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.

Pop That Cork!

I wish each and every one of you the year of your dreams. 

May I also add, I find you absolutely irresistible. 

Bottoms up, angel pants, and be joyous!

May all of your celebrations be just as spectacular

(please click & swoon...)

Tip of the Hat

Remember when men dressed in smart suits and wore hats? Me, neither. And neither does my next door neighbor who wears gray sweats with a hole the size of a silver dollar in what should be a very private zone.

To be fair, I'm just as guilty as he is. As I write this I'm wearing what I like to call, yoga pants, which is just a high falutin' word for, old stretchy black sweats. What happened here? When did we get so lazy and creepy looking? Just look at what's happened to Las Vegas. My god, it used to be alive with money, sin and glamour. Ladies dripped with diamonds and wore big huge hair-do's. And, of course, men wore suits. Now Vegas is just fat. We're too lazy to even put the Las in it. Vegas. Buttery buffets and sneaker clad visitors with buffoonish tee shirts that read, "Vegas, Baby!" or "Slot Slut!".  Good night.

People used to dress up to go the movies, to the grocery store, for lawn bowling. (I know lawn bowling is extinct, I'm just trying to make a point here.)

Listen, I'm wearing "yoga pants" because I'm indifferent about dressing. I work from home. Who's going to see me besides the UPS guy and my horribly dressed neighbor? And sometimes I kick it up a notch, put on jeans and a cute top, maybe even a charming little dress, but those days are few and far between. I think we all need to collectively do a lot better. What does it take, an extra 10 or 15 minutes to doll up? And for the men, more like 46 seconds.

Can you imagine? We'd blow our mutual minds with our snappy looks.

So it's agreed. We'll all cut the shit and start looking like the smart set that we are.

Or, and I'm just throwing this out there for the sake of comfort and conversation...we slip into our roomy sweats and cool all this fancy pants chatter.

Ho Ho Ho!

"Merry Christmas, nearly everybody!"

-Ogden Nash

Light Up Your Christmas, Old-School Style!

In Tofino with Toots

When I was nine I spent the summer in Tofino Canada, vacationing with my very best friend, Melissa, and her rich, oddball father, Rod.

In fact, I had spent the last three summers doing the exact same thing, but during those trips Melissa's mom had come with us. This was the first trip without her and I felt her absence immediately. For starters, Rod wasn't big on rules. Like staying sober. Or feeding us. He was big, however, on his new girlfriend, Toots. That was her name. We even stole her wallet late one night and checked her driver's license. Toots, it read. She arrived the day after we did, wearing a see-throughish orange sundress and you could glimpse her lacy black bra underneath. She was exotic and terrifying.

The Tofino house was enormous and sat on a huge piece of land in front of the ocean. Toots wandered around the house picking up the knick knacks and candlesticks Melissa's mom had lovingly arranged in previous summers, as if she were taking inventory.

Toots and Rod required a lot of privacy which left Melissa and I with time on our hands. This can be an exciting thing to a nine year old. We felt like short adults. In the morning we'd find the handfuls of crumpled twenties Rod had left us on the kitchen counter. We'd eat cold pop tarts in the back yard and then wander into town where we bought People magazines and postcards that I'd send home to Seattle, scribbling notes about the fine time I was having.

Rod always smelled of scotch and expensive cologne. He had thick wavy black hair and an elegant gold watch and looked the way I imagined a jet setter would. He was the first man I'd ever seen who actually had a money clip which made it seem like his money was worth more.  Rod normally wore tailored suits, but here in Tofino he favored linen pants and pastel colored shirts. He roared around town with Toots in a red convertible. And then a white one after he crashed the red one. Both at home and in Tofino Rod remained remote, like he was watching Melissa and I from another room. He always seemed just out of our reach.

A couple of weeks into summer there was no pretense left of Toots and Rod looking after us. The two of them slept late into the afternoons on the days they were home. Even at nine I knew it was sad for us to be left so alone. My parents knew my every move, my every friend, my every grade. Melissa could go missing for a couple of days before a red flag would be raised.

About this time we started spending long afternoons at sea. A little fishing boat sat at their pier and we'd start up the engine and head out. We took these trips seriously, packing food, rods, reels, bait and a stack of our People's.

We were living a life that was filled with freedom and fear. We were nine and it's really dark at night. We had to learn how to do our own laundry and make our own dinner. We made a pact with each other to not let our hair get too dirty. Of course there were many nights that we cranked up the Grease soundtrack, singing loud and bad while layering on Toots' makeup, telling each other ghost stories and secrets, but the plain fact is, nine year olds need to feel somewhat supervised.

Toward the very end of that summer we were out on the boat when a storm came. Our heads were buried deep in the People's and we didn't see it coming. By the time we did it was a little too late. Something like this was bound to happen. The long and short of it is that the boat was smashed to bits and local fishermen plucked us from the water and took us home. If Rod were there, they would have beat him up. Since he wasn't, they called their wives who dried our clothes, gave us baths and made us hot soup. Melissa and I laid awake all night, holding hands while we waited for Rod and morning to come.

That was the last summer I went to Tofino. Melissa and I saw less and less of each other as the years went on. She began to become what girls will sometimes become when they aren't parented all that much. In high school she acted tough and dated hard characters trying to hide it all away.  But from time to time, whenever we ran into each other,  we'd catch eyes and smile. We knew each other in a way that no one else ever will. We knew each other in the way that only nine year old girls who've been caught in a wild storm can know each other.

My fine, brave friend, Melissa.

No Way, Jose

I noticed that my garbageman, Jose, had lost a tremendous amount of weight. Yesterday afternoon I quizzed him about it.

"All carb diet." That's right, All Carbs! He breakfasts on donuts and toast. Lunch is a combination of tortillas and potato chips. For dinner, baked potatoes and linguini. Snacking on pretzels is a must!

What have we stumbled onto, I thought. Just what dietary walls are we breaking down today, America?

Not many, I'm afraid. On his way back to the truck he threw in that he also quit his 12 can a day beer habit.

So close. So very, very close.

She's Eternally Aces

"Show me a woman who cries when the trees lose their leaves in autumn and I'll show you a real asshole."

Nora Ephron

(my hero of all time)

My Bad Reputation

About one million years ago I stood in the middle of a boozy, smoky loft, the floor littered with bottles and crushed cigarette butts. It was about 4 in the am and I was quite drunk and so were the dozens of other mohawked attendees. This was more or less a routine evening for me at this time in my weird little life, but what stands out about this particular evening was what I overheard. A tattered looking lad was sitting on a tattered looking couch. He leaned in toward his friend (who appeared to have vomit drying on his chin) and said, "She can be so fucking harsh, man. Just so mean."

The "she" in question, was me. It was jarring to hear. I'd always thought of myself as kittenishly soft. Very affable. But, apparently, these two did not.  Why, I thought as I smacked them about their pale faces. Why on earth would they say that?

While icing my fist, I took a good, long, hard look at myself. Perhaps there was something to what they said. Yes, I yelled a lot. Yes, I sometimes stormed out of rooms when people were mid-story because I didn't want to hear the boring end. Yes, I chucked things when I got mad, occasionally leaving someone with a faint scar. (Very faint, you crybabies.) Things were beginning to add up.

As I stumbled home I decided it was probably time to mend my ways, lighten up a little, try out some charm school magic.  Nobody wants to be seen as a meanie,

But here's the thing - no one bothers to tell you how much fucking energy manners take. How time consuming it is to hold a door open, dash off a thank you note, give away your cabs, or smile. These were dark times for me. Just lifting a lit smoke to my lips was absolutely exhausting most mornings.

I spent the better part of a week doing what I could to improve my character before wearily flopping onto my unmade bed and deciding that in a certain light, there was a forceful beauty in a bad reputation.  Maybe not such a bad thing after all.

The Sad Tale of Uneaten Nuts

My husband is a squirrel enthusiast. He enjoys their agility and free-spirited, can-do attitude. Me, not so much. Ever since the murder of a somber squirrel I had briefly known named Sartoosh (see the grisly details here!), I've been kind of off of the whole befriending rodents thing.

We have a large smelly tree in the backyard. It grows some kind of fruit that I've never seen sold in stores and the reason for this is probably because it smells faintly of candy and blood. However, this scent has not put the local squirrel population off one bit. They flock to this tree. And the tree grows without a bit of help from me. Hoping to ignore the tree to death didn't work and it's grown about a foot since we bought the house, nestling up against our back porch which means the squirrels frolic around the back porch which is what first caught my husband's attention.

Listen, it's cute, I get it. Fuzzy grey haired little animals hopping around on a tree, it's fun. But while I am able to ignore the squirrel demographic, my big hearted husband is not. He started by watching them out the laundry room window, then he would slowly open the back door, hoping they wouldn't dash away. Day after day he worked at this, and day after day they ran. That's when he came up with the idea of a squirrel buffet of sorts, gently placing nuts on our back porch railing, making sure they were evenly spaced. But they snubbed his snacks. You would think instinct would take over and the squirrels would start snatching them up, maybe even fighting over this feast, but I guess their penchant for hurting my husband's feelings was greater than their urge to eat.

Finally, all of this came to an abrupt end. The excitement in my husband's eyes when he saw several nuts missing from the railing, and the despair once he realized it was the wind that had knocked them off. The cold nuts lying on the ground below. Unwanted. Ignored. Uneaten.

Oh, I'll catch him glancing out the back window from time to time, but I suspect that's more habit than hope. Sad, really.

Squirrels blow.

Thanky Panky

I am thankful that roller boogie is making a huge comeback, that the twitching in my left eye is waning, and that I get to fall asleep each night next to the coolest guy around.

Happy jive ass turkey day, you sweet taters!