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Authors: Tori Spelling
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Dean and I hated that staircase. Our producer was at the bottom of the stairs, leaving our house for the last time. He gave one final look around, then turned to look up at me.
“You’re going to miss this house,” he said. “It was a real family home. To a lot of people.” Then he walked out the door. That statement still haunts me. I didn’t love that house, but I had no idea what lay in store.
The first ill omen was the jumping cactus. Right before we moved, in the days just after Hattie was born, Dean had decided to prepare our new house for the arrival of our brood by building a chicken coop. It was a kick-ass chicken coop, complete with a run for the chickens and a pen for the goats and the pig. It took him ten days to make it. I was at home nursing Hattie when Dean came back from Malibu, with tiny needles sticking out all over his hands, arms, back, and legs.
“What did you get into?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” he said. “I didn’t go remotely near any cactus.”
Dean gritted his teeth as I used tweezers to pick out the nearly invisible little needles one by one, and we forgot about the incident until we moved to Malibu. A gardener came to check out the yard and tell us how impossibly expensive it would be for us to clear it to make more room for the animals. He’d barely stepped into the yard when he said, “You have a jumping cactus!” Apparently, Dean hadn’t bungled into a cactus without noticing after all. Our soft, fuzzy looking cactus was known for “jumping” onto passersby. It had attacked Dean! What a lovely plant for young children. The real estate agents who sold us the house had rhapsodized over the delicious figs and pomegranates we’d soon be plucking from our trees. But somehow they failed to mention the jumping cactus.
The final episode of the sixth and last season of Tori & Dean covered Hattie’s birth—and ultimately, though it was more than what we’d done for the other two, I thought they edited it very nicely, although I was still bitter about it. Then the final scene showed me and Dean, the children, and the animals all sitting on and around a bench in the backyard of the Malibu house.
I said, “Now, this is our dream house.”
Dean said, “Good, ’cause I’m not moving again.”
After we shot the scene, the crew took a look around our new digs. They commented on how magical our little bungalow was. In the nicely groomed grassy yard were the fig tree, the pomegranate tree, and a blood orange tree. Beyond the yard was a tangle of weeds and tightly matted brush. Everyone kept saying how different it was from what they had expected. I knew what they meant. Encino was all marble and ornate details. This was dramatically smaller, simpler, and rough around the edges. We’d gone from one extreme to another.
“This is the real me,” I told them, and I felt a surge of pride. That’s right, I thought, Tori Spelling lives in a California bungalow in the wilderness in Malibu . I liked the sound of it.
OF COURSE, THERE was a bit of a learning curve to life in the wilderness.
The house, which was so charming with its tidy built-ins and green lawn, was in other ways as rustic as you could get. There were ants and spiders, which were to be expected. There were windows up high on the house that were hard to reach and covered in dust. Well, we were in the country, after all.
Then, on our second night, the heater broke. This didn’t seem like an urgent problem until the third night, when the temperature dipped. As I lay in bed listening to the high-pitched howls of a pack of coyotes, an icy draft came through the window frames. I burrowed my feet under Dean, trying to keep warm. I finally drifted off, dreaming of icicles and ice-fishing, but it seemed like only moments later when the early-morning sun burst into the room. I got up to tie a T-shirt over my eyes and climbed back into bed thinking longingly of the silk drapes we’d left back in Encino. They were
“You’re going to miss this house,” he said. “It was a real family home. To a lot of people.” Then he walked out the door. That statement still haunts me. I didn’t love that house, but I had no idea what lay in store.
The first ill omen was the jumping cactus. Right before we moved, in the days just after Hattie was born, Dean had decided to prepare our new house for the arrival of our brood by building a chicken coop. It was a kick-ass chicken coop, complete with a run for the chickens and a pen for the goats and the pig. It took him ten days to make it. I was at home nursing Hattie when Dean came back from Malibu, with tiny needles sticking out all over his hands, arms, back, and legs.
“What did you get into?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” he said. “I didn’t go remotely near any cactus.”
Dean gritted his teeth as I used tweezers to pick out the nearly invisible little needles one by one, and we forgot about the incident until we moved to Malibu. A gardener came to check out the yard and tell us how impossibly expensive it would be for us to clear it to make more room for the animals. He’d barely stepped into the yard when he said, “You have a jumping cactus!” Apparently, Dean hadn’t bungled into a cactus without noticing after all. Our soft, fuzzy looking cactus was known for “jumping” onto passersby. It had attacked Dean! What a lovely plant for young children. The real estate agents who sold us the house had rhapsodized over the delicious figs and pomegranates we’d soon be plucking from our trees. But somehow they failed to mention the jumping cactus.
The final episode of the sixth and last season of Tori & Dean covered Hattie’s birth—and ultimately, though it was more than what we’d done for the other two, I thought they edited it very nicely, although I was still bitter about it. Then the final scene showed me and Dean, the children, and the animals all sitting on and around a bench in the backyard of the Malibu house.
I said, “Now, this is our dream house.”
Dean said, “Good, ’cause I’m not moving again.”
After we shot the scene, the crew took a look around our new digs. They commented on how magical our little bungalow was. In the nicely groomed grassy yard were the fig tree, the pomegranate tree, and a blood orange tree. Beyond the yard was a tangle of weeds and tightly matted brush. Everyone kept saying how different it was from what they had expected. I knew what they meant. Encino was all marble and ornate details. This was dramatically smaller, simpler, and rough around the edges. We’d gone from one extreme to another.
“This is the real me,” I told them, and I felt a surge of pride. That’s right, I thought, Tori Spelling lives in a California bungalow in the wilderness in Malibu . I liked the sound of it.
OF COURSE, THERE was a bit of a learning curve to life in the wilderness.
The house, which was so charming with its tidy built-ins and green lawn, was in other ways as rustic as you could get. There were ants and spiders, which were to be expected. There were windows up high on the house that were hard to reach and covered in dust. Well, we were in the country, after all.
Then, on our second night, the heater broke. This didn’t seem like an urgent problem until the third night, when the temperature dipped. As I lay in bed listening to the high-pitched howls of a pack of coyotes, an icy draft came through the window frames. I burrowed my feet under Dean, trying to keep warm. I finally drifted off, dreaming of icicles and ice-fishing, but it seemed like only moments later when the early-morning sun burst into the room. I got up to tie a T-shirt over my eyes and climbed back into bed thinking longingly of the silk drapes we’d left back in Encino. They were
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