More Powerful Than A Locomotive!

You know something? There are days when I'm just a real whiney baby. Everything seems like a bore or a chore and I feel like I'm walking through pudding.

Here's what sets me straight: My three-legged, mildly chunky super hero, Ed.

He's just happy to be alive. Sure he falls down on occasion. He's not as fast as he used to be. He recently lost his best friend, but the kid hangs in there with a smile on his face. 

Let's take a lesson from Ed. 

Chin up, Chicken Wings.

Cleaning Up

Here's what I paid for: A team of three housekeepers to come to my home. They were going to dust and vacuum and scrub and shimmy around for four whole hours.

Here's what I got: Francesca.

She arrived at my door about forty minutes late, standing an alarming 4'8" or so and holding absolutely no cleaning supplies. Although she did appear to be holding quite a large chip on her shoulder. (Free of charge.)

I showed her around and headed for the park with my perfect dog, Ed, while Francesca began vacuuming the living room. I returned home over an hour later to find Francesca...vacuuming my living room. Intrigued, I asked her if she had found more to do during that hour than stand in the exact same room doing the exact same thing. No, she informed me, she had not.

At this point I was still hopeful. A shy cleaner. Maybe she didn't feel bold enough to move freely about my house while I was gone. Now that I was home she'd blow my fucking mind.

Not so. She stood in my kitchen sipping a ginger ale. Then she turned to me and said (I will never forget this as long as I live), "My life is so hard. My husband has a gun."

You could have knocked me over with her invisible feather duster. "Pardon?" I whispered.
"He's got a gun." she casually repeated.

Holy shit. "Is this a cry for help? Are you in need of help? Should I call the police? Is this a cry for help and you need me to call the police?!"

Francesca delicately placed her empty soda can on a pile of dirty dishes in my unscrubbed sink. "Nope. I just thought you should know. My life is hard and my husband is mean. I work seven days a week to put food on my table."

"Six and a half," I thought meanly.

She left shortly after that, with several stolen cleaning supplies and a fat fistful of cash I had shoved at her.

I thought frequently of Francesca over the next few hours as I completed the work I had paid her to do. Maybe her life was hard, maybe her husband does have a gun, maybe she did in fact clean seven days a week.

She certainly cleaned me out.

Remembering

Lu-Seal

The 18th of August marked seventeen years to the day since I found my dog Lucille.

To commemorate the day (and her) we packed up the truck and headed to Malibu with a cooler full of strong cocktails and some hot dogs. I also packed Lucy's ashes. She loved the beach and I thought it would be fitting to leave a little of her there permanently.

Once we arrived I stepped into the water, with Lucy in a pretty pink container. I thought about her and all that she means to me and I told her how very much I missed her and that I hope she knows that. And then I said, "If you're still with me or if you can hear me it would be great if you could give me a sign. No big whoop, but it would be great to hear from you." And I walked a little bit further into the water and sprinkled in her ashes. That's when I looked up, and there, right in front of me, was the sweetest little seal. Just swimming around and having a fine old time. 

(You should know that I was very fond of saying that at times Lucille looked remarkably similar to a seal. Lu-seal, I'd say.)

And then the seal dipped under the water and disappeared. For a brief amazing moment I feel like I saw my sweet girl again and it made me happier than I can say. 

I don't know much, but I do know when to shut up and be grateful.

So thanks. Thank you thank you thank you.

My Permanent Right Hand Girl

Sittin' on the porch with Brenda

I'm about to write a sentence that I never in my life thought I would ever ever write....I just got off the phone with my dog psychic.

So there it is, I've laid it out for you. That's where I officially have landed in my life. Dog psychics. 

Things go a little sideways and you find yourself on the phone with a housewife in Florida who specializes in canine communication. It's an easy leap when you're falling apart. 

My favorite thing about her is that she doesn't put on a big show. She doesn't deepen her voice or mumble around, she just chats in a real "we're just two gals having some cheap Zin on the porch" kind of way. Real sing songy. And that's what makes me buy what she's selling. 

Here's the truth, when someone says psychic, someone else says, lame. But Brenda (that's her name, don't wear it out) has made me feel better about things. She really has. She's listened to me and let me cry and ask weird questions and she's never laughed. Not even once. Plus, she seems to know things about my dog that I thought only I knew. 

And in the end, and most importantly, she gave me peace. She gave me peace at a time when I needed it most.

And for that I thank her and I always will. Brenda, my Floridian dog psychic, she's the real deal.

Lucky Me

I have some pretty magnificent friends.

(We may buy discount, but we're first class all the way!)

Just like that...

These days I don't want to make a move. I don't want to take a breath or pick up the phone or answer the door.  I keep thinking that if I stay perfectly still, make myself small enough, maybe nothing will happen. If I ignore the world, it will leave me alone for a while.

I've never been a fan of thinking about what may go wrong or worrying about things ending badly, but sometimes I'm forced to. Doesn't make it any easier. 

So instead of a family of three, we remain a family of two.

And instead of two dogs, we now have one. 

And instead of our sweet dog having four legs, he now has three and a timeline.

Everyone's been through this, when it seems like it just won't stop. And the thing I try to do is just hold on and remind myself that sometime soon I'll be at a party, or a movie, or at a dinner with friends and I'll find myself laughing. 

Just like that.

Farewell, My Sweet Lucille

By my side for 17 years.

No finer friend.

Home Sweet Home

When buying a home, you hear this phrase time and time again, "don't buy a house across the street from a crackhead" and there's a reason for that.

Sadly, this is advice I chose to ignore. The price was right and the house was old and weird and we bought it. There's not a day that goes by, usually about the time my neighbor's calling me a douche bag and throwing her smelly garbage into my yard with commendable accuracy, that I don't regret the purchase.

I've mentioned this neighbor before, right here as a matter of sad fact. 

Turns out three people on our street have restraining orders against her. The girl can fly right off the handle, it seems. It's the deadly combination of crazy and crack that gives her that edge.

She's still fond of sitting on her porch and making long winded, curse filled calls into a cell phone that is invisible to the naked eye. The emotional range of these calls is breathtaking. She usually starts small, just meat and potatoes chatter about murder or UFO's, then she moves into some dark rages that include hurling C-bombs and N-Bombs my way. She's also taken to listing certain states -  Utah, New Mexico and Rhode Island in particular. No idea what's going on there, but if I lived in those states, I'd start packing. Heat.

I've spoken to her sister, an exhausted woman who is just trying to get this lunatic locked up again. She stops by the house pretty much daily to make sure the knives are dull and the crack pipes are cold, I imagine. The sister kindly offered me a crumpled business card with the number of a detective who's handling the case. Let me repeat that, the detective who's handling the case. (Sweet mother of all that is holy, why did we buy this house?!) Turns out what you hear on Lifetime Television is true, we have to wait for our bug eyed neighbor to get violent before the authorities can step in. Fantastic. And calming. 

Listen, I'm sure she has a sad story, but don't we all? We've all been through the wringer, but we don't smoke crack and make fake phone calls about it. Or if we do, we don't swear at our neighbors while doing so. Listen, your life is your own, but don't be an asshat. 

So here I sit on this sunny morning, curse words falling like petals, the scent of freshly smoked crack giving me a contact high, as I eagerly await a violent attack so I can, at long last, call the authorities.

Home sweet home.

The Party's Over

I had two sweet little cowboy hats that I liked to put on my dogs for dress up. Pink for the girl and a surprising emerald green for the boy. From time to time I chose a theme and dressed them accordingly, western-style being my favorite. I also had some exquisite pearl earrings that I would softly clip on to their ears when we were playing "fine dining".

Several months ago my husband came home early from work. He found the three of us in costume. I believe we were adorned festively in our bold fortune teller fare. He stood in the bedroom doorway wearing jeans and a look that is relatively hard to describe. Somewhere between "dear god, I made a big mistake" and "my wife is cheating on me". After several deep breaths he asked me never to play dress up with our dogs again. I countered that with all the money I had sunk into our matching wardrobes, it seemed a shame to end it all. He countered with, stop it.

And so I have. Nothing but some polaroids and the occasional stray red boa feather for memories. But what sweet memories they are.

Mrs. Jim Rockford

So April 7th we rang in the 85th birthday of my Should-Have-Been-Husband.

I was five when I stumbled upon The Rockford Files and stood face to tv glass with the very first love of my life, Mr. James Garner. Yes, my parents were a little freaked out by the age difference. But the truth is, I didn't want to kiss him, I just wanted to hang around with him. Drive around in his rad Pontiac Firebird, go fishing on the pier, maybe help crack a case wide open, that kind of thing.

He was just so casual about it all. Casual about getting locked up, a split lip, tailing perps. Cracking wise when he should have been scared. I just felt so much braver when he was in my living room.

So, of course, I began a campaign to get myself a role on his show. This lasted from age five to eight. I carefully cut out my school pictures, the little wallet sized ones, and enclosed them with handwritten notes that I addressed: Mr. James Garner, Hollywood, CA. Why on earth I didn't hear back remains an unsolved mystery.

Because I was unfamiliar with the term "audition", I assumed that if you made a polite request, they would welcome you onto the show. After a few months of Hollywood silence, I upped my game. I asked my mom to drive me to Ostrom's Drugstore where I carefully selected personalized stationery. My choice was a baby blue hued card that depicted a couple strolling down the beach, hand in hand. On the top of the card I had them emblazon, A Friendly Note From Paula. This, I knew, was my ticket in.

Not so, as it turned out. As the weeks turned to months, turned to years, the air slowly drained from my dream balloon. And, when I was eight, I caught a rerun of a Rockford Files episode titled, "Family Hour". It starred a young blonde girl. I think she'd been kidnapped.

I knew then that it was all over. She had taken my role. The first time I had ever seen a kid on that show and it wasn't me. She probably had way cooler stationery. (Full disclosure: The blonde kid was none other than the gravelly-voiced Kim Richards, current star of Bravo's Housewives franchise and former cocktail enthusiast.)

Of course, I'm continuing my campaign to work with Mr. Garner. Every time I step on a set, I ask the crew if they've worked with him, and a surprising number have. He's received only rave reviews, renowned as an all around fun guy and cool customer. I mean, come on!

Time of course is ticking and I really need to find a perfect vehicle for the two of us. Something where we can just hang around talking, maybe getting arrested in a super-casual style.

Until then, I send him my fondest wishes for a wonderful year and, as always, my unending love, in this friendly note from Paula.

I'm Number Two!

I want to come in first. I'm usually second. At auditions, selling scripts, Bingo. Not the winner. I'm the smiling contestant who leaves with the frying pans and rice-a-roni, not the fat stacks of cash and dream vacation. Nothing wrong with that, but nothing particularly right with it either. 

And second place, I've come to feel, blows.

I used to think that second was super close to first. Almost there. Just around the corner from number one. But now, I want to be the winner. 

I'm not a super-competitive person. I'm not even a competitive person. I clap for the other team when they do well. But as the days turn into months, turn into years, turn into for-fucking-ever, I want to be in first place. I want to know how that feels.

Weirdly, that's a little hard to admit, but that's the truth, Ruth. 

So keep your fingers crossed and your eyes on the prize, America. I'll let you know the minute I get there.

Miss Lucille (the all time champion of every dog in the entire universe)

Yesterday I encountered proof positive that certain people can be Grade A, d-bags. Let me walk you through what happened - While strolling with my beautiful dog Lucille (take as long as you'd like to admire the photo above) a dowdy woman in a stained parka lurched up to me. She thrust a business card at me while saying, "It looks like you might be needing my services soon. And we've got reasonable rates, you can ask around." The card read, Peaceful Endings Pet Euthanasia-PEPE. I informed her that a charm school may have been a better investment, nonetheless, my dog, if she'd care to look, was still very much alive. In fact, she was having a fine time at the park.

Listen, it's pretty clear, my dog is old. She's 17 and she has cataracts and arthritis and her hearing is beginning to fade away. And soon, I know, she will begin to fade away too. I find the whole thing unbearable. But I don't need to be nudged in the direction of killing my dog on a sunny Sunday afternoon. That's just bad business.

And I also know that everyone thinks their dog is the best dog in the world, and while I appreciate that, it's been a secret kept by no one that Lucille is the all time champion of every dog in the entire universe.

We've been together for 16 years now, since I found her wandering the mean streets of Hollywood, looking for a friend. I suppose I was doing the exact same thing. 

For a long while Lucille was the first face I'd see in the morning and the last sweet face I'd see before closing my eyes at night. Her little feet clicking across every single floor we've ever lived on. She's never been mad at me and she just so happens to think, despite all facts to the contrary, that I'm the winningest, the funniest and the absolute smartest chick around. The feeling, I'll have you know, is very mutual.

In the time we've been together, we've traveled around, had some ups and a few downs, met some great folks, lost a few friends and stood close by each other through it all.

How could she know, the d-bag with the dirty parka, that Lucille means the world to me and more? How could she know that her attempt at getting some coin left my heart a little less buoyant? 

I guess it's the idea of missing Lucille that is such an awful thing. Preparing myself for what's surely right around the corner.  For the day I no longer hear her little feet clicking across my floor. But until that dark day, I'm going to enjoy every second I have left with her, my sweet Lucille, the all time champion of every dog in the entire universe.

Cheers!

Yesterday I had a big deal Hollywood meeting with a big deal Hollywood manager. To be clear, the whole thing was a really big deal.

When a big deal meeting is scheduled, I lay out my clothes and my big deal dreams the night before. It's all very exciting and who knows what can happen. 

I'd like to walk you through precisely what did happen. 

I arrived five minutes early to the big deal office. It was luxurious, just as I'd imagined. I'd also like to mention that my hair looked unusually good. I had practiced walking in my heels the night before, so my teetering was at a minimum. I was feeling fine. 

I was ushered into the big deal manager's office by his sexy looking assistant and then it hit me. Like a full bottle of tequila being smashed against my well-coiffed head, it hit me. The big deal manager was drunk. It was 11am. 

And he was not, "kinda drunk 'cause he had an early meeting and sipped some mimosas" or "my client is starring opposite Ryan Gosling in a major studio movie so we celebrated a little too late", but the kind of drunk that only a raging boozer who has spent the better part of his adult life swilling high balls and can no longer smell how offensive his stench is, type of drunk. 

And so, like the pop of a cork, my dreams were dashed. I sat across from him and he did a relatively good impersonation of a sober guy. He complimented my work and told me what he thought he could do for me. His sobering up and showering were not mentioned in this plan. And the hard truth is, I stayed in that meeting and spent a large part of it wondering if I could somehow make this work. Maybe a boozy manager wasn't so bad, I thought. I mean, he had some great clients and who was I to judge his beverage intake? Right? Oh my god, Hollywood can make you gross yourself out for a second or two.

So, I ended the meeting, shook his smelly hand, and left. I had things to do, people. Like drive through smoggy Los Angeles traffic, dry my tears and start dreaming up a brand new, big deal Hollywood dream. 

If nothing else, tinseltown, I am resilient.

Scott and the Shopgirl

An Open Letter to the Saleslady in the Hipster Boutique on Colorado Blvd:

Well, hello. You may not remember me. I'm the chick who was in your shop earlier today. The one you spent 20 minutes or so ignoring.

I asked you a couple of questions that you handily dodged. Perhaps, I thought, you were hard of hearing. But such was not the case because you spent the duration of my stay chatting on your cell phone. You were talking about Scott.  Remember? You seemed very disappointed in him, you think he needs to evolve (your words, not mine), but you can't help being drawn into his light (again, your lame words).

What a pickle you found yourself in. Should I do my job, a job that I am paid to do? Or, should I stand in the center of the store talking on the phone, ignoring customers, and worrying about "the energy Scott gives off"?

I'll offer you a quick tip; gesturing wildly with your head toward the left side of the store when I asked if the grey sweater you had in your window last week was still available, is not considered work, no matter what kind of energy you're giving off.

Another tip, comb your hair.

I know, I know, Scott needs your focus. That takes time, I get that. But here's what else I get; you should work when you are at work. Do your job when you are at...your job. It's easy enough to follow. And after work you can put Scott on the front burner of your worry stove. You can furrow your thick brow, call friends and foe alike and engage in long conversations spent analyzing Scott's "core truth".  Seriously, it seems that's where your passion lies. With Scott. Or discussing Scott.

My passion this afternoon lay with buying my friend a sweater she wanted for her birthday. A steeply priced grey number that your store carries. (When I say your store, it's abundantly clear you're not the owner.)  However, our two passions did not mesh. Scott was the clear victor and I, I'm sorry to report, was not.

Listen, we've all had a Scott. A person who we wring our hands over and spend countless hours dissecting and (I am about to reveal a truth to you, so I hope that if you are prone to swooning you take a cushioned seat) Scott doesn't give a shit. Scott is an asshat. And that, to use your parlance, is Scott's core truth.

Now, brush yourself off, then brush your hair (seriously, just run a comb through it), call a friend for the final installment of the Scott-Scapades, then get to work. And when you get there - work.

With all my heart,

Your Almost Customer

A Girl Named Kelsi

 Once, while dining in Council Bluffs, Iowa, my friend and I ordered veggie burgers. They were listed on the menu. What arrived was a white, dented hamburger bun filled with mayo, iceberg lettuce and a limp tomato slice. An interesting twist on what we had come to know.
Council Bluffs, Iowa, is a place I think of often and fondly, despite its cuisine. It's home to a host of fine, friendly, passionate folks, beautiful wide open skies, and, every four years, the Iowa Caucus. Not, as it turned out, home of the veggie burger. (Side Note: Also home to Razzle Dazzle, a tiny strip club where I enjoyed several margaritas and some interesting conversation with the ladies who worked there.)
I came to know the town when I volunteered for a presidential campaign. Do you remember John Edwards? Not the psychic, that's John Edward. I'm talking about the former political hopeful. Remember him? Southerner, charming, big white smile, shiny hair, married to a kickass lady...she had cancer...remember now? Right, he cheated on her with a freaky, new age-y weirdo type? Lied about it, put her on his payroll, screwed over his family, shamed people who believed in him, National Enquirer story, is it coming back? Had a baby with the weird chick, lied about it...Okay, well that's the campaign I picked as a winner. I know. I get it. Don't take me to Las Vegas. But, here's the kicker, I loved it!
As I'm sure you can imagine, a cast of many characters were volunteering for the Edwards campaign, a parade of nerds if you will and I most certainly will. The first person I met was Beef, a doughy and unhappy chick who picked me up at the airport with a dented van and a sour attitude. Turns out her name was Beth. I misheard her and called her Beef for the first two days I was in town. The hard fact was that she and I both knew that, Beef, suited her far better than the more cottony, Beth.
Beef dropped me off outside the Edwards campaign office and sped away, spraying icy slush and venom my way. I swung the front door open and it was there that I met a girl named Kelsi.
Kelsi appeared to be a young teen. She was standing in the office, which smelled of mold and peanut butter, and was on the phone trying to locate her lost luggage. (No doubt, filled with Tiger Beats and Belieber fan fiction, I thought meanly.) I was told she and I would be partnered up for the duration. What, in the name of all that is holy, do I have to say to this 8th grader? A lot, as it turns out. Looks can be quite deceiving (See: John Edwards).
As Kelsi and I stomped through the Iowa snow in minus one million degree weather and knocked on doors, we learned a lot about each other. It turns out she was a fascinating chick. She was brilliant and hilarious and the most fun I'd had in a good long time. She was married (legally) and worked as a CSI. What on earth?! I spent the first hours with Kelsi saying things like, "liver temp", "TOD" and "Let's bag the hands so we can check for GSR." She was my very own Veronica Mars - a teen genius, but not really a teen. Here's the thing about being stuck in a small town with a stranger; it can go bad really fast (See: Beef) or super great, super fast (See: Kelsi).
I could go on and on about the ridiculously long hours we worked, the weird fights over campaign stickers, the run-ins with other candidates volunteers, how Beef kept stranding Kelsi and I in the middle of fucking nowhere because she was just plain old revolting. How we raced down miles of snowy highway under a starlit sky so we could hang out at a farmhouse with Elizabeth Edwards. Or about Rocky, the bighearted DJ from Sacramento who quit his job and used the last of his money to fly to Iowa simply because he believed so completely in John Edwards. Or maybe the afternoon we met a lovely woman who invited us into her small, tidy home and asked us to pass on a heartbreaking letter she had written to John Edwards. In it she shyly asked for help for her ailing brother because she had nowhere else to turn.
But what I remember the most is how Kelsi and I spent late nights telling each other confidences that you only share with newfound friends in shabby motel rooms while drinking bad wine.
It would be easy to look back at that campaign and feel cheated. To feel that we gave our time and money to a big fat liar because it's true, that's pretty much what we did. But when I think about my time in Iowa, I remember how much we all believed in something. Our motley group banded together because we had a heartfelt conviction that we were doing something right and there's nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all.
Not to mention, it's where I had my first taste of an Iowan veggie burger and made friends with girl named Kelsi.