn’t want to leave it.

  My God, when did I become this pathetic?

  A shower seems too ambitious this early, but I do manage to putter downstairs for a cup of coffee, and a masochistic few minutes with my e-mail.

  Jordan hasn’t written. I know this because my phone has e-mail, but I check my computer anyway.

  Sigh.

  I spit out my gum, take a sip of coffee, and spend the next ten minutes trying to distract myself by coming up with more good advice for my great-granddaughter. They’re just a bunch of non sequiturs I’ve thought about in the last few days:

  Don’t ever hit.

  Whether you’re religious or not, let me give you my definition of sin: Sin is when you do something that hurts someone else, or hurts yourself. Try never to sin.

  Men don’t like ponytails.

  Get a dog because you want a dog, not because you’re depressed and trying to fill a hole in your life.

  All meter maids should be shot. Seriously, there should be a hunting season.

  Don’t gamble. The light bill in Las Vegas is not paid every month because their gamblers win.

  If you have to ask, “Do you know who I am?” you’re not important enough to ask that.

  Huge diamonds do not make you a great person.

  I don’t know why I write that last one. It’s doubtful my great-granddaughter will grow up to be a rap star, but I might as well throw that in.

  Never let how a man feels about you determine how you feel about yourself.

  I stare at this one. Why do I never seem capable of taking my own advice?

  As I stare at those words, my phone rings.

  It’s Drew. I pick up. “Good morning.”

  “Oh my God! I love this script!” Drew says without preamble. “The Ben character is fantastic! The part has Oscar written all over it! The only problem is, the character is a self-involved actor. I just don’t know where I’m going to draw from. Do we know any self-involved actors who I could watch and research for a few days?”

  Note to self: Make Drew look up the words “Irony” and “Delusional.”

  “I already called my agent, and we’re signed on,” Drew continues excitedly. “I start shooting Monday. Tell Jordan, ‘We’re going to Paris, baby!’ ”

  I am mad at myself for being so relieved to hear that. Maybe if Jordan and I could just be in the same room together for a few days, we could have a great time, have great sex, and maybe we wouldn’t need to break up because . . .

  “I don’t see why you need a man around,” Drew says. “You’re so busy mindfucking yourself.”

  “Excuse me?” I say, startled out of my thoughts.

  “That’s my favorite line in the script,” Drew says. “That and ‘Murdered children are a cheat for serious writers who can’t think of anything else to write that will freak out their audience. Just like weddings are a cheat for chick-lit writers.’ I’m telling you, doing this movie is going to be so much fun. Oh, that reminds me: I don’t have twenty-five million dollars.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that. “You mean on you, or in the bank?”

  “In the bank,” Drew answers. “Before I got this script, I was thinking about becoming a space tourist in Russia. You know, like Martha Stewart’s boyfriend did. For twenty-five million dollars, you get to train with a bunch of Russian cosmonauts, then fly up to the International Space Station. Just a few years ago, it was only twenty million. I thought I could swing that. But inflation gets us all. . . .”

  “Wait. Since when do you want to be an astronaut?” I ask, confused. I mean, I’ve been working for the man for several years, and this is the first I’ve heard of it.

  “Oh, I don’t,” Drew quickly clarifies. “That requires a college degree, maybe even post grad work. Who’s got that kind of time? But a space tourist—that I can get into. Anyone can say they got away from it all by heading to an over-water bungalow in Bora Bora. Who do you know who can say they flew over two hundred miles into space to drink Tang?”

  He says that with such joie de vivre, I envy him.

  Then I think about what I’ve read about space tourism. “The International Space Station is only two hundred miles in space?” I ask.

  “Two hundred and forty, actually.”

  “That’s over one hundred thousand dollars a mile,” I point out, trying to show him how ridiculous this conversation is becoming.

  “Beat that, Bill Gates!” Drew answers.

  Too late.

  “Anyway,” Drew continues, “I called my money manager this morning to ask him if I could afford to take a pay cut and do this movie, and he said yes. Then I asked him if I could afford to go up to the Space Station. He suggested that if I ever want to go into space, I should seriously consider going on a budget I can live with.”

  A budget Drew can live with. This idea has about as much chance of becoming reality as finding a unicorn in nature. I hate to sound pessimistic, but this is a man who spent over one hundred thousand dollars decorating and redecorating his dressing-room trailers last year.

  “I went to this Web site on stretching your paycheck,” Drew continues excitedly, “and I have some thoughts. For example, did you know that if I got a library card, I could check books out of the library for free?”

  What’s a tactful way to put this? “Drew, you don’t read.”

  “Okay, bad example,” he cheerfully admits. “But I can shop at Costco and buy in bulk. And I can sell one of my cars—apparently I’ll save on insurance if I only have nine cars. Plus, there’s a bunch of other stuff I can do. My money manager was getting too lecture-y, which I think is downright rude, considering I’m paying him five hundred dollars an hour. So, I need you to go to his office and pick up copies of all of my financial records, then come over here, and help me put together a budget.”

  I wonder how much it’s costing him to pay someone at his money manager’s office to co
py all of his financial records on a Sunday. I’m going to guess five hundred dollars an hour.

  “After you get the records, head over to Starbucks and pick up a couple of Venti lattes and a Sunday paper. Apparently, the Sunday paper has coupons.”

  I try to tell him that since he recently bought a three-thousand-dollar espresso machine, then hired a personal chef to make him lattes, perhaps he should save the nine dollars he’s about to spend on coffee. But he’s already hung up the phone.

  I look down at my notebook for one final thought for the day:

  Spend less than you make.

  A more cynical person would have said, “A movie star and his money are soon parted.”

  Seven

  An hour later, I put my key into the lock of Drew’s front door, and let myself into his foyer. The room is empty.

  “Hello?” I yell up toward the stairs, tossing the key into my purse as I balance two Venti lattes, a bag of chocolate croissants, and a Sunday paper in my arms. “They had those croissants you like, so I picked up two.”

  Suddenly, Drew flies over the stairwell banister, and sails above me. “I’m king of the world!” he yells, flying right over me, and scaring the shit out of me.

  I instinctively hit the floor, careful not to spill the coffees. “Ahh!” I scream as his feet miss my head by inches.

  “Isn’t it fantastic?” Drew says as he flies higher into the air, and over to his chandelier. “I’m learning all about weightlessness.”

  From his marble floor, I look up to see that Drew is fastened in a harness, with pulleys surrounding him, being flown around by Joe, the stunt coordinator from our last movie, and several of Joe’s assistants.

  “Hey, Charlie,” Joe says pleasantly.

  “Hey, Joe,” I force myself to say. “Should I bother to ask why Drew is flying around his front hall?”

  Joe shrugs. “Don’t know, and don’t care. I just go where they pay me. Baby needs shoes.”

  “I wanted to learn what weightlessness felt like before I went ahead with my cosmonaut trip,” Drew says. “Wait, watch this. Dive!”

  As Joe and his stunt riggers pull, slide, and hold various wires, Drew dives right at me. I crouch, bracing for a crash until I hear, “And up!” and he flies over me again.

  I have got to find a new line of work.

  “Joe, how much is this stunt costing Drew?” I yell to Joe as I stand up again.

  “It’s not a stunt,” Joe explains. “It has nothing to do with the movie.”

  “I’m not arguing semantics with you, Joe. Seriously, how much is this setting Drew back?”

  As Joe opens his mouth to answer, Drew interrupts. “If you have to ask, I can’t afford it. Watch me do a somersault!”

  Joe and his crew oblige, and Drew gleefully spreads his arms, then flips around like an eight-year-old in a pool of water. “Did you get the coupons?” he asks me.

  “I did.”

  “Okay, guys,” Drew says cheerfully. “My old lady is making me hit the books. Let’s call it a day.”

  There are just so many things that are wrong with that sentence.

  Never buy a mansion—there’s just too much to clean.

  Twenty minutes later, I am sitting in Drew’s lavishly appointed dining room, armed with computer printouts of his various assets, as well as his money manager’s log of Drew’s expenses.

  It’s not pretty. One entry completely baffles me. “You spent over three thousand dollars on worms last year?”

  “Earthworms,” Drew says, in a tone of voice that makes it clear he thinks that explains everything.

  “And you spent more money last year on rocks than I spent on my mortgage payments.”

  “That was for my Zen garden.” Drew reminds me.

  “You don’t have a Zen garden,” I point out.

  “That’s why I needed the earthworms.”

  I look up at Drew for clarification. He looks deeply into my eyes and begs me, “This is your life. Try to give it a happy ending.”

  “I’m sorry. What?” I ask, confused.

  Drew perks up. “It’s from the new movie. Isn’t that great dialogue?!” He pulls the coupon section out of the newspaper. “Hey, look. They’ve got seventy-five cents off rice.”

  I go back to his expenses. “Six hundred dollars for a haircut?!” I ask, shocked.

  “That’s including tip,” Drew says offhandedly as he rifles through the coupon section. “Oh, and here’s one for a dollar off gum.”

  “You don’t chew gum,” I point out, frowning, as I go through his expenses. I look up. “Seven hundred dollars for highlights?”

  Drew continues his reading. “Really, I’m covering gray. Hairdressers gossip. Four hundred dollars of that is hush money.” His face lights up. “Do I eat shredded wheat?”

  “No,” I answer. “Drew, why don’t you just have Vic cut your hair when you’re working?” I say, referring to Drew’s personal hair and makeup guy on every shoot. “Then it’s free.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose,” Drew says offhandedly. “Poor man has a very complicated life without me interfering, begging for a haircut. Has a bipolar boyfriend and an ex-wife with self-esteem issues.”

  “The studio pays him about a thousand dollars a day when you’re shooting. For that kind of money, he can . . .” I think about Drew’s statement. “Vic has an ex-wife?”

  Drew waves it off. “They dated back in college. Very few women have honed their gaydar in college. What’s probiotic fiber?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “I can get a dollar off cottage cheese, as long as I don’t mind that they’ve added probiotic fiber.”

  I pull the coupons away from him. “You’re not going to save twenty-five million dollars by saving a dollar on cottage cheese—which, by the way, you don’t eat. We need to get rid of some of your larger expenses. For example, you said you’d sell one of your cars. How about really saving money, and selling five of them?”

  “But I have a garage for twelve,” Drew reasons.

  “I have China for twelve, that doesn’t mean I’ll ever use it. You could get rid of the Ferrari, for example, not to mention the damn Koenigsegg.”

  “The what?” Drew says, his face leaning into mine, trying to decipher the word.

  “I may be pronouncing it wrong. The black car you bought in Vegas.”

  Drew leans back and whines, “Oh, but that’s such a futuristic car . . .”

  “That car cost you six hundred thousand dollars. The only future you’ll have with it is throwing buckets of money at it, and being afraid to drive it in rush hour traffic, or east of La Cienega. It needs to go.” I give him a list of his other cars. “Now I want you to choose five of the cars from this list that you want to keep. We sell the rest. Next up: staff. Who is Gladys?”

  Drew looks at me blankly. “I don’t know a Gladys.”

  “Well, she’s costing you eight hundred dollars a week.”

  Drew furrows his brow, thinking. Finally, he yells aloud, “Gladys?!”

  “Yes sir,” I hear from somewhere in his behemoth of a house.

  “Well, there you go,” Drew says.

  I try to suppress the urge to roll my eyes, but fail miserably. “Do you even need a maid here on Sundays?”

  “Do I even need an assistant here on Sundays?”

  “Apparently, yes!” I retort.

  “Oh, right,” Drew concedes. Suddenly, he gets up and heads to his refrigerator. “I’m bored.”

  As Drew pulls a bottle of Ace of Spades champagne from his refrigerator, I continue reading. “Why do you have three nutritionists on your payroll?”

  “Each one lets me eat different things.”

  I fight the urge to let my forehead fall into the palm of my hand. Again, I fail miserably. “Is that the same reason you have four different personal trainers?”

  “One trainer, two masseuses, and Chris, the yoga instructor. You know, your stepdad.”

  “He’s not my stepdad,”
I say sternly.

  “By the way, how are he and your Mom doing on the baby track?”

  I look up, startled. “You know about that?”

  “Oh, he’s been talking about it for months. Poor guy, shooting blanks. Thank goodness your dad is there to pinch-hit, if you know what I mean.”

  I sigh. “You leave little to the imagination.”

  Drew pops the cork on the champagne. “I’m toying with the idea of buying a castle in Ireland. Any thoughts?”

  None that I can say aloud if I want to keep my job.

  Two hours, three pieces of Nicorette, and a glass of overpriced champagne later, I have put Drew on a budget he is sure to ignore by this evening, and made my way home.

  As I pull up to my driveway, I see a dozen pink roses in a glass vase on my doorstep.

  And my heart floats.

  I recently wrote to my great-granddaughter:

  It’s better to receive a single rose from a man at your door than a dozen roses delivered to your office. The single rose comes from a man who took the time to pick the rose. The other comes from the man’s assistant calling the florist. Always treasure a man’s time more than his money.

  But since Jordan is more than five thousand miles away, I race out of my car and over to the flowers excitedly. I pick up the vase, and smell the slightly budding blooms. Ah . . . bliss.

  I rip open the card.

  Thank you so much for all your help. I owe you dinner in Paris.

  Best,

  Liam

  Sigh. I’ve been bested. Not that I expected Love, Liam or anything. But an xoxo would have been nice.

  Oh well. I still got flowers from a hot guy. How many women can say that today? I bring the flowers inside, and check my answering machine. My machine tells me, “You have five messages.”