The Awful Truth

Los Angeles, California

Billy and I have been married for quite awhile now, and while we all like to think and project that our marriages are consistently blissful, it is honest to admit that while time together can present moments of bliss, there are also moments of blah, and worse. That's life, and that's not a bad thing, unless you came to the party expecting a total fun blow-out every moment that you spend there. Marriage is not that party. In fact, marriage isn't really like a party at all. It's more like a doctor's appointment: interminable waiting in the presence of company; trading of information, both intimate and otherwise; occasional discomfort; the odd shot-in-the-arm; shared goals; reassurance; feeling that you are an integral part of the team; occasional elation at how well you are doing; dodging traffic coming and going. Also, it will cost you, but you can get a tax break.

My parents never, ever fought. I'm not kidding. There was virtually no conflict displayed, and, unfortunately, no conflict resolution was modeled. I had a lot of conflict in early relationships with my boyfriends in high school and college, and I had no idea how to handle that. As a teenager, I also had conflict with my parents and my sibs. The way it played out in our home was that everyone went to their own quarters, slammed their own doors, and basically disappeared until they had dealt with it on their own, in their own way. Then, they returned to shared areas of our home and pretended like nothing had ever happened. Not healthy, I think, and weird.

During my teenaged years, I once got picked up for a curfew violation. Well, to be honest, it was worse than that. My girlfriend, Nina, and I were with our boyfriends; actually on the back of our boyfriends' motorcycles (in my case, a Honda 160 -- we're not talking Hell's Angels here), and they had gone into a local liquor store known for selling beer to teenagers. We were buying beer for an outdoor gathering at an area known as Plummer Hill. The rest of our friends were already there; waiting for us to show up with the brew. Unfortunately, there were undercover LAPD officers hanging around the parking lot of the liquor store, in place to bust the liquor store for selling to minors. They brought the four of us in to Foothill Division because it was after 10:00 pm, and that was a curfew violation. They told us they were going to call our parents, to come and pick us up. We gave them Nina's mother's number. Nina's mom was much cooler than my parents. We could drink beer at her house, so we didn't think it would be a big deal, and maybe, just maybe, her mom wouldn't tell my parents. Unfortunately, Nina's mother was not at home, so the police asked for my home number. A short time later, I saw my dad walk into the police station. If I could see him, clearly he could see me. I was in a holding cell, and, I was barefooted. He looked at me and shook his head gravely. I was mortified.

Before leaving the division, the officers gave my father a lecture about letting me ride barefoot on the back of motorcycles (this being an era shortly before helmets were required). My dad told the officer that I was forbidden to ride motorcycles at any time. Clearly, the officer understood that: A) my father was unable to exercise control of his errant teenaged daughter: B) I was hopping on the back of motorcycles a mere block away from my home; C) things were about to change D) all of the above.

My mom was in the passenger seat of her car when Nina and I climbed into the back of the Audi. Nina immediately began to apologize, calling my parents with their title of Mr. and Mrs. She was good. My mom stared straight ahead, neither acknowledging Nina, nor her very own barefooted, juvenile delinquent daughter sitting in the backseat making the OMG big eyes at Nina.

The next day my family embarked on one of its bizillion Sunday drives, on this day down to Laguna Beach. We had dinner in Corona del Mar. The entire day, from the the car to the dinner table at The Five Crowns and back home, I was invisible to my mother. She talked to my dad; she talked to my sister. But I simply wasn't there. I doubt the Amish do shunning this expertly. When we got home, I escaped into my room, quietly closing the door behind me.

Shortly after, my dad knocked on my door and I opened it for him. He came into my room, sat on my bed with me, and asked me what had happened the previous night. I told him what all four of us were telling our parents: that we weren't going to drink the beer, but had volunteered to pick it up for the other people at the party who, sadly, were drinkers. My dad listened to this, then pregnant-paused for a moment before he spoke. I think that next time you should let those people get their own beer. We both knew that he hadn't bought my story. Ok, I said. And, I don't want to find out again that you've been riding on a motorcycle. Mark has a car. If he wants to take you out, he needs to use it. I nodded. My dad continued, Your mom is upset, but don't take that too hard. I nodded again, feeling tears well up in my eyes. I was such a bad kid, I thought. My dad looked uncomfortable as he stood up. Ok, he said, in closing. Then he left my room.

I knew that my mom would not have wanted my dad to speak to me. He was supposed to back her up, and shunning was the order of the day(s). It felt strange to me that he had spoken to me, regardless of my mom, but I came to believe that he had taken pity on me. It was scary to be placed in a cell. I really wasn't a bad kid. I was just a teenager, trying to work it all out. And it was unbearable to be treated so coldly by my mother. I think my dad got it, and felt some empathy for me. Finally, a few days or so later, my mom started speaking to me again. She told me that she had never been so embarrassed in her life, as when they got a call from the LAPD and went to pick me up at the police station. But she didn't have to say that. I knew that she hadn't experienced many bad times in her life, and that most of them, including my birth situated at the top of the short list, had been generated by bad-kid me.

That talk with my dad was my one home experience of conflict resolution. By the time I was in college, with a longterm boyfriend, I was trying to work things out for myself. Every single fight we had was a break-up. I just couldn't see any other way. And then I met Billy. We didn't have any conflict during our first six months as a couple. Then, about six weeks after we became engaged, we had a big fight, and that started a year or so of trying to map out a way to have conflict but not come apart. We were married during that time; bought a house together the following year; a business together five years later. There were a lot of things to work out during that time, and we did it without a map and without help. We found our way.

Billy tells this story about our marriage (which isn't original, but neither of us can remember the origin of it), which I'll paraphrase: When we got married, we decided that Billy would make all of the big decisions; I would make all of the small ones. And it's worked quite well, although he's still waiting for a big decision to come along. Well, you figure things out so that they will work, and most of the time they do.

The Awful Truth is a classic comedy film about a couple who can't work out what appears to be an indiscretion on the part of the wife (there are indiscretions on the part of the husband, but they seem to have stipulated a mutual blind eye to this, which I don't get at all, but it's an old film with old mores; pre-women's lib, and whathaveyou). The couple, played by Cary Grant and Irene Dunne, decide to split over this indiscretion, and each goes on to a relationship with someone else. Then they spend the length of the movie trying to break up the other's new relationship. It's a favorite of mine. Not because it is about marriage, but because it's Cary Grant and Irene Dunn, and the writing is stellar.

But I also think of my own awful truth about marriage. When I was young, I believed that people were either happy in marriage (my parents and many of my friends' parents) or they divorced. It never, ever occurred to me, until I was an adult and saw siblings and peers married around me, that some people, for a variety of reasons, stay in marriages even when they are miserable. Who knew? It is just one of those facts of life that can escape you until adulthood.

I rather fuzzily remember an interview which I believe was with Tom Selleck, and I think that it was on Charlie Rose, but don't hold me to either of those facts. What I remember is this: Selleck had gotten into a flack with Rosie O'Donnell about some of his right-wing views. It may have had to do with gun control, but I really don't remember and am too lazy to do the research here (if any of you know, please feel free to enlighten us all via a comment). The interviewer (Charlie?) was asking him about his views/stand on various current issues; one of these was if he was supportive of gay marriage. Sure, he said (and I am paraphrasing). Why shouldn't they be as miserable as the rest of us? 

Marriage can be tough. The good thing about it is that someone is always there, willing to offer advice/counsel, willing to give their opinion, willing to share the same space with you. The bad thing about it is that someone is always there, willing to offer advice/counsel, willing to give their opinion . . . oh, I think we all get the point here. It's about balance. It's about having each other's back. It's about empathy, even when you have to scrounge for that last scintilla of empathy within you. But it's also about company, laughter, a shared appreciation of whatever (in our case: food; books; dogs; Carmel; friends -- not small things). And, last but not least, support. We are there for each other, even when we don't quite agree about the other's approach to the problem. I guess all of these things are the opposite of the awful truth. Or maybe they are, in fact, the awful truth. Not so bad after all. I think I can live with that. Billy says he can too. Thank you for reading my blog.

The George Clooney Effect

Los Angeles, California

It's time for a recipe, so I thought I would mix you up one of Billy's martinis. My girlfriends say that Billy makes the best martinis, and here is his specialty.

Vodka Martini

2 ounces        Ketel One vodka
a dribble of  Cinzano dry vermouth
1                       jalapeno-stuffed green olive

Place vermouth in a small martini glass and swirl around. Pour out (or, as my dad did, drink) any excess. Place a handful of ice cubes and vodka in a small shaker. Wrap shaker with towel and shake about fifteen to twenty times. Set aside. Place olive in glass (I like to use a decorative pick stuck through the olive, especially since I've bagged these from hotels, restaurants and resorts around the world) but Billy considers this 'clutter'). Give the shaker about ten more shakes, then immediately pour over the olive. Makes one martini -- of the size that martinis are supposed to be, unlike the current supersized ones!

Note: I drink martinis with a twist of lemon. Billy uses a lemon zest "stripper" to remove about a two-inch strip of lemon zest. He runs it around the rim of the glass, then carefully ties in in a knot. Into the glass it goes in place of the olive. I prefer a martini with a twist, though sometimes I steal the olive out of his drink, just out of spite. He doesn't seem to mind.

Having just seen a movie with a lot of cocktails in it (though mostly whiskey in a crystal glass which can be fine on cold, rainy, or bluesy days), I thought I would provide the above recipe. I went with Lydia to see The King's Speech last Friday, even though I had already seen it. It was a cold (for Los Angeles) rainy day, and seemed the perfect time to be indoors at the movies (other appropriate times are when the temps soar over 100, but that's months and months away). Lydia doesn't see a lot of movies out at the theaters. She's a busy chica and her work entails a long commute. So time is of her essence, and these days with ads, interminable trailers, and the length of movies, going to see a film can tie up an entire afternoon or evening. Time that she doesn't always have to spare, or that she'd rather spend SHOPPING. But I knew I could get her out to see this because of one of the film's elements. And that element is Colin Firth.

Lyd and I have been friends for a long time, but only recently did we discover that we shared this Bridgette Jonesesque Colin Firth thing. Mine started back in 1987 after seeing him in a PBS series on Masterpiece Theatre which was, I believe, entitled Lost Empires. He was young (as was I, come to think of it). Lydia discovered him after seeing him in A&E's Pride and Prejudice. Think of that series as his version of Last of the Mohicans which put Daniel Day-Lewis on the map for a lot of American women. But I don't want to write too much about that because Daniel Day-Lewis could be a whole 'nother post or two or three.

So, back to Colin Firth. After seeing him in Los Empires back in the late '80s, I searched the video store in hope of finding him in movies. A couple of "country" movies came up, and I eagerly rented them. One was Another Country which also had a young Rupert Everett in it. The other was A Month in the Country, which, as I recall without checking here, also starred Kenneth Branagh. Billy called this our Colin Firth Film Festival. In truth, this became a contentious point in time which came to a head, if memory serves, after we rented A Handful of Dust (which Colin Firth was not in). After viewing that film, Billy put down a moritorium on Brit films. He was running a pint or so low on chase scenes, and had pretty much had it with World War I told from the British point of view. Luckily I had gotten a good fix of Firth movies before that point.

So where does George Clooney come in to all of this? Well, here's the thing. I really get the Colin Firth thing. I get the Daniel Day-Lewis thing.  Both of those in a BMW (big major way), in fact. But I must make a confession: I never really got the George Clooney thing. That is, until I experienced him in a movie where I really, really liked him. And that movie was, The Fantastic Mr. Fox. Now, if you're familiar with this movie at all, you know that he's not visually in it. It's animated. And if you saw the film, you know how good it was, and how good he was voicing the main character. And maybe that's where he got me. The voice. Like Colin Firth, for me, it's the voice. Cary Grant? Voice.

OK, now I've done it. I've simply got to digress and, at least briefly, write about Cary Grant. For a long time I have believed that Cary Grant movies are the best antidepressant on the market (with no harmful side-effects, plus affordable!). I don't love them all. Some are decidedly better than others. And I own most of those better ones. I started collecting them some time back and have a pretty good DVD library of them. Don't know why this is, but they always work for me. Bad mood? The blues? Mean reds (which is worse than the blues, as Holly Golightly pointed out)? Try Cary Grant movies -- especially my favorite, The Awful Truth. It will do much to uplift and pull you right out of it. You must trust me about this.

Perhaps some day, I'll collect George Clooney films to yankify this thing that I have with British actors. Don't know why I have that, but I am reminded that my late father, who was a first generation American raised by an English father (and in a very English way, it appeared) once dissed my affection for Greta Garbo films.

"Don't you like Greta Garbo, Dad?" I asked.

He shook his head. "She was a cold fish," he stated.

Cold fish, I thought? This from a conservative and proper father who was strict about manners, never cursed (wouldn't even let me use the word bitchen in our home), nor told an off-color joke. Had that thing which Freud called sex raised it's ubiquitous head in this conversation?

"Well, then, what actresses did you like better?" I questioned. I figured I'd cut straight to the chase. However, even with the cold fish comment, I expected him to come up with Greer Garson.

"Sophia Loren," he said, in a shot. No thinking about it. It was Sophia all the way.

I would love to say that this conversation finished on a witty note, but it was difficult for me to respond with my mouth hanging open. Dad?!?

Well, he had good taste and to prove it, next time you're feeling blue, try Houseboat. A lot of bang for your buck, as you get Sophia AND Cary. Antipasto and antidepressants, so to speak. And while you're Netflixing, do order The Fantastic Mr. Fox. If you're not getting the George Clooney effect yet, this may do it for you. If not, I hope, like Lydia and me, that you have Colin Firth to fall back on. Thanks for reading my blog, and le sigh . . .