Blending in, Malibu style

Hola all.

Recent back-to-back trips have rendered me temporarily blog-less. After a jaunt to Martha's Vineyard, we dumped our suitcase contents into the washing machine, re-stuffed our bags and jetted off to LA. Specifically Malibu.

I know...rough life. But thanks to a family beach house, Malibu's been one of my vacation destinations since birth.

After all these years, you'd think I'd be accustomed to the locals' botox-bolstered behavior and strange customs. Like the fact that you can troll the Malibu grocery store in your PJs. But attire for the kids' playground is one grade below cocktail party.

I forgot this rule when I showed up at the Cross Creek playground -- your run-of-the-mill tot lot -- surrounded by chic stores stocked with clothes and home furnishings void of price tags. (if you have to ask, you might as well drag your cheap butt out of there.) Cross Creek is a top haunt for paparazzi who snap stars ducking into Nobu for lunch or daring to push their kids on the swings.

But when I show up one day, there's neither paparazzi nor celebs in sight. Instead, the thriving park population is looking at me. The interloper.

The playground attracts two species of adults: nannies and mommies. The vast majority are nannies; hispanic or black, they are intensely focused on their little charges. The handful of moms are clothed in flowing silk dresses, strappy shoes and they clutch cell phones away from their styled hair and make up. They shun any hint of maternal ties; only toys and tiny shoes near their manicured feet give them away.

Neither nanny or mommie material, I'm The Freak. In my blue "larsen's fish market" t-shirt and faded cargo shorts I'm virtually indistinguishable from the homeless squatters on the beach. Except that I'm not nearly tan enough.

And I have all my teeth.

I park Brynn's stroller in a precious square of shade while the Boy and Barbarian shed their shoes. Immediately a little girl loitering at a nearby table pipes up with a tone of annoyance. "Trisha!" she says to her nanny. "Why is that lady trying to share our table?"

Okay, future beotch. I'm not even sitting at your table, much less sharing it. And last time I checked, the shade's still free. But the 4-year-old has got me rattled, so I push Brynn toward another sliver of shade, near the mommie colony on a bench.

The women stare but otherwise ignore me as I push Had and Cayden on the swings and check on Brynn. Finally, a nanny can't resist -- shabbily dressed or not, I'm a mother with three kids at the park, and no nanny.

Shocking.

She fawns over Brynn and we chat. All is going well until I mention returning to work and daycare for the kids. Daycare?! She registers a look of astonishment and revulsion. Like I've just licked my shoe.

Meanwhile, another curious bystander saunters over -- a 6 year old boy. He prattles on about his cousin's baby... I'm barely paying attention and instead focus on the snack he's juggling in his hands. What the heck is the kid eating? Then it dawns on me: this kindergardener is polishing off a Starbucks frappe and sushi roll.

It's about this time that Cayden runs up, tugs my shirt and loudly announces, "Mom, this place stinks!"

One of the Malibu mom throws me a faint smile. Because my kid's right. This boutique-buffered park, beloved by movie stars, faintly smells...

...liked a septic tank.

"Mom, are you listening? I can't stand this smell. Can we go?"

From then on, Cayden renames Malibu's famed playground, "The Stink Park." And Martin stumbles on a new kid-friendly locale on the bluffs overlooking the ocean. A simple, little park away from surgically enhanced mothers. And sushi-wielding toddlers.

Vacation

Well, we survived our summer vacation. With two little kids, and a newborn. And my mom.

Actually, we more than survived. We had a great time on Martha's Vineyard... once the pilgrimage from hell was behind us: an estimated 9 1/2 hours in the car -- 500 miles -- to catch a ferry to the island. With a 6:30 pm ferry reservation we gave ourselves an extra three hours to get there in time.

But I forgot the golden rule: when plotting a family vacation, one kid will inevitably become sick. Right on schedule, at 4:30 am, a barking, heaving seal limped down the stairs.

At least that's what the Barbarian sounded like. "She's got croup," the after-hours nurse explained when I held the phone up to Hadley. "Run a hot shower and let her breathe the steam, then stick her head in the freezer."

Once we had the barking seal tucked in the car beside her siblings, we were plagued by a swarm of giant bees. Martin strapped a couple of bags on the car roof, and either the straps or the bags vibrated, creating a horrible buzzing sound. The faster we drove, the louder it got.

Martin tinkered with the straps at Mom's house. Then he pulled off the highway into a 7-11 to try again. Then in a church parking lot. Then at a truck stop. Each time the humming dropped off. But when we hit top speed, the droning resumed -- a deafening hum that drowned out the radio and any attempt at a conversation.

"HEY! We're losing serious time!" I shouted at Martin as he eyed up another exit. "No more stops. We'll just have to deal."

But we ditched the bees after fours hours when we stopped for lunch and crammed the roof contents into the back. By then, however, the traffic was so thick, we only inched along. It would have been too slow for the bees anyway.

To be precise, we hit New York City traffic. Long Island traffic. Stamford traffic. Bridgeport, New Haven, Providence traffic. By 5:30 pm we'd been traveling 11 1/2 hours and I estimated that we'd miss the ferry by 5 minutes.

That's when Martin poured on his "Cannonball Run" impersonation, with a little Chevy Chase "Vacation" mixed in...

...specifically the scene when the Griswold's discover that Wally World is closed. And Chevy Chase turns into a demented lunatic.

I watched the speedometer climb to 90 mph and everything outside the window blurred. Despite my terror, I buoyed Martin with my optimistic outlook: "MARTIN! SLOW down! You're going to kill us! And for what? You'll never get us there in time!"

Even the kids were quiet that last half hour (no doubt, petrified). I kept updating our iphone map application and it estimated our arrival at 6:34. Martin tried his best to shave a few minutes off our time but we lost a passing lane and were stuck behind a herd of cars. Finally we snaked down the dock ramp. After 12 1/2 hours and 508 miles, our arrival time: 6:28 pm.

The dock-man leaned out the window to check us in. "Cuttin it close, arncha?" he frowned, but astonishingly, he let us on the ferry. We were the last ones aboard.

So in the end we made it. With the sick kid, the maniacal bees, a car crammed with luggage, and two improperly charged dvd players (newsflash: looking out the window is entertaining...or else we couldn't hear the kids complain over the bees.)

We nearly died in a firey crash but it was worth it. I'd do it all over again. Maybe.

Summer Daze

Dear Mom,

We're loving life down here at the Full Moon nudist colony. Everyone's so nice and easy going...we've decided to sell the farm and stay!

No more fights over what the kids are going to wear or about Martin's mismatched clothes.

I'm taking a job as managing editor of Nude Times and Martin's using his sales experience to peddle fruit from the community orchard.

Hope you come to visit us. Just pack lots of sunscreen.

And a towel.

Love,

Me


Back to blog normalcy when we return from our week at the beach.

Vigilante Justice

I don't believe in taking the law into your own hands.

Even when it means saving a hapless animal. Who's been trapped by the state's natural resource agency... who's conducting a re-forestation study to see how trees fare without deer damage. As part of this study, the agency constructed a deer-proof fence in a field not far from the river.

The problem is, that they fenced in a deer in the process.

I'm not the first one to stumble on this snafu. In past months at least two neighbors have ridden their horses by and reported that a deer was trapped within the fence.

And about two weeks ago I called again since the doe -- and her new fawn -- had lost their only source of water -- a swampy area in the woods. It had completely dried up and the situation was dire.

And it was in the agency's best interest to kick the deer out to preserve their study. I realize that the deer might be hit by a car or hunted in the fall. But they deserved a fair shot at life.

"Just cut the fence," Martin said when I complained about the situation. But I didn't want to sabotage the study. Instead I carted water buckets down in the gator and lowered them over the fence with baling twine. Then I called the state office about the deer; they promised to get them out of there.

But they didn't. Because we spotted the doe looking forlornly at us from behind the fence last weekend.

Now I'm not saying that anyone took it upon themselves to rectify the situation. I didn't see anything of the sort. I'll just say this: if I worked for the state's reforestation office, I might want to check the structural integrity of the deer fence for any possible damage.

On the west side.

About midway down.

And while you're there, patching the fence and cursing the vandal who sliced it open, take heart: the offender has been severely punished for his actions.

You see, the fence is home to a lush and thriving crop of poison ivy and right now, a certain individual is nursing a nasty, weeping, painful, itchy rash on his feet, legs, arm, even between his fingers. It's the worst poison ivy he's ever had.

But his wife thinks it was worth it.

Hypothetically speaking.

Go Speedracer!

I now understand the thrill and excitement of watching Nascar. The sound of engines roaring past at 200 mph, that smell of fresh burning rubber. The hair-raising turns and metal-twisting crashes.

I've witnessed it first-hand. On a much smaller scale.

And right in the backyard!


The vehicles: pink and blue Schwinn tricycles
The track: the back deck
The course: 8 yards around our oval outdoor table, including two treacherous turns. Speeds not to exceed 1 mile per hour.
Obstacles: a bench, several wooden chairs, one roving canine, and two track officials reading the paper, who periodically yell "slow it down!" while they free bike wheels from chair legs.

Race season opened Sunday morning when Cayden and Hadley discovered that it was easier to ride their trikes on the deck instead of through high grass. That's all it took. The race was on.

Cayden proved stronger and faster, which offered him the luxury of lapping the table and ramming the back of the Barbarian's bike. But he rolled his vehicle several times with poor speed control around the turns.

Hadley did her best to make light of the "Schwinn quality" insignia on the handle bars. By hooking her bike around the chair legs, she successfully bent, broke and mangled the bike's fenders and the plastic do-hickeys that cover the bolts and screws on the tires.

"Wow," Martin marveled when Hadley took out another chair. "She's a terrible driver. We'll have to watch her behind the wheel."
"Yea," I agreed, "she sucks. You'd expect more from a 2-year-old."

After the umpteenth bumper-car collision and a few incidents involving track officials' ankles, Martin dangled a carrot stick: 100 laps around the table and he'd put Star Wars on TV. It was a prize too tempting to ignore. Officials took refuge inside but promised to count laps from the safety of the couch.

I'm sorry to report that the Boy only completed 55 laps but we turned on the TV anyway....if only to salvage what was left of the bikes and the deck furniture.

Raccoon Revenge

When we last left our cast of characters just yesterday, it was the raccoon's move.

And upon entering the barn this morning I discovered his handy work. He pitched the bags of horse treats from their high-shelf perch and scattered the cookies all over the floor.

They looked salvageable but when I picked them up, they dissolved into a sticky mush. Apparently he soaked them in the dog dish, and then left them for me to find.

Bastard!

The Angry Raccoon

Nocturnal visitors frequently show up in our barn to sample the menu. Just a few months back a fox nearly ran into me as he beat a hasty retreat.

Recently however, we've been visited by an especially persistent and resourceful guest. And, he's developed a palate for other animal edibles.

He's not a possum. Possums are too lazy. And he's not a fox. Foxes are crafty but not especially dexterous. No, what we have here is a raccoon. A raccoon with an attitude. Who's waging psychological warfare with me.

And who might be winning.

He recently started the skirmish by prying open the cat food bin and feasting on the bounty. This, I didn't mind much until --whoops -- he knocked it over, spilling cat kibble across the floor.

So I put the bin in the tack room and shut the door.

After that, he moved into the feed stall where he chewed a large hole in a bag of sweet feed.

So I dumped the feed into a storage bin with a lid.

That ticked him off a bit. So the next night he pried the lids off of the horse supplement containers and sampled his findings (undoubtedly, not very tasty but hey, that raccoon is parasite-free).

I sealed up the containers, closed the feed stall door and latched it shut.

Sunday night the raccoon caught the faint aroma of horse cookies, entombed in a garbage bag stuffed full of laundered horse blankets (the blanket cleaning lady tosses in a bag of treats with the bill). The raccoon chewed through the trash bag, waded through the blankets and gnawed into the oaty-molasses snacks....after dunking them thoroughly in the water dish (I found the soggy cookie remains.)

So I extracted the remaining cookies and socked them away on a high shelf.

Well, that was it. The raccoon was fed up. He wasn't taking my crap anymore!

Last night he swung open the tack room door and squeezed through (in dairy barn-style, the door slides on top runners but swings loose below). He could have just pilfered the cat food and left, but no. He -- was -- enraged! He tossed the place, kicking empty cans off the fridge. He knocked down a riding hat and chewed up a sponge. He dumped over the grooming boxes and hurled the brushes and hoof picks across the room. Then, he tore the top off the cat food bin.

I got the message. He's one pissed-off raccoon.

But frankly I don't care. Every night our house looks like the scene of a toy store looting. You really think you can throw a few brushes around and scare me? Tonight I'm going to secure the tack room door with a concrete block and some paint cans.

Let's see what you've got.