Our respective 18-year-olds were about to launch, so it was now or never to bond this unfamiliar configuration. And we had hopes it might melt the girl-teen's stepfather attitude a drip or two. We left Chapel Hill with two 14-year-old girls (one borrowed), two 18-year-old boys and a 20-year-old, bound for Santa Monica.

Large rental properties for under $10,000 a week are sparse, but Actor Andy came to the rescue. I've not met Actor Andy but we are intimates; he interviewed me, my sister in Florida and my cousin in California before accepting our hefty deposit.

We were excited about the boys' space, which was billed thus: "The third bedroom is its own studio at bottom floor of house, has own entrance, mini kitchen, bath, TV, great for nanny." The boys might go down and never come up, saving money on Home of the Hollywood Stars tours.

L.A., here we are. Told to pick "any minivan they wanted" at the rental agency, the kids first circled the stretch Hummer and then moved in on the Caddy Escalade.

Make that "almost" any minivan; they were OK with the Toyota Sienna. All the luggage fits in sunken storage area. Captain's chairs, sunroof, the works.

Alas, there's no key. Start over, and eventually we cram into a dull Chevy not featured in any top 10 list, suitcases on laps, and hit L.A. sans splash.

"Turn right, arriving at destination," lilts GPS Lady.

The outside looks like the photo -- 1920's "ocean view" bungalow on 3rd street (We learn it lists for $2.5 million. I'll never complain of Chapel Hill prices again.).

The inside, though, is dicey. The girls learn the boys must trample through their room to reach the studio. Narrow, uneven, concrete stairs. The right wall holds Actor Andy's extensive duct tape collection. The left houses every nail, screw, and washer manufactured. There seems to be a dirt floor leading to the studio.

Open door, gasp. It's a small room, low-ceilinged with forehead-bashing beams, one barred window, one mattress.

If your male offspring are like mine, they haven't shared a mattress since age 10. Girls don't care. Boys do. Son Phil will sleep on a bare floor rather than share a king.

We unearth one air mattress and one futon mattress, which together cover every square inch of floor. Scott must deflate the air mattress each morning so the doors can open. Boys being lovely low-standard creatures, we hear no complaints.

To glean private time, husband parks the van. The driveway is as narrow as the boys' stairs. There is concrete and wood one inch from each side mirror. Pulling into our designated spot takes a 12-point-turn, on good days, depending on how many other cars are crammed below.

Unpacking is a challenge. Actor Andy has left everything behind -- 256 framed photos, drawers of underwear, cupboards of vitamins. California, we've arrived.

Teens' propensity for slumber leaves parental unit with plenty of alone time. During prime-teen-sleep hours we hike, see the Getty, walk the beach, eat out. It's a prize given to survivors of early parenthood.

A visit to Famous Cousin rousts the beauty-sleepers early. We near her house sooner than expected and don't want to act overly eager to see our faces reflected in her Emmy.

"Let's drive around," I suggest.

Poor GPS Lady. "Turn right," she says. "Recalculating. Three hundred feet, turn left. Recalculating."

She remains eternally calm; she never yells at us like the five in the back. We laugh through seven more recalculations.

Famous Cousin's house is lovely and overlooks the Pacific. After lunch the boys swim and play basketball while we girls accept a tour. I linger behind in Famous Cousin's office to touch the Golden Globe as her voice croons to star-struck girls, "Next time you visit this will be your guest room."

We love her shoe collection, and I hold the ones this warm, talented woman wore to receive her Emmy.

Vacation weeks travel at warp speed. We do the studio tour, the Hollywood tour and Disney. We bike, walk the crazy Venice beach and ride the solar powered ferris wheel at the pier.

I'm not sure what I was expecting with teen entourage but what I received was low-key excitement from all boys and "We want to live here forever" enthusiasm from our girls. A confrontation between step-dad and step-daughter took place at the Dodger's game and our hopes for detente on that front struck out, but we have the patience of GPS Lady.

By the way, Actor Andy, where's the ocean view?