Thank You, Malibu Beach House
I can say in all honesty, with a straight face, that I don’t need a beach house to be happy.
I’ve made it this far in life without one and things have been pretty terrific so far.
That being said, when one is offered to me for a night I don’t hesitate to say yes. I’m not daft.
The house in question belongs to one of my husband’s clients. It is an architectural marvel that sits on the sand in a private cove of only six other homes. It cost in excess of fifteen million bucks and a famous rapper/music producer is living next door for the summer.
All of that makes your butt pucker, right? Me too!
Like how can I relax and enjoy the experience? I can’t handle the grandiosity, the smell of money in the air. I won’t be able to touch anything for fear of destroying something it would take me ten years to pay-off. Like red wine on a white chair. Or sand…anywhere.
This house and this couple are not like that AT ALL. They are gregarious and tons of fun. They have kids and dogs and everything in that house says, ‘Come on in! Relax! Have fun! Make a mess! Enjoy! Feel rich!’
What? Feel rich?
As you know, I’ve been trying that “rich” thing on lately.
I’ve told you of the hours I’ve spent on Zillow looking at homes for sale in Santa Barbara. Montecito to be exact. The hometown of Oprah. And to clarify even further—five to ten million dollar homes. With land. And nifty views.
So, the house this weekend could have felt intimidating, but it didn’t.
Not at all.
It felt like the next logical step in my search for a dream house.
And that’s when the magic started to happen.
Duh.
Hubby, Ruby dog, and I, spent Friday night enjoying stinky cheese and a bottle of my favorite red wine as we listened to Adele sing her sad songs of love gone wrong while the waves crashed and the negative ions had their way with us.
I could not have been happier. I felt rich in so many ways.
The next morning I went out to my car for something important (poop bag) and found a neatly folded twenty-dollar bill on the ground just behind the tailgate.
“You must have dropped this”, I said as I handed it back to Raphael knowing full well that Ruby only travels with hundreds and I had all of eight dollars left in my wallet after buying the cheese. (The stinkier the cheese the more it costs. Why is that?)
“It’s not mine”, he argued. “The only time I walked over there was at 5 am when I took Ruby to pee and contrary to stories you’ve heard, I don’t carry a wallet when I’m not wearing pants. It looks like it’s yours”, then he smirked in response to the look on my face as I pictured him balls to the wind, and went to make himself another espresso on the F-you espresso machine that lives in the kitchen.
“I’m rich!” I yelled, like Leonardo DeCaprio on the bow of the Titanic. (I know, he said I’m King of the World—just go with me here.)
Now I had twenty-eight smackers! Time to go buy some more cheese. Instead, we sat around all morning covered in dog hair, as a low, gray ceiling of clouds hung overhead making the view outstanding and the house impossibly cozy.
“I’m not leaving!”, I announced after he had laid out his plan for the rest of our day. Shower, lunch, drive home—and then what? He had plans that afternoon and all day Sunday.
I did not. I had no obligations. Nada. Zilch. Zero.
“I’m not leaving”, I said again out loud, just to hear the words a second time. Sometimes I just say stuff for dramatic effect. Like ‘I’m not leaving’ means ‘I’m having a good time’. Like that.
Was I serious?
“Fine. I love that”, he said looking at me kinda funny. “You’re keeping the dog—and what about your computer? Remember? You didn’t bring it. You can drive back in your car and get it. It’ll only be a three-hour round trip because it’s Saturday.”
I thought about it for a minute. I needed to post Sunday’s blog…but the internet sucked.
“Fuck that!” I exclaimed. Why would I kill my beach buzz?”
Sorry, but I shirked. I shirked all responsibility and sense of obligation and, and, and.
I was so relaxed at that point I was literally drooling.
I blame the ions. The ions made me do it.
“Exactly!”, he agreed, and he meant it.
In a spontaneous act of whatthefuckery, I called my friend Sally to come after work and partake in some of my stinky cheese, wine and mind altering ions. In an uncharacteristic act of selfishness—she said YES!
Sunday morning as I sat bathed in the wealth of my weekend, looking around at the house on the beach, the one with dog slobber on almost every wall and knee high handprints on the bank of windows that looks out over the endless expanse of Pacific Ocean, I received a text from a dear friend. That alone was a mini-miracle due to the shitty WiFi.
You see, a mystical, magical project I’m working on has to be delivered to just the right people.
Or I’m fucked.
Until I could guarantee that, I’ve been sitting on it. Praying. Trusting the powers that be to pull a rabbit out of someone’s ass. That text, that Miracle in Malibu text, held the answer to my prayers and it was so implausible that if I told you—you wouldn’t believe me—and you’d have me arrested for public drunkenness.
I’m tellin’ ya. Being irresponsible, selfish, and acting rich has gotten a bad rap. It really worked magic for me this weekend.
You should try it.
Carry on,
xox
*Sally and Ruby-do in the ‘Bu
In case you want to try this yourself:
Dominator 
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