Misery Loves Cabernet (37 page)

Andy’s chin juts out. “What are you talking—”

I lean into her and whisper, “Don’t ask. I’ll explain later.”

“They also don’t know Chris and I split up,” Mom continues.

“Do we know Chris and you split up?” I ask.

“Well, you do now. It happened two weeks ago, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“He found out you were still sleeping with Dad, didn’t he?” Jamie surmises.

“No,” Mom says nonchalantly. “I found out he was sleeping with our dog walker.”

Andy looks thoroughly confused. “Dad, when did you start sleeping with Mom?”

“When we had that one-night stand back in the late seventies,” Dad answers.

“Why did Chris need a dog walker?” I ask Mom. “He doesn’t own a dog.”

“Yes, but he used to,” Mom explains. “And when the dog died, he couldn’t bear to fire the dog walker. So, they would go on walks together instead.”

“No,” Andy clarifies to Dad, “I mean when did you and Mom start sleeping together again, post divorce?”

“You mean post our divorce, or post my divorce with my second wife?” Dad asks her.

“I never trusted Chad,” Mom says.

“Who?” Jamie asks.

“Chris’s dog walker,” Mom answers.

“Let’s go with your second divorce,” Andy says.

“Um . . . your wedding, I guess. Your mother needed my sperm,” Dad explains.

Andy looks at Mom in disgust. “This isn’t like the lamb placenta moisturizer you tried to make at home last year, is it?”

“Oh, it’s so much worse than that,” Jamie tells her.

And from behind us we hear my grandmother’s irritated voice. “Well, we’re finally here.”

All five of us turn to see my grandmother Rose, wearing a light blue sweatshirt with a picture of a turkey wrapped in an American flag, light blue polyester knit pants, and a look of scorn.

Never wear polyester.

My mother is as confused as the rest of us as to how Grandma snuck right past us. “Mom, where did you come from?”

“We decided to take the Winnebago, so we could see Vegas on the way home. Your father’s parked at the meters.”

Use public transportation, and carpool whenever you can.

And so the eight of us proceeded to drive to my mother’s house in a typical Los Angeles caravan of four cars and one thirty-foot-long Winnebago. (Okay, I’ll admit that part isn’t typical.)

When we get to my mother’s home, Grandpa parks his Winnebago in front, and the rest of us find spaces in the garage, driveway, and street.

I get out of my car, and walk up to my mother, staring at the back bumper of Grandma and Grandpa’s RV. Mom glares at the bumper sticker of a red, white, and blue ribbon with the words
FREEDOM ISN’T FREE.

Don’t put a bumper sticker on your car. You will never change anyone’s political or cultural opinions based on what your fender is telling them.

“I thought you weren’t going to put bumper stickers on the new ’Bago,” Mom says to Grandma as she walks out to meet us.

“I only used that to cover up the sticker your Mawv put on the car!” Grandma screeches.

I turn to Grandma. “What did she—”

Grandma glares at me. “ ‘My letter got published in
Penthouse
. Ask me how.’ Where is she, anyway?”

“Drew took her parachute-jumping in the desert,” I tell Grandma. Off her horrified look, I add, “Only he’s going to jump. She’s just going along to keep him company so I can be with you.”

Mom leans into me. “Lost the coin toss, huh?”

“Best two out of three,” I confirm.

Dad walks into the Winnebago, and emerges carrying Grandma’s luggage. Grandpa pops his head out the door. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks my dad.

“Basking in the glow of your unconditional family love,” Dad retorts as he begins lugging the bags toward my mother’s house.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just bringing the bags inside,” Dad answers.

“Oh, you don’t have to bring the bags inside,” Grandma says. “We’re staying in the Winnebago.”

Dad turns around to return the bags.

Mom looks mortified. “You’re going to sleep on my street?”

“Don’t use that tone of voice with me, young lady,” Grandma warns. “Now, everyone inside the Winnebago. I’ve made a tuna casserole and a big macaroni salad for lunch.”

“But Mom, I’ve made a lovely lobster salad for our lunch.”

“So you can freeze yours,” Grandma says, disappearing into the motor home.

Mom turns to me as Andy and Jamie get out of their cars to join us. “You kids are so lucky you don’t have parents who embarrass you.”

Jamie puts his hand over Andy’s mouth just as she opens it to respond.

We all follow Grandma into the Winnebago, fill up blue plastic plates with tuna casserole and macaroni salad, grab canned sodas from the refrigerator, and take seats where we can find them.

Before our first family meal of the week can officially begin, Grandma hands each of us two stapled sheets of paper. I look down at the top sheet to read:

Thanksgiving List

1. Abortion
   
2. Any politician with the last name Clinton or Bush
   
3. Gay Rights
   
4. L.L. Bean
   
5. Paris, France
   
6. Any war—from Gulf to Vietnam
   
7. Paul Lynde, the center square from the
   Hollywood Squares
   
8. Cats
   

I blink several times. Hm. As Grandma hands us each a ballpoint pen, I turn to see my mother scrutinize the list, then take her pen and add a word to the bottom of page two.

“You’re going to have to add ‘Catherine,’ ” Mom says.

Grandma mutters, “Right,” and pulls out her own pen to write down “Catherine” in blue ink.

Grandpa lights up a Camel, then leans over to look at Grandma’s paper. “Who’s Catherine again?”

“Ed’s mistress,” Grandma says.

“She’s not his mistress!” Mom yells, frantically waving away Grandpa’s secondhand smoke as she explains, “She’s his—”

“Didn’t you just say she’s on the list?” Dad asks as he reads his copy.

“Hold it,” Andy asks. “What is this list?”

Grandma turns to her, “This year, in order to promote family harmony, we have come up with a list of topics that no one is to discuss over Thanksgiving week, and then throughout the Christmas season.”

Mom smiles. “All of the topics on this list are subjects that have brought acrimony to past family get-togethers. We figure we’ll head that off at the pass with this list.”

I continue perusing the list:

  9. The expansion of the strike zone

10. Global warming

11. Tattoos

12. Gerbils

13. Dr. Phil

“What strike zone are we talking about?” I ask, confused. “From which country?”

“I specifically said we were not to argue about the strike zone at all this year,” Grandpa admonishes firmly. “Let’s not limit it to the expansion.”

“Don’t even get him started about the Cardinals last season . . . ,” Grandma mutters.

“They were robbed,” Grandpa’s voice booms.

“Grandpa, do you really want to compare the Cardinals to the Angels this past year?” Jamie asks innocently.

“Listen, young man, you are not too big that I can’t still put you over my knee.”

“Better put Cardinals on the list . . . ,” Mom says.

And we all write Cardinals at the bottom of the second page.

I flip back to page one of the list:

14. Priests, Pedophiles, and Popes

“Isn’t number fourteen three things?” I ask.

“All the same scandal,” Mom reasons.

“How did you decide on what’s on the list?” Jamie asks. “Because I’d like to put down why I’m not married yet.”

“Why? Are you one of the gays?” Grandma asks him.

“No, he’s a slut, Mother,” Mom counters matter-of-factly. She turns to Jamie. “Although apparently there was a young lady he was so enamored with that he planned to miss Thanksgiving with us just to meet her parents. I was so excited for this new addition to the family that I insisted we have a brunch together before they left for Aspen.”

“Unfortunately, we broke up,” Jamie admits, mentally kicking himself for getting caught in his lie.

Mom can’t help but give him a self-satisfied smile before saying, “Anyway, darling, the list started as any topic that has caused a brawl, temper tantrum, or crying at the Thanksgiving table in the past thirty years.”

“Or, grabbing car keys, leaving the table, and slamming out the door,” Grandpa reminds Mom.

“Right. That too.” Mom agrees.

“Actually, the year that white-trash in-law of yours with the missing front teeth did that was pretty funny,” Dad says.

“Are you kidding?!” Grandma gasps. “That Thanksgiving was our family’s personal low.”

“I got to go with Ed on that one,” Grandpa says. “Anything that gets someone who lives in a trailer out of my house is a good thing.”

Mom looks around. “Dad, aren’t you staying in a trailer?”

“It’s a recreational vehicle, not a trailer,” Grandpa admonishes Mom. “If you had stayed in St. Louis instead of moving to this den of sin, you’d know that.”

“If I had stayed in St. Louis, I’d have killed myself.”

15. Leviticus 18:22, 19:1-35

Okay, this argument I remember. My great-aunt Doris told my uncle Colin, who is gay, that he is going to hell. And to read Leviticus 18:22. Then she quoted the phrase: “You shall not lie with a male as with a female: it is an abomination.” Colin assured her that he had never lied with a female, so this was really beside the point. An argument ensued, which led my Jesuit-educated uncle to quote Leviticus 19 in its entirety, thus damning her to hell for wearing a cotton/poly blend sweatshirt adorned with a faux jewel turkey.

“If you’re not taking out all of Leviticus,” Dad asks, “can I damn everyone to hell with the quote about touching unclean pigskin again this year?”

“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.

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?”