Weekend O' Woes Part II

I arrive in Los Angeles feeling like a clubbed baby seal (and probably resembling one, too). Ian picks me up in his rental car and we depart for Ernest and Lisa's apartment (she moved in with him a few months back). We drive for about two minutes and Ian pulls into this apartment complex, so I'm like, "where are we going"? It turns out the live about 300 yards off the end of one of the runways at LAX. No joke, planes fly by about every three minutes and you can't hear anything.

Ian says Ernest is working out so it's just Lisa at the apt. Now, I don't know about you folks but when I travel and end up at family's house, I expect an offer of food and drinks, an offer for comfort and succor (bed, shower, etc.), and inquiries about my travel, health, and general introductory chit-chat. This woman regards me with polite disinterest, taking in my grey sweatpants, flip-flops and Simpson's t-shirt that has Ralphie picking his nose saying "I'm Special" and starts parading me around the apartment, showing off what I gather she thinks are impressive or interesting features. The tour includes a catalog of dresses she is considering for her bridesmaids, a $150 vase full of extravant flowers they bought as a gift for the people who are throwing the party for them, all the presents that have arrived already for the party, etc.

She also mentions her sister and mother and coming (which is why Ian and I have to get a hotel room for Sat. p.m.) and defensively tells me her mother is white (I didn't ask) and that she was raised here so she wasn't really Mexican (I really didn't ask, I swear). I was sort of dumbfounded but she kept talking about the party so I bring up the fact that we never received an invitation in the mail, and she says, "that was Ernest's job--I gave him the invitations for his family and friends so if you didn't get one, take it up with him." Luckily, Ian got the scoop before we packed that everyone at the party was supposed to wear RED (I had to borrow a cocktail dress from my roomate) so we weren't completely out of place. Anyway, about this time I'm starting to have strangulation fantasies but Ernest comes home from kickboxing (gay) and hops in the shower. He reappears in khakhis and a button-down shirt with deck shoes, while Lisa, who was wearing a simple sundress when I arrived, throws on a blazer and kitten heels. Ian, in his grubby yard work jeans and t-shirt, looks at me, in my no-sleep-for-three-days, no-shower, jet-lagged glory in dismay as they insist we leave without changing or showering because 'we don't have time.'

We all hop into Ian's rental car, unfortunately, because we have very different agendas:
Ian & Elizabeth:
Eat something other than peanuts
book a hotel before noon to get the best rates by going to the library to use the internet
EBeth check into hotel, shower and change
while Ian goes to business meeting with L.A. client
have ensuing fun with Ernest and Lisa

Ernest & Lisa:
go have bagel breakfast at chi-chi place
go get Ernest's motorcycle out of its rented garage
Ernest & Ian drive motorcycle to Ian's business meeting
while Lisa and EBeth take Ian's rental car and go to nail salon
Go to Ritz-Carlton hotel where they are members of the health club/spa and visit the pool

As we begin discussing our various thoughts on the days plans, it becomes clear that they do not mesh. For one thing, we have at this point purchased two plane tickets and paid almost a whole extra ticket price to switch one, plus the car rental and the impending hotel fee. I cannot just go have my nails done on L.A. prices, not to mention the fact I don't want to be alone with the crazy girl all day long. Secondly, neither Ian nor myself brought bathing suits, which isn't a big deal for him because he can borrow from Ernest, but for me, a size 12, long-torso 34 DD who takes two to three weeks to find a decent suit, it is an issue. In addition, the rental car cannot be driven by anyone but Ian and he takes that kind of stuff SERIOUSLY. Finally, Ian's meeting is at 11 and it is now after 10. We do not have time to book a hotel, check into a hotel, get breakfast, etc.

We all end up in a big bitch fest in the car and Ernest and Lisa lapse into this therapy-speak, this kind of new-agey moonshine crystal bullshit nonsense, accusing Ian of "being agro" and "presenting negativity." I finally be the bossy Lucy I am at heart and stage-direct everyone. We book the hotel at the library and drop Ernest off at his motorcycle, then drop Lisa back off at her apartment to get her car, while I call to move back Ian's meeting. Then, Ian drops me off at the Hilton with a kiss and a directive to order room service and an in-room massage if I want (God I love that man).

A fruit breakfast, nap, light workout and shower later, Ian comes back and we try to figure out the rest of the day. Ernest and Lisa are adamant about the pool thing so we head to the mall and hit three department stores looking for bathing suits. Bear in mind this is the end of the season and nothing is left. Literally. Suitless and irritated (nothing is more humiliating for a chubby woman than bathing suit shopping) I insist we just go to the pool already. We meet up with Ernest and Lisa and despite my urgent and repeated requests to just go, they insist on taking me to a sporting goods store that only has size zero teeny bikinis and speedos with no built-in bras. In the store, I have my first Lisa-related meltdown when she informs me that her therapist says everyone's body is different and that I should really just accept that like she has. After she recommends counseling, I storm out angry and in tears. Everything is framed in terms of why she's perfect and what's wrong with you that you need to fix. She's superior, stuck-up, hung-up on appearances and completely manipulative and controlling--she's not happy unless she is getting her way 100%.

We go to the pool and I sit by the jacuzzi chatting on the phone with west coast friends (Hi, Amalia, it's me! I'm only 700 miles from Seattle right now! Hey, Molly, I'm 2 hours from you in Old Pasadena!) Lisa makes out in her thong bikini (yes, that's right, the classy lady wore her thong to the Ritz) in the jacuzzi with Ernest and then he and Ian head to the men's room sauna for "boy time" leaving me at the poolside bar with Lisa. The entire conversation she didn't ask me one single question about me or my life, or Ian and my wedding. She went into excruciatingly personal detail about her relationship with Ernest, Ernest's shortcomings and "issues" that he is working on with in therapy, her theories on Ian and Ernest's relationship with their father, her problems with her family, blah blah blah. Every other sentence is about money or a material item.

Two gems of information I did glean from this excruciating torture known as a "conversation" were that Lisa does not have her college degree. Now, I'm not a snob but this is a woman who introduces herself as a "therapist" for kids with special needs. My Dad happens to have his Doctorate from the University of Kansas in Special Education so I thought it would be something we could relate on. . .I happened to be a counselor at a camp for children for autism one summer, and I also nannied for a family in Wellesley with three children, one of whom had autism. Well, the more I inquired the more it became clear that she has no special training, degree or certification let alone even an associate's degree and I think that's kind of rich for someone who presents themselves as a professional, and I really find it kind of insulting to people like my Dad. I mean, she is a paid nanny or "mother's helper" for families who have kids with autism, and my Dad did a thesis, has performed research, published articles in professional journals and been cited by many authors, and practiced professionally for over 30 years. She is not a bleeping therapist, ok?

Anyway, three glasses of Chardonnay later, the boys reappear (praise Zeuss!) and we prepare to leave. Ernest asks to see my ring (Lisa hadn't) and I show him. She then announces that her ring, in her words "wasn't exactly what she was expecting." Um, hello, your fiance's standing right there, bitch, maybe you want to be a little more polite. EVEN, and I mean even if you weren't exactly 100% happy with your ring, wouldn't you still be a little embarrassed to bring that up in front of him in front of other people? Even if she doesn't like the ring, doesn't she understand that the beautiful diamonds in her ring were from Ernest's beloved Grandma? Ernest, clearly embarrassed, shuffled his feet and tried to joke by saying she wanted a "knuckle buster." Drunk at this point, I say loudly: "If she just cares about a big rock, you should have gotten her a huge cubic zirconia online and she could tell all her friends it was real and they'd never know the difference!" Ernest says, "but cubic zirconias don't have the same power and cosmic energy as the diamonds do."

Uh, buddy, I know we're in la-la land, but give me freakin' break. Of all the specious arguments to buy a diamond (they're rare--false because the diamond co.s carefully hoard and control suppply, or that they're very hard and durable which is true, or that it's tradition, which is only true since the 1920's) this is the worst I've ever heard. Like the cosmic energy of the diamonds is going to keep their marriage going more than three years. Please. I start to say something about the cosmic bad energy of diamonds strip-mined from the earth using billions of gallons of potable drinking water, eroding good farmland in Africa, the negative energy of diamonds that were used as blood money in Sierra Leone. Around this time Ian picks up the tab and ushers me out of there to get ready for the party.

Oh, the party. Just when I thought things couldn't actually get LESS fun. . .