After that first visit to the Valley Center History Museum, I had visions of quickly restoring our home to make way for private tours, cooking classes, and tea parties. But as Benjamin explained, “Oh sweet love, we are months, and probably even years away from reaching that point.” 

Years? Really?

We couldn’t possibly sustain this pace for years. Sure, we had survived rat-infested April, growing pains May, and now, at the close of June, we were barely keeping our heads above water. Benjamin was determined to spend his four months off from work “wisely.” Sadly, that translated into chipping paint —  a task right up there on the joy spectrum with doing your taxes and counting carpet fibers. 

From the stairwell, to the bathroom, Benjamin was ready to embark on his third chipping venture, this one in the “Brick Room.” Technically it was a mud room with a side entrance into the house. Due to the concrete brick-stamped flooring, we temporarily made it our main entrance. It kept dirt at bay and functioned like an enclosed patio where we could kick off our shoes before entering the main areas of the home. 

One thing we truly loved about the Betty Crocker house were the doors. There were doors everywhere, with some rooms having as many as three or four entry points. 

When we toured the home pre-purchase, two of the four Brick Room doors were blocked with armoires. Several of the windows had been painted over in white, one window had been boarded up, and the three remaining windows were glued and nailed shut — just like all the others throughout the house. To say this room needed some work was an understatement.  

And . . . Benjamin was off . . . like a Kentucky Derby racehorse. First, my stallion unsealed the windows, then he replaced the broken glass. Next he scraped white paint off the tiny windows, before patching cracks in the floor and walls. Then he tore down the wrap-around shelving and painted the walls and A-frame beams white. Saving the worst for last, he attacked the archway, chipping away by hand (yet again) to expose the original brickwork. 

In the stacks of historical photos, we found one that was difficult to decipher. It showed a porch with a double archway in the form of an “M.” “That’s here,” Benjamin said, looking toward the ceiling. 

I snatched the photo from his hands. “What do you mean, ‘that’s here’? It can’t be. That’s an outdoor photo with a double arch.”

“Half of this room is an add on,” he said, examining the black and white photo, “and there used to be a pillar here, right where I’m standing . . . Look.”

He was right. The Betty Crocker House was truly a home of transformation. Despite the walls that had gone up and the pillars that had crumbled, we wanted to give the home a level of structure and support it hadn’t seen in years. The only problem was, that in our commitment to fortify its existence, we were weakening ourselves. 

With Benjamin focused on the house, I stayed tucked inside the barn. Our June show was approaching, one that I was determined to model around the theme “Saluting the Past” in honor of July 4th. Of course my decorating got out of control, way out of control, with a deconstructed airplane taking center stage and a formal military ball (with gown-draped mannequins) at the entrance. 

During this time, midnight would approach without me noticing. Benjamin would walk into the barn and find me balancing on the top rung of a ladder with artwork in one hand and a drill in the other. 

Climbing down the ladder one night, I gazed over at a poster of Rosie the Riveter flexing her muscle with the words, “We Can Do It!” This 1943 American World War II poster could not have been more appropriate. I turned off the lights, locked the barn, and limped back to the house. 

We were both beyond exhausted. Our feet were perpetually bruised and achy, as we crawled into bed and played rock-paper-scissors to see who would get stuck massaging the other person’s feet. 

Despite the fact I hadn’t surfed in months, my muscles were defined, my weight was down, and my body was battered. Who would have guessed the antique industry could do such a thing? 

On top of it all, we were never alone. It wasn’t until July 4th weekend that we had our first ever 24-hours to ourselves. Up until that point, there had been someone on our property every single day. Now, we had three solid days to ourselves without a vendor, contractor, repairman, or even family member inside the gates. Having the property to ourselves felt almost foreign, but refreshing to say the least. That weekend marked my first time in the pool, something I should have done months before. 

“We need to do more of this,” Benjamin said, feet dangling in the water. “Otherwise we’ll lose ourselves in this house.” 

That pipe dream died after July 4th weekend, and come Monday we were yanking out old air vents, sealing cracks, and hiring contractors to build brick walls around the house’s crawlspace. The goal was to close off every potential access point for rodents, which meant a brick border had to be built near the cellar. To beautify the new area, Benjamin and my dad planted roses around the house. 

Unfortunately, the “beautification” ended there. In the process of closing off entry points, any rodents that were living under the house were trapped with no exit point. And right then, in the dead of summer, we had unknowingly built a mausoleum under our house where rats decayed at the speed of hair growth. 

Day by day, the stench worsened. There was absolutely nothing we could do about it, other than to “live it out.” When the summer breeze kicked in, it became downright unbearable, the type of odor that makes your eyes water.  

The fetor of decay occurred during one of the driest seasons in history. A massive heat wave hit San Diego with Valley Center at the hub of the 100+ degree temps. Fires were popping up like birthday candles waiting for a sing-song to blow them out. 

We were constantly wet, dripping, sticky, and dirty. We took cold showers and slept without covers, vintage fans keeping the sweat away but losing the battle by midnight. 

With a house void of air conditioning, coupled with our hard physical labor, Benjamin constantly seemed hot and cranky. And me, well I was just a bitch. I had been working 40 hour work weeks for Saddleback, in addition to marketing the business, managing two rental properties, cleaning, cooking, balancing the books, hosting company, and decorating the barn at night for the next show. We’d start work at 7:00 AM, pause at 9:00 PM, eat dinner at 10:30 PM, and return to paperwork and tasks until midnight.  

Among those tasks was submitting a proposal for a low-water usage landscaping project. The California water district was offering a select number of small grants to home owners willing to trade their lawn for drought resistant shrubs. 

Fortunately Benjamin had a vision, drafting blueprints with specific names of plants and trees he intended to grow in place of grass. If they approved our plans, it could potentially subsidize a fourth of the project costs. One stipulation however, was that we couldn’t remove our lawn or begin the project until the proposal was either granted or denied. The waiting period took a grueling six weeks.

Our sprawling lawn looked like the Sahara desert. Benjamin had turned off all the sprinklers in the hopes his proposal would be approved. 

“The entire lawn will be yanked out anyhow,” he justified.

For over a month, I wondered if we were moving backwards, turning the property into “ugly.”

It went from bad to worse, with nearly every room in the house under construction, and a front yard worthy of a code violation. Benjamin kept telling me to “ride it out”, but I became obsessed with trying to feel at home, hanging artwork on existing nails, covering moving boxes with quilts, and putting wilting flowers in vases that never stood a chance in the heat. 

Benjamin explained we couldn’t officially settle in until every wall was painted and every floor was redone. I understood, but accepting the chaos was tough. Wherever I turned was another paintbrush, dirty rag, or tool next to my dying orchid collection.

So I cleaned, hoping to get to the point where my bare feet could stay clean further than one walk across the floor. As much as I tried, the place was always dirty. We both pushed ourselves to an unhealthy point, something we had fought to avoid after our last home renovation. 

I know I’m to blame. It’s a life I modeled after my parents, one that causes people to say, “You guys are so driven.” Benjamin knew this about me from the beginning. 

Just weeks after we started dating, we had sat together on an old wooden bench on the back patio at my Carlsbad house. By that point I had owned it for just over two years, spending most of my days locked in the office. Gazing at the reflection of the moon on the pool, I told him how much I enjoyed just being present. 

“I’ve never done this before,” I told him, mesmerized by the stillness.

He looked at me with confusion. “Never done what? Sat on this bench?”

“No,” I admitted, “I mean I’ve never sat in my backyard.” 

It was a sad existence, working long days for no other reason than the fact I was addicted to work. It wasn’t the money, or pressure from an outside source. It was simply the joy of staying busy, pushing and “succeeding” by no one’s standards but my own. 

Benjamin wouldn’t stand for that mindset, at least as long as we were together. He made a commitment right there and then that every time we were together, we would sit on that bench, talk, be still, and watch the stars. 

And so we did. It became our tradition. “Benjamin’s Bench” was more than a piece of furniture. It was the symbol of our relationship, like a massive ring without the diamond. 

Over time, I shared deeper aspects of my life and how I was driven by pressing deadlines and endless work. This seldom left time to relax and enjoy the simple pleasures of life. This all changed abruptly when, a few months after we met, the television network where we both worked went bankrupt. This gave Benjamin the perfect opportunity to teach me how to change my hectic pace. 

What started out as panic about tomorrow turned into peace about today. Our lives were filled with adventure from surfing and tennis to snowboarding and cooking. Each night we made a point of watching the stars from “Ben’s Bench.”

At the time, Benjamin supported himself by creating websites while my freelance writing assignments took me around the world as a travel journalist for Fodor’s. It was also during this phase when Benjamin played his guitar, wrote over 40 original songs, produced his first solo album, and won best male singer/songwriter in Southern California. 

In the midst of free living, I received a call from a friend asking that Benjamin and I attend a bonfire at Ponto Beach — our surf spot. 

“Dress to impress,” he added. “There will be some music producers there from LA who are interested in meeting Benjamin.” 

The following day, Benjamin and I headed to the beach at sunset for the big meeting. The air was still and we were completely alone. As we walked onto the jetty, I pointed toward the edge of the rocks. 

“What’s that?” I asked. “It looks like a bench. It looks like our bench.” 

My first thought was that someone had stolen our patio furniture and for some odd reason, decided to carry it across a peninsula of boulders. The closer we got, the more I insisted that it was in fact, “Ben’s Bench.” 

There it was perched on the jetty, surrounded by water on three sides. As the sun melted into the sea, I looked down to find a bottle of champagne and two glass flutes. And then, I knew. 

Taking my hand, Ben bent down on one knee and asked, “Marlise Elizabeth Kast, will you be my best friend, my lover, and my wife for as long as I live?”

He opened a small box that cradled a stunning diamond ring, one he had personally designed. And that was that, the start of a relationship that took us from world travels to peeling wallpaper. 

At the beginning of our marriage, we seemed to get a handle on this “work problem” of mine, until it became a work problem of ours. Now, it had flared up at the Betty Crocker Estate. Despite the fact we were physically in the same place, we were very much apart. 

In two separate worlds, we just couldn’t seem to produce fast enough. We raced the sun, and more importantly we raced Benjamin’s work schedule. During his four months off, his return date to Intuit was creeping in fast.  

Over dinner we would discuss big dreams for the future, and then end with tomorrow’s reality six hours away. 

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Benjamin in this journey, is that he’s a machine. He can push all day, hop on his motorbike for 30 minutes, come home refreshed, eat dinner, pass out, and do it all over again. I on the other hand can’t seem to shut off. My mind races all hours of the day and night, with snapshots of the “To Do” list bouncing off the corners of my mind.  

I go, go, go, until I just can’t anymore. And when that happens, I tend to either crack or run away. 

That night I couldn’t sleep. I had been offered a last minute travel assignment. Normally Benjamin and I travel together, but this solo trip would have me leaving in a matter of days far from home. I didn’t quite know how to ask, or tell him for that matter. Irritability was at an all time high, and I knew me running away wouldn’t sit well with a man up to his elbows in paint chips. So, I waited until he was half asleep.

“Benjamin,” I said, rolling over in bed. “I’m heading to the Maldives.”

Next story on "Channeling Betty" coming soon.