Open Door Policy

If you are just joining us, here’s the backstory: I am on vacation this week, with my husband, my 14 year old step-son, my 10 year old daughter and my 7 year old son. And a pack of superduper Pokemon cards. And my laptop which takes about 8 hours to dial up on the internet. Yes, I’m vacationing in the mid-1990s. And they are not happy that Madras shorts are around in the future. Seriously, do men who wear Madras shorts have mirrors? Or eyes?

But anyway.

We are on a tiny island (and just like Kelly Ripa, I won’t disclose where I am vacationing until I’m back from vacation, because, you know, the paparazzi are after us both. But unlike Kelly Ripa, I vacation at the same place every summer, so see you in August 2009, stalkarazzis!)

So, every year we rent a different house on the island, mostly because we never get around to renting it until mid-April, when all the houses that we really wanted are already taken. It’s our way of giving back to the community—giving everyone else a chance to pick out the house that they want, and we’ll take whatever is left. And if we have to pay more for the privilege of renting a shitty house, we’ll do it! Because we’re such givers. Socialists, practically.

And every year, we have a conversation with the real estate agent where she reassures us that it is not necessary to lock the front door because it is so safe on the island. Of course I ignore it every year, and travel with my own security detail. Sort of like the Pope. But without a Marinkamobile.

This year, to top all other years, the house doesn’t even have a key, or a hint of a keyhole, and, ready for this? The front door does not even close. As in it stays open all the time. I don’t know whether it’s a structural flaw, the humidity, or the Manson family staging for their reunion. And yet, unlike in previous years, I am not freaked out of my mind. Maybe because I now have the superpowerful Pokemon cards to watch over us. Or maybe because I am too busy getting the beach sand out of my bed.