Misery Loves Cabernet

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  Ten

  Good soap is a cheap luxury. Always splurge on it!

  An hour later, my ankle is feeling better, and I am freshly scrubbed, moisturized, and slightly scented, having used several of Drew’s ridiculously overpriced soaps and lotions. I’m wearing a very cute miniskirt, oversized shirt (to cover my new girth), and slight heels to show off my new runner’s legs. (I say that with my tongue firmly planted in my cheek.) Truth be told, I may have thought about my outfit the night before on the off chance that Liam would be on set today.

  Liam had an early production meeting, and said he’d meet us at the location. But not before he rubbed my foot several times to make sure it was okay, and also make me really wish I had treated myself to a supercute pedicure.

  Drew dressed in five-hundred-dollar jeans and a two-hundred-dollar T-shirt, then insisted that as long as I was at his house, I might as well drive him to work, so he could save on gas.

  Argh!

  The drive turns out to be harrowing. Not because Drew is in the car reciting today’s lines while simultaneously criticizing my driving, but because today is the first Monday in November.

  For about half the country, the first Monday in November is crucially important, and comes with a solemn duty and obligation that should be fulfilled every year if you are a good person. Am I talking about Election Day? No, that is the first Tuesday in November, provided that the first Tuesday follows a Monday, blah, blah, blah. End of civics lesson.

  Although that reminds me to write in my book later:

  Read about Elizabeth Cady Stanton. She was the most important woman in American history, got women the right to vote, and was still happily married with seven kids. To read her letters is to understand what every woman goes through trying to have it all.

  Anyway, in my family, the first Monday in November represents the day we all decide where we are spending Thanksgiving. It’s a time-honored tradition that usually involves negotiating, tears, and, quite frankly, vodka.

  As Drew reads through his lines for the day, and I brave Los Angeles traffic, the first shot of the season rings out.

  I expected my mother—longtime scheduler of all things evil. But my dashboard display shows it’s just my dad’s cell.

  I pop on my earpiece, and answer, “Good morning.”

  “Your bastard grandfather has invited me to Thanksgiving,” Dad says without so much as a hello.

  I hate myself for having to ask this. “Which one?”

  “My father. And you know I can’t stand him or his kin. Marrying that little zygote of a thing, then making his own great-grandchildren. Originally I said no. But then he pointed out that he’s not getting any younger, and this might be his last Thanksgiving. I mean, one can only hope. . . .”

  “What about Mom?” I ask nervously. “I thought you were spending Thanksgiving with her this year.”

  “What about your mother? Let Chris go. He’s the father of her child.”

  “You’re the father of her children!” I yell, exasperated.

  “Yeah, for now. But you know women. The minute they go on to the new family with the much younger Dad, they just forget all about the first husband.”

  My phone beeps in. I check the caller ID. “That’s Mom,” I say. “Hold on while I get her off the phone.”

  “No need,” Dad says. “Love you. Bye.”

  “No, but Dad, before I talk to her I need to know where . . . Dad . . . hello?”

  My father hangs up on me. Rrrr . . . . I click over to the next call. “Good morning, Mother. What are you doing up so early?”

  “Just basking in the glow of my impending grandma-hood,” my mother says pleasantly. “Did you hear?”

  “Yes, I did,” I say noncommittally. Truth is, I wanted to avoid Mom until Andy told her the good news. I didn’t know if Mom would be thrilled to be a grandma, or start screaming about how if you successfully got past the velvet rope at Studio 54 without ever fucking the doorman, you shouldn’t ever have to be called Nana.

  I also didn’t know if Mom was going to tell Andy about her attempts to make some grandchildren of her own (just ones that would call her Mom).

  “I can’t decide which T-shirt to wear today,” Mom continues. “The one that says MILF in Training, or the one that says GILF in Training?”

  Ugh. I visibly wince at that. “Mom, what did Dad tell you about that fashion choice?” I ask pointedly.

  Mom says to me:

  Don’t wear T-shirts with words on them.

  “And it’s good advice,” I tell her.

  “Maybe,” Mom concedes. “But right now, as much as I adore your father, he’s on my shit list. The minute he found out we were going to St. Louis for Thanksgiving, he bailed on me just to go see his mistress.”

  “Wait . . . what?!” I stammer. “He told me he was spending it with Grandpa.”

  “Well, of course he did, darling. What was he going to do, tell you he was abandoning you to spend the holidays with his whore?”

  “That’s what he said verbatim last year,” I point out.

  “Yes, and I told him that was very poor form, and not to do it again. I mean, where would our civilization be without the ample use of white lies: the bride is beautiful, what an adorable baby, it was a mutual breakup . . .”

  “Mom, there’s a motorcycle cop behind me, I’m gonna have to call you back,” I lie, hanging up the phone.

  I promptly say into my Bluetooth, “Call Dad’s cell.”

  Dad picks up on the first ring. “Did she tell you she wanted me to go to St. Louis to see those awful people?”

  “You can’t call Grandma and Grandpa that. They’re my family, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” Dad says, not the least bit sorry. “But I cannot stand by another year, and watch them treat your mother like shit. I’m one step away from punching your grandfather dead in the face.”

  Mom calls back in. “Hold on,” I say to Dad.

  “No need,” Dad says cheerfully. “I’m calling from the seventh hole, and everyone’s waiting for me to tee off. Love you, bye.”

  “Dad don’t hang . . .”

  And he’s gone.

  Damn.

  I click back to Mom. “Yes?”

  “Don’t be mad at your father. My father has always rubbed him the wrong way, and Thanksgiving is unpleasant enough without a fistfight breaking out.”

  “I never realized your family was Irish Catholic,” Drew says offhandedly, his eyes still glued to his script.

  I turn to him. “What?”

  “I can hear your mom on the phone.” Drew says, not looking up from his work. “Fistfights breaking out at a family function. I didn’t know you guys were Irish Catholic.”

  I furrow my brow at him. “That’s a stereotypical—”

  Drew puts his foot on the dashboard, and lifts the jeans on his left leg to reveal a two-inch scar. “I got this one at the Boston Thanksgiving, 2005.”

  Stereotyping is wrong.

  Though, when talking about your own family, it is freakishly tempting.

  “Oh, is that Drew?” my Mom asks, her voice suddenly lilting and cheery. “Hi, Drew!”

  “Hi, Mrs.—”

  I vigorously shake my head no. Drew notices.

  “Miss—” he corrects himself.

  More mad head shaking from me.

  “Ms.—” Drew thinks a moment, then says in his most seductive voice, “Hey, sexy.”

  To my mother. Oh, puke. Someone find me a bucket.

  Mom giggles like a geisha. “Ask Drew if he wants to come with us to St. Louis.”

  “No, he doesn’t,” I say firmly. “He’s spending it with his family.”

  “Damn,” Mom says. “So I guess it’s just you and me this year. Anyway, I talked to your grandmother, and we’ve decided that we’ll go to St. Louis for Thanksgiving, and then your grandparents and your Mawv will come here for Christmas.”

  “Whoa. What do you mean it’s just you and me this year?” I say, trying not to let th
e panic creep into my voice. “What happened to Jamie and Andy?”

  “Andy can’t come this year. She and Hunter are going to New York for the holiday so they can tell his parents about the baby in person.”

  “Wait a minute. Why do I have to go to St. Louis and sleep on a fold-out couch while she gets to lounge around the Upper East Side of Manhattan?”

  “Because she’s carrying around my genetic material and you’re not,” Mom answers succinctly.

  “So, Dad gets to go to New York with her, but I don’t?” I ask incredulously.

  “Don’t be silly. Your father’s not going to be with Andy on Thanksgiving. He’s seeing his mistress in Brooklyn,” Mom reminds me.

  “Okay, well, I’d still rather go to New York and see everyone . . .”

  “Honey, don’t be hurt, but your dad is going to need a little private time with Catherine. He hasn’t told her yet that I might be pregnant, and you know how much it upset her the last time, when I was pregnant with Jamie.”

  Drew laughs out loud at that. I turn to him and glare.

  He immediately shuts up.

  Wise man.

  “And to answer your next question,” Mom continues, “Jamie has to go to Aspen to meet his new girlfriend’s parents.”

  “Jamie doesn’t have a new girlfriend!” I insist.

  Mom responds by ticking off a list. “You’ve lost weight. You’re the biggest I’ve ever had. Oh, your choice to live in a trailer is so offbeat and whimsical . . .”

  “Are we back to acceptable white lies again?” I ask my mom irritably.

  “Yes. And you know your brother. I love him, but let’s face it, he’s a slut who can’t stand to be hated by any of his former paramours. I’m sure he’ll meet someone’s parents this Thanksgiving. Now, I’ve got us booked for the Sunday of Thanksgiving week . . .”

  “Sunday?” I whine. “Why do we have to go so early?”

  “You said Drew wasn’t working that week, so I figured that would give us some quality time, just the two of us.”

  What could I have possibly said in the past fifteen years or so that would make her think I’d want that?

  “Besides, the only first-class tickets I could book were for Sunday,” Mom continues. “And there’s no way in hell I’m getting off that plane and into my mother’s soul-crushing universe without a lot of glasses of Veuve Clicquot under my belt.”

  “Okay, Mom: In the first place, on the off chance you’re pregnant, you shouldn’t be drinking.”

  I can practically hear my Mom’s head fall. “Crap,” she whispers to herself. After a few moments collecting her thoughts, Mom begins again, a resolve I haven’t heard in her voice since she vowed to take up skydiving. “Okay, still not a problem. I have booked us a suite at the Ritz-Carlton for six nights. This year, for the first time in my fifty-five years on this planet, we are doing Thanksgiving my way.”

  Famous last words.

  “And what do you plan to tell Grandma when she insists that you sleep in your old bedroom, and I sleep on her fold-out couch?” I ask Mom.

  “She won’t find out what I’m doing until it’s too late. As far as she knows, we’re not coming until Wednesday. By the time she knows what’s up, we’ll already be settled in the hotel, eating room service instead of Spam. When she huffs and puffs, I’ll just calmly tell her that, what with your grandmother’s aunt Ethel staying with them, not to mention all the grandchildren and great grandchildren running around, I didn’t want to impose.”

  “At which time, she’ll ask how much money you’re wasting on a hotel.”

  “Look,” Mom snaps at me. “St. Louis is an absolutely elegant, beautiful city. They have an art museum, a symphony, a Neiman Marcus. Everything we’ll need for a perfect Thanksgiving week. And I am not going to let my family fuck it up for me again this year.”

  I shake my head. “Mom, the words ‘perfect’ and ‘Thanksgiving’ bump up against each other in this family about as often as the words “transgender” and “Republican.”

  “You leave your Uncle Colin out of this. Anyway, lots of people have perfectly lovely, drama-free family holidays.”

  “Not in our family they don’t!” I blurt out, trying to suppress an amused chortle.

  Dead silence from the other end of the line.

  Shit. I can practically hear my mother glaring at me through the phone.

  “Be at my house at eight A.M. sharp that Sunday,” Mom finally says, signaling to me that the discussion is over. “And pack for rain.”

  “Mom, you won’t know what the weather will be like until at least a few days before the trip.”

  “I know what the weather will be in my heart.”

  At this point, I finally stand up to my mother. “Mom, I’m not going.”

  Mom’s silent on her end, so I take a deep breath and continue. “I know your feelings are hurt, and I’m sorry. But I am not going to put myself through a week of hell just to make you feel better. Let’s just stop the annual insanity and have Thanksgiving here, with just our immediate family.”

  I can hear Mom take a deep breath over the phone. When she speaks, her voice is much softer, almost that of a little girl. “If we have Thanksgiving here, your grandparents won’t bring Mawv here for Christmas. Mawv is ninety-five. I don’t know how many more times I will be able to see her before, you know . . . .”

  There comes a moment in every fight, a time of silence, where the next one who speaks, loses. Learn to recognize that moment.

  Our moment of mutual silence has come. I am determined to win this argument, and I know if I say anything else, I will lose. So the two of us stay deadlocked in silence as I drive for a block and a half.

  Finally, Drew breaks the silence. “No matter how famous you are, or how significant your mark on the world is, one day you will be forgotten. It may take a hundred days, or a million years, but eventually we will all be forgotten.”

  I turn to look at Drew, who says to me sincerely, “What matters in our lifetime—the only thing that matters—is who we touch when we’re here. The rest is just footprints in the sand.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. Bastard.

  “Fine,” I practically growl to my mother. “I’ll go to St. Louis. But I’m not drinking in the garage again this year!”

  “Oh, I love you!” Mom says brightly. “I’m calling the airline right now to confirm.”

  “I love you, too,” I say angrily, in a tone that makes it clear I am snarling one of those gracious white lies she’s been talking about. “E-mail me the confirmation. Bye.”

  As I click off my phone Drew looks at me quizzically. “Why would you drink in the garage?”

  “Grandma has a rule: No drinking in the house,” I explain. “Grandpa has had a few bottles of Budweiser every night of his life. At some point during their sixty years of marriage, they compromised: people can drink, but only on the porch, or in the garage.”

  Drew just looks confused by this.

  “I know. They’re nuts. But I’m sure you’re right, and that the only thing that matters is who I touch while I’m here. So I’ll go.”

  Drew knits his brows together. “When did I say that?”

  “Just now.”

  Drew looks at me like this is the first he’s heard of it.

  Then suddenly he remembers. “Oh, that!” he says. “I was just reading one of my lines.” He holds up the script for me to see. And I read his character’s line:

  BEN

  No matter how famous you are, or how

  significant your mark on the world, one day

  you will be forgotten. It may take a hundred

  days, or a million years, but eventually we will

  all be forgotten. What matters in our lifetime—

  the only thing that matters—is who we touch

  when we’re here. The rest is just footprints in

  the sand.

  Oh, for the love of . . .

  Drew flips through his script. “Here’s another line
I like: ‘Trying to write on a deadline is like trying to have an orgasm with a gun to your head.’ ”

  Drew gives the line some thought. “Actually, that’s not as tough as it sounds.”

  Eleven

  Avoid the 101 Freeway.

  I spend the next hour driving from Drew’s house through the crush of downtown traffic to Angelino Heights, a residential neighborhood located a bit off the 101 Freeway, and famous for its nineteenth-century Victorian houses.

  Shooting a low-budget movie is very different from shooting a blockbuster. With a blockbuster, the studio will pay a few million dollars for script rewrites alone, and that’s after paying the original screenwriter a seven-figure salary. You have a month or two of rehearsal time. You get five or six months to get the best performances out of the actors.

  In a low budget movie such as A Collective Happiness, the few million dollars pays for your entire crew: the writer, the director, all of the actors, and all of the “below the line” people, meaning your grips, your costume department, makeup, sound, props, and so on.

  A blockbuster film budget also allocates millions of dollars for locations and sets: If you’re spending more than a hundred million dollars to make a movie, you can afford to shut down Griffith Observatory for a few days, maybe even close off a freeway or two. And when you’re ready to shoot your “interiors”—which basically just means the insides of houses, offices, and such—you head back to the studio, and get a production designer (basically, what we call the movie’s interior designer) to make a soundstage on the lot look like anything from a 1950s kitchen, to a 1980s real-estate office, to the perfect spaceship from the future.

  Not so with a low-budget movie. Many low-budget movies are shot completely on location, usually in the houses of people who rent out their homes to film crews in exchange for thousands of dollars a day. (Still what I consider a lot of money, but chump change by Hollywood standards.)

  And if the movie is really on a shoestring budget (like A Collective Happiness), someone on the crew inevitably gets talked into letting the crew use their house for free.