“You don’t,” Grandpa says as he kisses Mom on the cheek. “If the Good Lord didn’t want us to eat bacon, we’d have been born Jewish.” He walks over to me and gives me a kiss on the cheek. Grandpa’s a big “kiss on the cheek” kind of guy. Hugs are just too damn personal. “So, Jacquie, is that worthless son of a bitch ex-husband going to be at the wedding?”
“Yes, Dad,” Mom says, struggling to keep her patience. “He’s giving the bride away.”
“You mean he’s actually in the wedding?” Grandpa asks, pulling out a pack of Marlboros and a book of matches.
“You can’t smoke here, Father,” Grandma admonishes him.
Grandpa looks perplexed. “Ah hell, Mother. I knew when we came to California, we were going to the land of fruits and nuts, but I didn’t think they had outlawed smoking altogether.”
“No, you dipshit,” Mawv says. “You can smoke in the state of California, just not in the airport.”
Grandpa looks so incensed, he can barely speak. “What the hell?” He turns to my mother. “I told you you shouldn’t have bought us plane tickets. This wouldn’t have happened if we’d have driven.”
Mom’s about to respond, but Mawv talks over her. “If we’d have driven, I’d have put a bullet in your ear by Kansas.” She turns to me. “Please tell me you brought your own car.”
“Yes.”
Mawv turns back to the others. “I’m going with Charlie. Can you get my bags and bring them to the hotel? What’s it called again?”
“The Hotel Bel Air,” my mother announces proudly. “It’s gorgeous. You’re going to love it.”
“The Hotel Bel Air?” Grandma nearly screams. “Ah, we don’t need to be anywhere that fancy. Just take us to the local Holiday Inn.”
“No, Mom,” my mother says. “It’s already paid for. Besides, I want you to have a really nice trip, and the Hotel Bel Air is one of the nicest places in the city.”
“How much did you pay?” Grandpa asks, an unlit cigarette now dangling from his mouth.
“Only ninety-nine dollars a night,” Mom lies. The cheapest rooms at the hotel run three hundred a night, and most are much more expensive than that.
“Ninety-nine dollars!” Grandpa nearly spits out in horror. “Jesus, Jacquie. With our AARP discount we could have got it for half that. Sometimes you just don’t think.”
However, Grandma’s face lights up. “Oh, but Dad, it must be really nice for that kind of money. Remember when we got that place at Cedar Point for ninety-nine dollars? It had cable and room service.” She turns to my mother. “Do you think the room has cable?”
My mother sighs. “I’m sure it does. But Mom, you’re on vacation. Why would you want to waste it in a hotel room watching TV?”
“Very nice, coming from a TV writer,” Grandpa quips. “Don’t give me that highfalutin city snobbery. You’re not too old for me to still take you over my knee.”
“Dad, I just meant—”
“We read about what you TV types call us in Missouri—the flyovers. Well, let me tell you something, missy—”
“Charlie! Cover your eyes!” Grandma yells, looking over my shoulder.
Naturally, I turn around to see what she’s looking at. “What is it?” I ask.
“Two men—holding hands!” Grandma says. “Honestly, people said if we came to Los Angeles, we’d see the gays, but I didn’t think we’d see them so soon.”
“Imagine,” Mawv quips, “gay men taking a plane. Just like normal folk. What are the odds?”
I look over at the “offending” couple. “Grandma, those aren’t two men.”
Grandma pops her head over my shoulder to get a better look. “They’re not?”
“No. Actually, they’re two women.”
Grandma nearly faints, while Grandpa sucks his unlit cigarette and says, “Eh, the lesbians never bothered me so much.”
Midwesterners can be just as snobby as Hollywood people or New Yorkers. It’s just a different kind of snobbery.
An hour later, we all made it to the valet of the Hotel Bel Air, where the lecture on good Midwestern values continued.
First, Mom and her parents argued over whether or not to pull up to the valet (“never give a stranger access to your trunk”). Then Grandpa tried to carry in his own bags (“if you carry them in yourself, you save a dollar a bag”).
Next came check-in.
As we cross over the stone bridge and into the gardens, I am immediately at peace with the world.
The hotel does that for me. I look around at the red tile roofs and the soft pink walls, and all is tranquil in my world. The hotel is done in the architectural style of the old California missions. Unlike other nice hotels in the area, none of the buildings are higher than a few floors up. And the landscaping is designed to resemble Hawaii, with colorful flowers everywhere, and wonderful, soothing scents. I am happy. I close my eyes, breathe in the smell of flowers, and smile. Ah, and there’s the small lake, off to the side, next to the gazebo where Andy and Hunter will be married tomorrow.
If you ever (God forbid) need to check into a detox center, skip Betty Ford. Spend the same amount of money and check into a fabulous hotel, spend your days at the pool, and order lots of room service. You’ll feel so refreshed and spoiled, you won’t need drugs or booze.
Mmm, this place is so gorgeous, so peaceful, so romantic—and I’m stuck here with my mother and bickering grandparents.
“Edwards. Checking in, please,” my mother says to the front desk clerk, Mike, as my grandfather looks around the lobby suspiciously.
Mike smiles warmly. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Edwards. Three rooms. Yours, one for Mr. and Mrs. Wharton, and one for Mrs. Geoghen. Correct?”
“Yes. Mine, my parents’, and my grandmother’s,” Mom says.
“Can we get mine as far apart from the others as possible?” Mawv asks as I help her to a green velvet sofa.
Grandma looks out the window, then runs to Grandpa, hits him on the arm, and whispers. “Oh my God! That’s Arte Johnson! You know, from Laugh In?”
“No!” Grandpa says as he runs up to the window and stares at a man walking past, toward the dining room.
They both run out of the lobby to get a better look, then come back self-satisfied. “Well, I’ll be damned!” Grandpa says cheerfully. “Making his way to the dining room just like any normal joe.”
“Wait until I get home and tell Marcia we saw a real-live celebrity,” Grandma beams.
Mom signs some forms as Mike cheerfully asks, “Would you like smoking or non-smoking rooms?”
“Smoking,” all four demand in unison.
Mike is a little thrown by the chorus, but continues to smile. “Smoking it is.”
Grandma turns to me accusingly. “You’re not still smoking, are you?”
Before I can respond, Mom pipes in proudly, “No, Mother. She quit on her thirtieth birthday.”
Rats. The truth is, I took the habit back up Sunday night. Yes, it’s a disgusting habit, blah, blah, blah, and yes, I did tell myself that I was going to quit on my thirtieth birthday. But my main impetus to quit smoking was to kiss Jordan without tasting like an ashtray. Now that he’s gone, I need the cigarettes even more than I did before. I mean, come on, aging, single maid of honor? How am I going to get through this weekend without smoking?
Grandma looks at me suspiciously. “Is your mother telling the truth?” she asks accusingly.
“Of course she is!” I respond back self-righteously. I can’t help myself. Her tone is pissing me off.
Grandma sniffs, and that sniff is just like her tone of voice. “Well, I hope you’re not like your mother about it. She’s never done anything she ever set her mind to. Must have quit smoking a hundred times.” Before I can respond, Grandma turns to Mike. “Do you have a Jacuzzi here?”
“No, I’m afraid we don’t. But we do have a very nice pool.”
“We’re paying ninety-nine dollars a night for this place, and there’s no Jacuzzi?” Grandpa says, sounding appa
lled at the lack of hotel services.
At first Mike looks confused, but when my mother bulges out her eyes and shakes her head at him ever so slightly, he seems to get the message.
“Okay, here are your room keys,” Mike says with a smile, handing my mother all three keys. “Josh can show you to your room. I’ll get Charles and Glen to show your other guests to their rooms—”
“One valet will be fine,” my mother says quickly, knowing full well my grandparents will insist on carrying their own bags, then won’t tip, and she would only want to be embarrassed by her family in front of one employee. “Has my daughter checked in yet? Andy Edwards?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mike says, still smiling. “She’s in Room 208.”
“Great,” Mom says, and we all head for the hotel rooms.
The next few hours are a blur. I went with Mawv to her room, where we hung out until the wedding rehearsal.
We were only interrupted by about twenty phone calls in a little under three hours. Mawv refused to talk to anyone (her soaps were on), so I got to pick up the phone all twenty times.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Don’t order room service! They charge fourteen dollars for soup!”
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to play the game, “Guess which relative I’m talking to.” (That first one would be Grandma, by the way.)
The next call: “Hello?”
“Goddamn it! Tell your Mawv she can order whatever she wants. I’m paying for this, not your grandparents.”
Number three: “Hello?”
“All right, we talked to the concierge, and there’s a Catholic church called Saint Monica’s a few miles away. There’s a nine A.M. mass on Sunday, so if we all meet at eight-thirty in front of the hotel, we can get good seats, and be out in time for brunch.”
Followed by number four: “If they think I’m getting up at eight o’clock the morning after my wedding night, they’re crazier than Mom.”
Number five: “Tell your Mawv to turn on Channel Sixteen. They’re doing a documentary on FDR.”
Number six: “You do not have to go to church.”
Number seven: “…and thirty-nine dollars for a filet mignon. We can get one at the local Kroger for seven bucks.”
Number eight: “Your Mawv called, and asked that I get her a bottle of Canadian Club whiskey. I’m at the store now. What size does she want?”
Actually, Mawv sort of took that call. “Mawv, it’s Dad,” I say to her while I have Dad on the phone. “He says you called him and asked him to pick up a bottle of Canadian Club whiskey?”
Mawv doesn’t take her eyes off the TV. “I did indeed.”
“He wants to know what size?”
“Remind him that I am spending all weekend with Rose and Joe.”
I return to the phone. “She says to remind you that she’s spending the entire weekend with Rose and Joe.”
“Right,” Dad says. “Biggest one they got.”
I hold the phone and look at Mawv. “Dad says biggest one they got?”
“Tell him he’s a doll.”
Number nine: “And there’s a three-dollar service charge for every item ordered, so a fourteen-dollar soup is really seventeen dollars….”
Number ten: “Goddamn it! If you and your Mawv want to order from the fucking room service menu, you can! This is the fucking Hotel Bel Air, not a fucking Howard Johnson’s!”
Number eleven: “We just saw Oprah Winfrey by the pool.”
Number twelve: Is there any way we can avoid Hunter’s family meeting our family this weekend without it looking weird?”
Number thirteen: (whispered) “Can you call your father, and make sure he’s bringing pot?”
Number fourteen: (mechanical voice) “You have no new messages.”
All right, so I called home to check my messages, and see if Jordan called me.
Number fifteen: “And they charge eight dollars for a beer!”
Number sixteen: “This is why I left Missouri.”
Number seventeen: “Are you hungry? Because Grandpa’s going to a local A and P to get a twelve-pack of Budweiser, so we figured as long as he’s getting that, he should get snacks.”
Number eighteen: “I’m taking Mom and Dad to Santa Monica Beach. They want to get a picture of the Pacific Ocean, so they can say they’ve been there.”
Number nineteen: “How far is it of a drive to San Francisco? We’re thinking of going up there before the rehearsal dinner.”
Number twenty: “I called room service. I ordered you the soup.”
The wedding rehearsal took place without a hitch, mainly because the wedding coordinator wouldn’t take any crap from our family.
I wish I could have said the same about the rehearsal dinner.
Hunter’s parents, nice upper-class East Coast folk, decided to host the bash at a beautiful seafood restaurant on the beach in Santa Monica.
They rented out a gorgeously decorated room with a view of the ocean, there was a full bar, and the food was wonderful. All of the ingredients for a spectacular night, where the two families could bond in a relaxed, gracious atmosphere.
It was a disaster.
Let’s start with Grandma and Grandpa meeting my sister’s new in-laws. They were “dressed up” in polyester blends. Joan, Andy’s future mother-in-law, wore a stunning pink suit, which Grandma immediately comments on: “Wow. That is one nice-looking suit. Where did you get it?”
“Oh, thank you,” Joan says, her mouth barely moving. “I just popped over to Neimans this week. It’s silk. Very comfortable in this climate.”
Grandma grabs the tag behind Joan’s neck, and her jaw drops. “It’s Donna Karan. Dad, check out Miss Fawfawfaw in her Donna Karan.”
Grandpa slaps Bill, Andy’s soon-to-be father-in-law, on the back. “Well, you two must be doin’ pretty well. What did that set you back?”
“Excuse me?” Bill asks politely.
“The old ball and chain. What did the suit cost you?” Grandpa says.
Startled, Bill looks over to his wife, “Ummm…well, I’m not sure. We really don’t discuss her clothing purchases.”
“Oh, big mistake. Big mistake. Mother gets fifty dollars a month for her clothes, and that’s it. One penny above, and I will tell you, we have quite the rumpus!” Grandpa laughs, and hits Bill on the back again.
Grandma laughs, too. “It’s true. And, you know, that’s a good thing, because it forces me to keep an eye on my purchases. You know, I got this skirt on sale at the outlet store. Ten dollars, and it’s a cotton blend. The sale was so good, I bought four more in different colors.”
Andy looks mortified.
“’Course, ten dollars times five, that’s fifty dollars, so I didn’t go over my monthly limit,” Grandma continues proudly. She whispers into Joan’s ear conspiratorially, “You know I’ve had these for almost fifteen years. A classic like this, it never goes out of style.”
Joan smiles, confused. I’m sure she would have knitted her brow if the Botox hadn’t kicked in.
I walk over to my father, who’s been hanging out on the other side of the room, avoiding my grandfather. “Andy needs your help. This is not going well.”
“What does she want me to do?” Dad asks.
“Go say hi to Grandma and Grandpa. Get them away from Andy’s new in-laws.”
“If you think I am going to subject myself to the wrath of that man, you’re out of your mind.”
“Would you prefer Hunter’s parents get to know the real us? They are seconds away from being schooled on the wonders of polyester.”
Dad rolls his eyes. “Okay, but if I’m going to get through this, you have to go get me a drink.”
“Done,” I say. I grab Dad’s hand and pull him toward Grandma and Grandpa, who are now onto real estate discussions. “You mean you spent over a million dollars to live in a place where you don’t even own the land?!”
“Well, co-ops in Manhattan are complicated…,” Bill begins.
; My father and I quickly intervene. “Good evening, sir,” my father says pleasantly, looking up at Grandpa’s large form.
My grandfather glares at him. “You knocked up my firstborn,” he says, sounding like a hick farmer behind a shotgun.
“Yes, sir. I did, sir,” Dad says cheerfully, then turns to me. “And would the product of that knock-up please get Daddy a Jack Daniel’s?”
“Um…yes,” I say, then turn to Bill. “Bill, my father’s a member of the Century City Country Club. They have a fantastic golf course. I understand you’re an avid golfer.”
“Indeed,” Bill says, his face lighting up over the prospect of discussing something other than money. “What’s your handicap?”
“Nine,” Dad says. “But that’s because I don’t play as regularly as I used to.”
“And God knows she could have done better than some two-bit costumer, and I told her so at the time…,” Grandpa says loudly to Dad.
“A double,” Dad says to me, then starts pushing me toward the bar.
“He’s gay, you know,” Grandpa mock confides to Bill. “All them men costumers are.”
Dad turns to me. “You know what? Tell them to fill a highball, and not to waste any room in the glass with ice,” he says, giving me a shove toward the bar so hard, I nearly trip on my way there.
I walk up to the bar, where Jenn is arguing with her sons. “I want a Roy Rogers,” Alex demands.
“Me too,” Sean concurs.
“That’s what the bartender just gave you,” Jenn says, sighing out a deep breath of irritation.
“No, he gave me a Shirley Temple,” Alex insists, putting his glass up for her to inspect.
“A Roy Rogers is a Shirley Temple,” Jenn rebuts, making it clear he’s working her last nerve.
“No, it isn’t,” Alex continues to insist.
“Okay, fine. You tell me—what’s the difference?” Jenn asks.
Alex rolls his eyes. “A Shirley Temple has a cherry in it. A Roy Rogers has a lime in it. Like Daddy has in his drink.”
“No, it…” Jenn begins, then stops herself. She pulls the cherry out of Alex’s glass, pops it in her mouth, then looks at her son Sean. “Do you need a lime, too?”
A Total Waste of Makeup Page 28
