Misery Loves Cabernet

by Kim Gruenenfelder

  “Oh, that was so cool how you quoted it right before the traditional touch football game,” Jamie tells Dad approvingly.

  “Forget it. Let’s just say all of Leviticus, and leave it at that,” Grandma says.

  “Why don’t we just agree to throw out the whole Bible?” Mom asks.

  “You can’t throw out the whole Bible!” Grandma nearly shrieks.

  “Fine,” Mom mutters. “I’m adding a number forty-two. I don’t want to hear about Ruth.”

  “What’s wrong with the Book of Ruth?” Grandpa asks.

  “Nothing. I mean Aunt Ruth.”

  I continue reading:

  16. String theory

  Did I mention that not one of the members of my family is a physicist?

  17. John Maynard Keynes

  Nor do we have any economists . . .

  18. Arthur Schlessinger

  Nor any historians . . .

  19. Illegal immigration

  20. Secondhand smoke

  21. Yogi Bear

  “When did anyone ever have a fight about Yogi Bear?” I ask.

  “It’s not Yogi Bear! It’s Yogi Berra,” Grandpa says, scratching out the word Bear and writing Berra. “Why would anyone ever have a fight about Yogi Bear?”

  “Oh, but throwing down over Yogi Berra, that’s healthy,” Jamie mutters.

  “I don’t know what kind of rap slang, “throwing down” is, young man,” Grandma admonishes Jamie as she lights up a cigarette, “but I think number thirty-eight shows it’s clearly banned.”

  I zone out from the argument for a moment to inhale deeply. Aaaaahhhhhh . . . secondhand smoke. With all the stress of today, I suddenly find the scent appealing again. Maybe if I can inhale deeply enough, I can get enough fumes into my lungs to make me calm.

  “Don’t open the window!” I yell at my mother as she opens a window.

  “I need to let the poison out,” Mom says, scrunching her nose up.

  “Are you referring to your mother’s smoke, or this conversation?” Dad asks her dryly.

  Mom looks at Dad a moment while she decides on an answer. Finally, she shrugs. “Well, six in one . . .”

  “Close the damn window, Jacquie. I’m not heating the entire neighborhood!” Grandpa bitches.

  “Dad, it’s seventy-eight degrees outside,” Mom reminds him.

  “Oh, that’s right,” Grandpa nearly spits as he puffs on his cigarette. “I can’t believe we’re thinking about spending Christmas in seventy-eight-degree weather. Honestly, what kind of Christmas are we gonna have with no snow?”

  “Jesus lived in a desert, Dad,” Mom reminds him for the millionth time. “Wait a minute,” she says, eyeing him suspiciously. “Since when are you staying until Christmas?”

  And Grandma pipes in, “Well, dear, with the price of gas the way it is, we’re thinking about just staying parked here until after the New Year.”

  For the next minute, I watch my mother carefully. I’m pretty sure she just had a minor stroke.

  Thirty-seven

  The chances of having the happiest Thanksgiving of your life with your family present are 0 in 100.

  I spend the next four days chauffeuring various extended family members to and from the airport, Disneyland, the beach, Hollywood, various hotels and motels, and my mother’s house (now filled to capacity with—count ’em—twelve guests, plus an additional four guests in Grandma and Grandpa’s Winnebago).

  So many highlights of my week. Hard to pick one for the top spot.

  In contention for the top prize was the time my grandmother complained about all of the cooking and cleaning she had to do to prepare for the Thanksgiving meal (even though Mom was technically the hostess) and wondered aloud, “If it’s all worth it.”

  “Probably not,” Grandma decided. “But I guess I need to keep putting myself through the hassle. After all, I could be dead tomorrow. This might be my last Thanksgiving.”

  To which my mother muttered to me, “She keeps making promises she won’t keep.”

  Then there was the argument between my Mom and my grandfather over her Pratesi napkins, which began when Grandpa admonished, “Why the hell would you spend over a hundred dollars on napkins?”

  “Because they are elegant and fabulous,” Mom explained.

  “Seriously, Jacqueline, do you have too much money lying around? Decided that when you die, instead of an inheritance, you should force your kids to kick in a little to bury you?”

  Which was followed by Mawv telling her son-in-law sternly, “I’m warning you: Leave my family out of this.”

  Or, the delightful evening we had en famille at the Olive Garden. You know that restaurant that advertises when you’re here, you’re family? I wonder who on earth ever thought that was a selling point? Do you think people want to walk in to have the maître d’ tell them they never lived up to their potential? Then be seated to have the waiter ask them why they’re not married yet, then remind them that their biological clock is ticking?

  This is why in general I believe:

  Don’t eat at a publicly traded restaurant.

  Which is the broader version of another piece of advice:

  Never go to a chain restaurant with an apostrophe “S” at the end of its name.

  Although I have to admit it was better than Grandpa’s original idea of a restaurant in the Valley that advertised, “We deep-fry all our sushi.” Or the restaurant they chose the night before where the waitress pronounced “crudités” phonetically.

  All of these events were irritating as hell, and worthy of a notable mention.

  But I’d have to say the highlight came Wednesday afternoon, when four generations of Geoghen women (Mawv, Grandma, Mom, and me) came home from grocery shopping to see my great-great-aunt Ethel, ninety-eight and deaf as a post, sitting on Grandpa’s La-Z-Boy in the middle of Mom’s living room, blaring a rerun of the 1980s game show Super Password.

  Don’t waste your time watching reality or game shows.

  How she even got there, we didn’t know. Where Grandpa’s La-Z-Boy came from, we’re not sure. But Mom just took her bags and walked into the kitchen as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “It’s amazing,” Mom says, as she passes the TV and observes Dick Sargent give a clue about Elizabeth Montgomery. “Now that we know Dick Sargent was gay, it’s so obvious. He’s definitely got the vibe.”

  “Dick Sargent was not gay!” Grandma insists.

  This was the sequel to last year’s Thanksgiving argument, which is how Paul Lynde got on the list in the first place.

  Mawv follows us through the living room, then out the back door, without even acknowledging her sister Ethel.

  “Mom!” Grandma yells toward Mawv. “Aren’t you going to at least say hello to your sister?”

  “Of course not,” Mawv responds as she lights up a cigarette in the backyard.

  “Mother!” Grandma admonishes.

  Mawv rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

  She puts her cigarette in the ashtray, walks back inside, goes into the living room, and stands between her sister and the TV screen to loudly ask, “How are you doing, Ethel?”

  “You stole my husband, you little slut!” Ethel says in her old-woman voice, while Mawv nods as if to say, “See, I knew that would happen.”

  Mawv walks back up to us in the kitchen. “I’d love to have her killed. But of course that would make her sympathetic.”

  Also on Wednesday, Mom managed to convince Jamie and me to spend the night, in order to “water down all the tension in this house.”

  I had no choice. Mom wrote down some advice in my great-granddaughter’s book that guilt-tripped me into it. The first two weren’t bad:

  Never compete with your children. Always be their biggest fan. If you do your job right, they will not only be younger than you, they will be happier than you.

  And:

  Any mother who says she never bribes her children is lying.

  But the last one nailed me:

  Honor thy mot
her, even if she drives you crazy. Yes, I know how hard it is—I have a mother, too.

  I didn’t even get my old room. No, my room was given to my two and three-year-old aunt and uncle from my paternal grandfather’s fifth marriage. Instead, I got to sleep on my mother’s pull-out couch. Why is it, no matter how much money you spend on a fold-out sofa, it still feels like you’re sleeping over a balance beam?

  On a more positive note, as disastrous as the week had been family-wise, it was bliss Liam-wise.

  He had called me every day this week, and tonight is no exception. As I do a slight back-bend over the metal bar crossing my fold-out bed, I regale him with today’s edition of, “In the sanity department of my family, clearing the bar usually is accomplished by tripping over it.”

  Fortunately, he can’t stop laughing.

  I’m in mid-story, “. . . So there’s Mom and Grandma arguing in the middle of Gelson’s over the virtues of red wine versus pink wine, and, of course, Grandma keeps pronouncing it Mer-LOT.”

  Liam continues guffawing. “Something to pair with the kruh-DITE?” he asks.

  “Exactly,” I say. “And, no one asks me, but my opinion is firmly . . .”

  Never drink pink wine.

  “Actually, there are some lovely rosés coming out of Italy . . .” Liam begins.

  “Are any of them coming out of a box?” I ask.

  He laughs again.

  “I mean, seriously,” I continue, “throw that stuff over some crushed ice, and call it a Slurpee. Then we move to aisle five, so they can have the cranberry-sauce argument—”

  “Do Americans have a cranberry-sauce argument?” Liam asks.

  “These Americans do. Some of them want fresh, with the zest of an orange, slow-boiled to perfection. Others want it straight from the can, complete with an indentation to make it look like a mini Jell-O mold. And it is to be sliced into circles, not mixed in any way. Speaking of Jell-O molds . . .”

  I hear an announcement over Liam’s line. “Oh, that’s my flight,” he says. “I better go.”

  “Wait,” I say. “I’ve been babbling this whole time, I didn’t even ask you how dinner with your ex went.”

  “It wasn’t dinner with my ex,” he says, sounding a bit tired. “It was dinner with my friends, who my ex is trying to take custody of in the breakup.” Liam takes a deep breath. “It was fine, I guess. She has a new boyfriend. A football player who could snap me in half.” He pauses to listen to another announcement. “Okay, we’re definitely boarding. I should go.” He sighs loudly. “I hope I can sleep on the plane.”

  “You can always nap in your own bed before you get here.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. What time is dinner?”

  “Well, depending on who you ask, it’s either at one, or at four.”

  “Let me guess,” Liam says. “Your grandmother wants it at one, your mom wants it at four.”

  “Very good,” I say, impressed. “Apparently, Grandma thinks if we wait until four to have dinner, everyone will, and I quote, ‘sleep all day,’ and by that she means until eight in the morning.”

  Liam laughs again. “So, should I be there at one, just in case?”

  I smile. He read my mind. “That would be great,” I say, my voice a little softer now.

  “And for the hostess gift, I’ll bring a nice Sauvignon Blanc,” Liam says brightly.

  “Because you know what they say . . .” I begin.

  “Misery loves Sauvignon Blanc?” Liam says, playing along.

  “Exactly,” I say, smiling.

  I’m infatuated all over again.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” Liam says to me softly.

  “Yeah. See you tomorrow,” I respond, just as softly.

  But neither of us hangs up.

  Liam laughs. “Okay, one of us had better hang up.”

  “You first,” I say.

  “I never hang up on a lady,” Liam says.

  “Well, I never hang up on a—”

  “Charlie, can you come up and look at something for me?” I hear my great-great-aunt Ethel yell.

  “Shit!” I whisper into the phone. “Gotta pretend I’m asleep now. Bye,” I say quickly, then click off the phone, and throw it under my pillow. I close my eyes, and pretend to snore.

  All I can hear upstairs is the quiet nocturnal puttering of people finishing up their hygiene rituals, then returning to their bedrooms to whisper about everyone else.

  I keep my eyes closed, and dream of kissing Liam.

  Liam having to be in New York this week has allowed me to give him the phone test. Back in college, when Dawn, Kate, and I would sum up potential partners, one of the first questions we always asked (okay, after “Is he cute?”) was, “Did he pass the phone test?”

  What is the phone test? Simple, really. If a guy really likes you, he will talk to you on the phone for hours, and you’ll talk about everything from vegetable juicers to Chihuahuas to why you hate Valentine’s Day. If he calls you relatively late at night, you’ll stay up talking until three A.M. He won’t try to get you to come over, he won’t try to come over. This isn’t a booty call. This guy really likes you.

  Two nights ago, Liam and I talked on the phone until six in the morning. My time.

  As I dreamily think back to all of the topics we’ve covered in the last few days (and how much more fun it would be to talk at three A.M. in bed), I hear my mother quietly putter down her stairs, and over to my couch. I open my eyes, and look up to see her wearing her nightgown, robe, and slippers, and lighting up her water pipe.

  “What are you doing up?” I ask her.

  “Marinating in the juices of my family’s vitriol,” Mom says with held breath. “I need you to do me a favor. I need you to go buy hemorrhoid cream for Ethel.”

  I cringe. “Why can’t you go?”

  “Darling, I’m stoned. How irresponsible would it be to have me on the road?” she says, still holding her breath.

  I glare at her. “You specifically just lit up now so you could—”

  “And, as long as you’re out, can you get me a bottle of personal lubricant? Oh, and your dad needs a one-pound Hershey bar.”

  So I drive to the twenty-four-hour grocery store in search of hemorrhoid cream, personal lubricant, and Hershey bars.

  There’s a country-western song in there somewhere.

  Thirty-eight

  Have yourself a merry little Christmas—no matter how many drinks it takes to get you there.

  Okay, for today, I mean Thanksgiving. But drink early and drink often.

  I awaken at seven in the morning to my two-year-old aunt Jasmine, and my-three-year-old uncle Bodhi, racing around the foldout bed in my mother’s living room. “Charlie! Charlie! The Wiggles are on!”

  I force my eyes open to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade on TV, and a quartet of men wearing brightly colored shirts and singing something about a pirate.

  I throw the pillow over my head to block out reality.

  After Bodhi begins jumping on my bed, I realize my attempt at one more minute of rest is futile, so I drag myself out of bed. I walk into my mother’s kitchen to get some of my grandmother’s MJB coffee: fresh from her burnt-orange coffee percolator, circa 1972, which she brings into Mom’s kitchen every morning from the Winnebago in order to make, and I quote, “Real American put-some-hair-on-your-chest coffee.”

  As I walk into the kitchen, I see my grandma stuffing a turkey, and Drew, standing next to her, reading from the list. “Okay, now when you say ‘cats,’ ” Drew asks her, “Is that referring only to the domestic pets, or all animals of the feline persuasion?”

  Grandma laughs. “Honey, you can talk about whatever you want. I am just so happy to hear you and Charlie are back together.”

  “What are you babbling about?” I ask Drew as I putter over to the cupboard to grab a coffee mug that bids me to COMFORT THE DISTURBED. DISTURB THE COMFORTABLE.

  “Remember how we told your grandma that we were secretly dating?” Drew as
ks, as I gently push him out of my way to get to the percolator.

  “Yeah,” I say crabbily as I pour my coffee. “Grandma, we lied to you about dating so you’d get off my back. I did have a boyfriend, but then we broke up, but I might have one again. He’ll be joining us for dinner. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Grandma and Drew both looked startled at my bluntness. “I was just awakened by a three-year-old jumping on my stomach, and I haven’t had my coffee yet. I plan to be cranky for at least two cups.”

  My mother walks into her kitchen. “Mom, we already have a turkey, and it’s in the oven.”

  “Your turkey is filled with chestnut stuffing. Your father wanted one with oyster stuffing,” Grandma says. “I figure we’ll each make a turkey, then guests will have a choice.”

  “Okay, Mom, in the first place, no one stuffs turkeys anymore, it can lead to botulism. The stuffing is being cooked on the side—”

  “Feh,” Grandma snorts contemptuously as she opens the refrigerator. “Where’s your butter?”

  “On the side of the door in the butter dish,” Mom says. “And in the second place, what the hell is wrong with chestnut stuffing?”

  “This is a Christian house, Jacqueline. No swearing,” Grandma says, pulling out a red square of Plugrá butter. “This is real butter. I need Oleo butter.”

  Mom inhales a quick half breath before steaming through her nostrils, “There is no such thing as Oleo butter. Just like there is no such thing as Velveeta cheese, or Cool Whip cream.”

  “Jacquie, don’t speak to your mother in that tone,” Grandpa says as he reads the sports section at the kitchen counter.

  “Well, how am I supposed to speak to her, Dad, as she stands in my kitchen insulting my cooking, and my food?”