Tip It! (16 page)

One thing we would always joke about was how useless I felt watching his workmates’ wives help their husbands with all the fixing-up jobs. They seemed to know all about it, too! One couple was Polish, and another was German. And here I was, the Irish girl who—at the most—could be a gofer if he needed a certain tool or brush or a pail of water. But my abilities stopped at housework.

One day I said to Johnny, “Gee, John, you know who you should’ve married? A good strong German or Polish girl. They’d be working with you on those tiles, putting them down. They’d take on half the work! This Irish girl here is only handing you stuff.”

That was always good for a laugh between us.

“She’d have the walls painted by the time you got home from work!” I’d say.

“I’d get a really hearty meal, too,” he’d add. “Sausages and roasts and stews.”

“A good cook
and
someone who knows how to make dormers!”

Then we’d take it even further, really exaggerate.

“Here I am,” I’d say, “wanting you to stop and take a break, have a cup of tea and a piece of cake with me. She’d want to work straight through. Eight hours. Maybe a lunch break. But that’s it.”

It would end with a silly plea on my part. “If anything happens to me, John, don’t make the same mistake twice and marry an Irish girl. Find yourself a nice strong German or Polish girl. You’ll be a lot healthier!”

People want to know what the secret to our marriage was, why it lasted so long. I don’t know if I have an answer outside of the fact that neither one of us liked to fight. We’d rather laugh and talk pleasantly. We also balanced each other really well. Where I would worry, Johnny would be calm. That’s not to say we didn’t have disagreements. But we knew how to talk about them. And laugh about them. There’s nothing greater in a relationship than being able to laugh about yourself.

I think what we had was a way to see past a disagreement. When we first moved to the suburb of Forest Park, we bought a house that—you guessed it—needed work. One day I decided to buy some new drapes, and Johnny offered to paint the dining room while I was gone. We’d already mixed the paint to get the color we wanted. I thought it was great that he was going to jump right into this big project.

Outside the Polo Lounge. Don’t we look young, healthy, and rich?

I don’t remember how long I was gone, but when I got back, he had a whole wall painted. “How do you like it, Mag?” he said excitedly.

Now, those of you who’ve done a paint job know that paint can be funny. You mix and mix, you get it to the color you want, but when you actually put it on the wall, it might not look like what you wanted. The light might hit it a certain way, whatever. Well, right then and there, I was looking at a wall color I didn’t like.

“Aw, John, that’s not what I wanted at all!” I said.

“But that’s the color you—”

“I know, I know,” I said. “But it should be more blue-ish. It’s too gray!”

Then I said the words no husband ever really wants to hear. “John, do you think you could paint it over again?”

I expected him to come back with, “No, I’ll paint the other walls to make it contrasting. We’ll live with it.” Because, honestly, that’s what I would have said in that situation.

Instead, he gently replied, “Are you sure?”

I said, “Yeah, John, I really would love it to be that blue color.”

“Okay. I’ll do it again.”

Really, how could you not love a guy who’ll do that for you, and not complain? Of course, he did a great job, and it looked beautiful, and I couldn’t wait to point that out to everybody who saw it. He was so good to me our whole life. When we were much older, I brought up the wall to him and said, “John, why were you so good to me?”

He laughed at the memory of it, and then he said, “You know why I did that, Mag? Because whenever I would do anything, you would be so happy about it, you’d say ‘I love it!’ and then throw your arms around me and kiss me. I loved doing stuff for you, because I got that reaction.”

On top of Mount Spokane, and on top of the world.

That was the truth. I meant every kind word I ever said about Johnny. And I loved saying kind things about him. I don’t know what else to say, really. I always felt really lucky to have him. Because a lot of marriages aren’t happy. You see couples who love to fight, who love to fight in front of you, and I wonder, doesn’t that take something out of you? Don’t you tend to say things you regret? I loved Johnny too much, and I think he loved me too much, to do that. I don’t know if people go into a marriage thinking it’s going to be perfect, but what I always felt was, Johnny was perfect
for me
. And I hope I was perfect for him.

I’ve included in this book one of our favorite photos, from our wedding day. After the ceremony and our breakfast, Johnny had gotten a friend to loan him a car for the day, so we drove straight to Mount Spokane. It was a beautiful spring day in that part of the country—nicer weather than we were used to in Chicago—and we made our honeymoon out of taking in the view from the top.

I’m so glad we got a picture of that moment, holding hands, happy, ready to start our lives together. It’s a photo Johnny and I often took out and looked at, and whenever we did, I’d always say, “We were on top of the world that day, Johnny.”

He always replied, “Mag, we still are.”

RULE #1:
Never get in an automobile. This means trouble.

RULE #2:
Keep it under wraps. No need to dress provocatively and spoil the surprise. If it were up to me, young ladies would still be wearing high-collared blouses and buttoned shoes. And a bustle. A six-rib bustle, not one of those slutty three-rib kinds.

RULE #3:
Don’t overdo the makeup. We all know what boys want. No need to encourage them by appearing tarty.

RULE #4:
No rock and roll. Too suggestive. You know what’s nice to listen to on a date? Nat King Cole or that sweet Mel Tormé. At the most, Rosie Clooney.

RULE #5:
Do not have sex. You’re not married, for cryin’ out loud.

Attention anyone who is currently in AA, or any alcohol-related treatment program: Do not read this chapter. It will surely cause you to have what is called “a slip” in the Big Book of AA. You have never read a love letter to booze like this in your life. This is Maggie really letting loose. I’ve never had a drop of alcohol in my life, but by the end of this chapter, I wanted to drink something called a Tom Collins, and then I wanted to have sex with someone named Tom Collins. Now, if you are someone who is able to imbibe on a casual level, or feels like giving up on decades of sobriety right now, this is your chapter. You have to be carded to even read it. Bottoms up, kids!
]

Before I tipped it, readers, I sipped it.

I grew up at a time when cocktails and mixed drinks were the rage. That’s what my older sisters drank when they went out, or were staying in their own homes with company. (Never under my parents’ roof, because Dad didn’t keep liquor there and didn’t like women drinking, anyway.) These drinks my sisters liked had names like whiskey sour, Manhattan, Brandy Alexander, Old-Fashioned, Tom Collins, and, of course, the famous martini.

My sisters always looked so sophisticated with these drinks. Especially when they smoked, too. Boy, did I want to smoke. I thought it was the epitome of glamour and sophistication, and I loved imagining myself in a fancy restaurant holding a lit cigarette, like I was Myrna Loy or Claudette Colbert. But whenever I tried, I’d just hack and cough, so I said, “Forget it.” That kind of glamour wasn’t in the cards. (Dad hated women smoking, too. It was unladylike and meant you were “tough.”)

I didn’t have an urge to drink, though, even when I came of age. So when I started to date Johnny, and we’d go to taverns and hang out there for hours with friends while somebody played a piano and sang, I felt like I had to learn to drink to be sociable. I was tired of hearing, “You mean you’re not drinking?”

Johnny was a beer man, but I never had a taste for beer—although a cold one always looked like the right thing to drink on a hot summer day—so what I picked out for myself was a highball. But you’d hardly call it an alcoholic drink. I’d order a tall glass that had a teeny little shot of whiskey, and a whole lot of ginger ale and ice. I didn’t really like whiskey. By itself, it was dry and horrible and stuck in my throat. But I loved ginger ale. So I’d nurse my weak highball for four hours. One glass. Sip, sip, sip. The bartender always wondered how I even tasted anything. I know he meant the alcohol. But I tasted ginger ale at least!

My then-boyfriend, husband-to-be had the best response. Johnny always said, “Mag, you’re a cheap date.”

That always gave me a kick.

My first experience with wine came when my dad, who was a solid beer drinker, decided to take his doctor’s advice and drink a little red wine. So when I’d go to visit him, I’d bring him a bottle of Mogen David, which is a cheap, really sweet wine. If you’ve never had it, I dare say there’s hardly anything sweeter that comes in a bottle. My dad would sip his one little glass, and he’d pour me one, too. (I had to be married for Dad to offer me an alcoholic beverage.)

Well, I kind of liked it! Suddenly, a glass of Mogen David became my one drink for the night. If we went out for a sandwich, or even spaghetti, that’s what I’d order. Of course, I knew nothing about what wine goes with what food, so if you’re wincing, I don’t blame you. Then I found out about sherry—a sweetish wine, but closer to being dry—and started to like having a glass of that.

Of course, what your friends drink often has an influence on you. So when Johnny and I started socializing with a group of people who liked cocktails, I came around to those drinks my sisters were enjoying. Occasionally I’d have a Manhattan, which appealed to my sweet tooth because you mixed whiskey with sweet vermouth, and it comes with a maraschino cherry. Then there was the Tom Collins, a favorite at our summer parties, which combined gin—or vodka, which I preferred, ’cause I found gin too strong—with lime or lemon, sugar, ice, and fizzy water. But what I liked most were Old-Fashioneds, which I’ve heard is the earliest known cocktail! An Old-Fashioned is quite the mixture: whiskey, seltzer, sugar, bitters, and orange juice. At least that’s what mine had. Everybody has different recipes for an Old-Fashioned.

My brother Pat, who had a tavern in Chicago, made a great one. It was so great, in fact, I used his recipe to make an Old-Fashioned punch for our Christmas parties, which was a big hit when you were coming in from the frosty, snowy Chicago winter air. As soon as people entered our house, you’d hear “Where’s that punch?” It was strong stuff. Two sips of that, and you were warm, I tell you! But you couldn’t drink too much, and people would usually switch to beer or wine after a sampling of that concoction. I felt that way about Manhattans, too. I could never drink two in one night. Sugar with alcohol is a killer! I don’t mind feeling a little silly because of a drink, but who wants to be dizzy? That’s like being sick, and that’s no fun. (Of course, in Kathy’s estimation—since she never drinks—anybody who’s had two drinks is shot. Which is when I tell her she doesn’t know shite from shinola. What do you call someone who eats more than two pieces of cake at one time, Kathy?)

But it was when Johnny and I first visited Europe in 1974—Ireland, England, and France—that everything changed. Well, first of all, when we landed in Ireland, I cried because I never thought I’d ever get to see where my family was from. We visited my parents’ church in the coastal town of Drogheda, met relatives for tea, and visited spectacular castles. Johnny drank the Irish beers he loved so much, and we had a wonderful time. (Although they weren’t too keen on giving me more ice for my cocktails.)

In Paris, though, our fondness for “fancy drinks” ran into a wall. We might have figured that would happen. Here we were in this beautiful wine-producing, wine-drinking country, and when we’d go to the bar and order a Manhattan or an Old-Fashioned, nobody would have a clue what we were talking about. Johnny actually stepped behind the bar once to show the bartender how to make a Manhattan! Anyway, that was our tourist mistake, ordering mixed drinks in a famous wine country. Also, what we noticed was that the French were drinking wine all day long in these cute little cafés and bars, and they just looked so comfortable and relaxed and continental. So we said, “We’d better start ordering just wine.”

Our trip instantly got better. (We saw Pierre Salinger on the Rue de Rivoli trying to hail a cab!) The wine was delicious, we had a wonderful time, and that’s when we made the big switch.

Thank goodness my tastes evolved from my Mogen David days. I think I’m like a lot of people, in that I may not know a lot about wine, but I know what I like. People will ask me as they’re handing me a glass, “How do you like this wine?” I hate to say it, but most of them taste kind of the same to me, especially reds. I’m better at distinguishing whites. Some are darker. Some are sweeter. Some are lighter. Some are drier. I very seldom have a wine I really don’t like, unless it’s really sweet. So I’m not a big fan of Riesling or Gewürztraminer. Or the ones you have with desserts. But I guess they’re okay if you’re having one with a cookie.

Chardonnay is my favorite, more than Chablis, which is what I used to drink. I’ve really gotten to like wine that’s a little on the dry side. Something that’s nice all by itself if you’re just having a glass in the afternoon, maybe with some cheese and crackers, or that works with a meal. Another white I like is Pinot Grigio.

The markup on wines, though, can be a bit much when you go out. That’s why Johnny and I liked happy hours. But even then, you have to be careful. One time we decided to try a new place near the Santa Monica airport that was very chichi, so we dropped in for happy hour and each ordered a glass of their house white wine from the bar. This was maybe ten years ago, when the top price for wine by the glass was maybe $9. So John puts a twenty-dollar bill down, figuring that ought to cover the cost and a tip, and as we’re heading with our glasses to find a table, we hear “Oh, sir?”

Turns out the wines were $12 a glass!

We had a good laugh about it, but we looked at each other and thought, “We’re not coming here often!”

That’s why we were excited about a little discovery we made later when we went to a friend’s yard party. Everybody was supposed to bring something, so I made a big salad. Well, this other guy said he’d bring the wine. At the party he started opening these reds and whites and began passing it around. None of us looked at the labels or anything. Then he asked, “How do you guys like the wine?”

We all thought, “Hey, this is good. It’s nice wine!”

“Well, as long as you all like it, let me tell you about it. And wait till you hear how much it costs.”

He said it was two dollars a bottle! We couldn’t believe it. This was a guy who would think nothing of spending $40, $50, or $60 on a bottle of wine. He appreciates good wine. But he also likes anything that’s drinkable, which I love. That’s when we decided to start buying this wine, which was made by Charles Shaw. Then we started going to other people’s houses, and you’d hear, “Hey, did you try this new Two Buck Chuck?” Now it had its own cute little name!

Look, this isn’t the wine you save for special occasions. Friends of Kathy’s will give me really nice bottles of wine, and those are like gold. You have to dole those out. You’d better be special if you’re going to get me to open one of those. But Two Buck Chuck is good wine! I don’t know of anybody who’s gotten sick on it or anything. I’m sure it’s not the favorite of wine snobs, but if they don’t want to drink it, fine. If one came to my house, I’d even go out of my way not to serve it to them. Why give them the satisfaction of trashing it? (I might even be sneaky enough to pretend I don’t drink it either!)

But you can’t fault that price. Especially since you can go to Europe and sit in a cute little outdoor café near a vineyard and order their house wine, and it’s the equivalent of two dollars, too! And it’s good! And Europeans know their wine.

Which brings us to the box.

That was another revelation. When we learned about box wine—again, from friends whose house we were at for a party—everything seemed to fall into place. All the pesky little problems that come with wine from a bottle were solved by that box.

First of all, when you open a bottle of red, how long is it going to last? Not long, I’ll tell you that much. You’ll have vinegar on your hands if you don’t drink it all in a day or two, and for someone like me who has a glass or two at a time, that’s a lot of pressure. Well, that box keeps it from going bad for a long time! Of course, the box itself isn’t keeping the wine. That would be strange, to say the least. It’s a plastic bag inside the box. But it’s a special vacuum-sealed bag that keeps air out, which is what starts the process of turning wine bad.

Then there’s the spigot. How convenient is that? Especially on a picnic, say, when you might be kicking yourself if you brought a bottle of wine but forgot a corkscrew. But even if you’re at home, you just prop that box up on the counter, or on a shelf in your refridge, and you can get a glass quickly and easily. Less chance of spilling, too!

Me and little Kathleen, before she learned to swear.

Joyce and me at a banquet dinner, tippin’ it!