A Total Waste of Makeup (36 page)

“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?”

“Yes,” Sean says with such intensity I’m sure he’ll one day play Hamlet on Broadway.

Jenn takes the cherry out of his glass, eats it, then grabs two slices of lime from a plastic container on the bar, and throws them into Alex’s glass. “Here’s two. Knock yourself out.” She grabs two more and throws them into Sean’s glass.

“Now, can you bring Daddy his drink?” Jenn asks, handing Alex a vodka tonic.

“Yes.”

“Thank you. Oh.” Jenn leans down to be at eye level with them. “And what’s the special rule for tonight and tomorrow?”

“We don’t talk about Grandpa’s or Great Aunt Jacquie’s funny cigarettes in front of the new family,” the boys say in unison.

“And if the new family brings them up, what do we say?” Jenn asks in a soft motherly voice.

“They both have cancer. It’s very sad,” the boys say, again in unison, not a trace of sadness in their voices.

“Good boys,” Jenn says proudly, and gives them both a hug. “Now, go find your father.”

The two run off. “I’m afraid to even ask,” I say to her, then turn to the bartender. “Quadruple Jack Daniel’s, please. No rocks.”

“Just a preliminary precaution. Earlier tonight, my father asked Andy’s soon-to-be mother-in-law if she knew what it was like to be high on cocaine,” Jenn says as the bartender hands her a club soda.

“Oh, shit,” I say, grimacing.

“Wait, it gets better. So she looks confused, and I quickly say to him, ‘No, she doesn’t, and neither do you.’ To which my father then looks confused, so before he could talk again I stuck a cigar in his mouth and told him to go smoke outside, and that I heard a rumor there were Cubans floating about.”

“Fast thinking,” I say, impressed.

“Yeah,” Jenn said, sighing. “Unfortunately, then Dad said, ‘I thought tonight’s herb was from Maui—not Cuba,’ and I had to push him outside, then explain to Joan that mother had recently bought some Hawaiian sage and rosemary from Penzees, and that’s what Dad meant by ‘herb.’”

“Do they even grow sage and rosemary—” I start to ask.

“I have no idea,” Jenn says, sipping her soda.

I sigh. “Well, I don’t think that’s as bad as Grandma telling Joan they shouldn’t have picked this place, where the shrimp is twenty-two ninety-five a plate, because if they had held the rehearsal dinner at a Sizzler we could have had all-you-can-eat shrimp for twelve ninety-five, with bread included.”

“And why your industry applauds child molesters!” Grandpa booms in his loud Midwestern voice to Dad. Jenn and I both slowly turn our heads around. “I mean, how you can show your face in public!”

The bartender puts the glass of Jack down. Andy walks up to us, takes Dad’s drink, and downs it in one gulp. I put my hand out to the bartender. “You know what? Just give me the bottle.”

He does. I refill Dad’s glass with the bottle of Jack, gently take Mawv’s hand, and lead her toward them.

“Dad needs help,” I tell her. “And Grandma and Grandpa are embarrassing Andy in front of her future in-laws.”

“I’ll take no prisoners,” Mawv tells me.

We get back to Bill, Joan, Dad, and Grandpa. A group has now formed around them that includes my mother. Mom begins, “Dad, this is not an appropriate time—”

“The hell it isn’t!” Grandpa says, then points his finger at my Dad’s chest. “You know, if you were giving my little girl enough sex in the first place, she wouldn’t be dating that child.”

Hunter’s parents gasp. Mom shakes her head. “Chris is twenty-nine, Dad.”

“And how old’s Andy?” he asks accusingly.

Mom looks at her shoes sheepishly. “Twenty-nine.”

“Which is the same age as one of your children,” Grandpa says to her.

I bring Mawv over to the group. She doesn’t lose a moment. “Rose, we just saw Charles Nelson Reilly coming out of the men’s room.”

“Charles Nelson…Father, get your camera.” And the two of them scramble off.

The rest of the rehearsal dinner bordered on depressing—for me, anyway.

After all of the romantic toasts to the soon-to-be newlyweds, and all of the toasts about how love makes you whole, and about how you only get one true love in life, and about how it’s God’s plan that we each go through eternity with our one soul mate (that would be Grandma’s toast), I go home to an empty house.

First, I walk up to my bedroom and check the answering machine. Two messages! Yay! The first message is from Drew, telling me that he’d see me tomorrow, and was looking forward to the wedding. The next message was from Andy to commiserate over how nuts our family is.

No message from Jordan. Not that I care.

Much.