My husband has heard my stories so many times he’s given each a number. There’s the hilarious # 12, the poignant # 8B, and the surefire crowd-pleasers #2 and #33. Rather than hear them again, at this point in our marriage he prefers I just call out the number. This one I’m going to tell you is kind of a celebrity-sighting story – it doesn’t have a number yet, but here goes.
Eighteen summers ago when the show my husband had worked on was ending — well, not so much ending as the host was retiring – he treated himself to a summer in the “bu.” (Malibu, for those not in the know). After all the years of experience with my dad blowing big wads of cash on summer rentals, I decided to help with the negotiations. My dad would always start his rental on Memorial Day and end at Labor Day. So, I suggested the same and we got the real estate agent to agree on a lower price for the longer term. My husband moved into a wonderful home on Old Malibu Road the very night of the show’s last taping.
The summer of ‘92 on Old Malibu Road could have been its own book or at the very least a good short story. Suffice it to say, it was a grand summer.