5 Decisions Away with Matt Paxton Podcast

Let's be honest: I stalked Matt Paxton.

It wasn't hard, actually. I quickly zeroed in on him during the first season of Hoarders. His humor, empathy and take-no-shit-while-actually-shoveling-shit attitude quickly won me and a lot of other viewers over.

I wanted to write a book with him, so I e-mailed him. We were on the phone two days later. He already was working with a coauthor on what would become The Secret Lives of Hoarders, but we kept in touch. Not only is he frank and funny, he's been generous in advising me in various business opportunities and ventures and in commiserating with me over what it means to live the dream.

So when he came to Seattle last week to film an episode of Hoarders for Season 5, I jumped at the chance to meet him and be a guest on his killer podcast, 5 Decisions Away.

It did not disappoint.

We sat in his suite at the Residence Inn, bellies full of beer and fish and chips (when in Seattle, go to the Lockspot for salmon and chips—trust me on this one). And we talked…and talked…you get the idea. 

I don't think two hours went by that fast since I saw Deathly Hallows 2. And it was just as exhilarating as seeing Voldemort finally take that pesky Elder Wand up the arse (metaphorically speaking, natch). I don't know about you but great conversation jazzes me. In the podcast, Matt and I cover everything from being present to getting published to yes, all the various things I want to punch in the face. Matt is not one of them.

5 Decisions Away is available on iTunes. I'm in episode #35: Word. I encourage you to check out his other episodes as well. He really is a hilarious dude, with great anecdotes and a big heart. His mantra of never give up, coupled with his personal trials and tribulations and triumphs, will win you over in short order. He uses hoarding as a launching pad into a much bigger discussion about life, love, and the pursuit of a good raunchy belly laugh.

Crafting memories

My latest essay has been posted on CraftStylish. It talks about a few of my treasured handicrafts, and the television shows and movies I associate with making them. My newest shawl will always remind me of Election Night 08.

I did the Puyallup

I love fairs of all kinds but I particularly fancy the Puyallup Fair. I moseyed down there last night with my crafty friend Michaela of CraftStylish, her boyfriend Greg, and his daughter Elliott. As you can see, we did it up right, playing games, cruising through the Hobby Hall, going on rides (well, they went on rides while I played with the settings on my camera), and ate more than we should. Michaela, who has Coney Island as her frame of reference for carnivals and rides, was more than a bit blown away by the fair's cleanliness and courtesy. While I took photos of moving rides, she snapped shots of the Hand Wash Station and the clean eating area.

Regardless, we both brought home a bag of the fair's famous scones. I'm munching on one right now and to paraphrase Jean Girard from Talladega Nights, it tastes of America.

The fair runs through Sept. 21.

HIGH-larious

You live for the fight when it's all that you've got

My day started off great. I got a cuppa joe at Caffee Ladro and noticed the trivia question on the chalk board.

Who is the drummer for Bon Jovi?

Child's play for a child of the 80s and a diehard Bon Jovi fan. I might win a free latte but who cares? My love of useless trivia and Bon Jovi blended together in one magical moment.

While I love JBJ, I also like Tico Torres.

Nobody puts half-pint in a corner

Melissa Gilbert is going to start in a musical version of Little House on the Prairie, playing Caroline Ingalls this time round! Seriously. I know it's hard to believe, but it gets better. Playing Pa to her Ma is none other than Patrick "Nobody puts Baby in a corner" Swayze. He's no Michael Landon, but, um, where do we sign up? Well, the bad news is that the Rachel Portman-composed Prairie is currently a workshop that is closed to adoring fans.

Let's just pray that the musical is smokin' hot and sets the prairie (and theater world) on fire!

For more information, check out the story here.

Just a small-town girl, livin' in a lonely world...

I've been feeling rather pleased with myself lately. See, I love cheese, and not just the kind you eat. I also consume all sorts of low-brow pop culture with a vengeance, and I don't hide it. I own my cheese, yo.

For years, I've been counting Die Hard among my top five favorite films. I think it's the perfect action movie. Many people have taken issue with this; I've even gotten diatribes as introductory e-mails from potential dates surfing match.com. They take my love for John McClane and Hans Gruber (Is there a better villian out there than Alan Rickman? Come on.) as an opportunity to pitch a Clint Eastwood movie.

I don't e-mail them back.

But maybe I will now. Last week, Entertainment Weekly named Die Hard as the best action movie ever. Eat that, Dirty Harry fans.

And my go-to karaoke song, also a favorite, was the final song selection for the Sopranos: Don't Stop Believin'. I won't, Steve Perry, I won't. I am a small-town girl, livin' in a lonely world. I haven't taken a midnight train going anywhere but close enough.

And then there's The Office. Andy and Jim, trashed on Jager, start singing Closer to Fine by the Indigo Girls. I wouldn't call Amy and Emily cheese, but they are probably my second-favorite band so even if the song was used to comic effect, I felt validated.

And that brings me to Bon Jovi, my all-time favorite band. People always, always raise an eyebrow when I proclaim my love for JBJ but I have to tell you, like Die Hard, this band knows its place in the world and does it better than anyone else. Pure cheese, yes, but also pure gold.

Back in ’87, when I saw Jon Bon Jovi swing over me at Cobo Hall in Detroit on the Slippery when Wet tour, I knew I was witnessing grade-A cheese. And I ate it up.

Shoot the Freak

I recently visited my cousin Amy in Brooklyn and, along with her husband Paul, we trekked out to Coney Island for an afternoon. We did it up right—we rode the Cyclone and were bruised before we climbed out of the rickety car, we ate hot dogs at Nathan's (site of the annual hot dog-eating contest), we piled into a photo booth (you'll hear about my obsession with photo booths eventually). But the craziest thing we saw was a sideshow, tucked in a dilapidated alley between two boardwalk shows, called "Shoot the Freak." The banner below it? "Live Human Target." A barker heckled the crowd, cajoling them into paying up to $20 for 75 paintball pellets for a chance to shoot an air compression rifle at a guy down in the alley pit. The target wore a plastic codpiece and helmet, and carried a paint-splattered shield.

By the looks of that shield, they did brisk business.

When we walked by, a man and his son were tag-teaming the target. This is a far cry from the bearded ladies and the strong men of yore. While I watched the spectacle unfold on the boardwalk, some memory tugged at the corner of my mind. When I was a kid, I remembered reading a series of books about the All-of-a-Kind Family, a Jewish family living on the Lower East Side. The five sisters wore matching pinafores and helped out in their dad's rag shop occasionally. As a game, their mother would hide pennies all over the parlor and as the girls cleaned and dusted, they'd have to find all the pennies, ensuring a thorough cleaning. How genius is that? It's a industrious variation on an Easter egg hunt. But during one hot day, they escaped the city to wade in the water and take in the sights of Coney Island.

I don't think they watched a Japanese man eat 53 hot dogs in 12 minutes, or looked on as a boy shot a rifle at another human being. We've come a long way in some areas but as I watched the guy in the pit lackadaisically moving from side to side, I think about how far we still have to go. Don't get me wrong: I loved Coney Island. It is defiant in its traditions, even if you can smell the slow decay. I loved the gaudiness of it all. I dug the arcade games, the old Russian men in Speedos, the smell of the ocean mingling with grilling hot dogs. But what scares me is that there are far too many people plunking down cash to shoot at another human being without any sort of awareness. Rather, they are just trying to kill an afternoon.

The D list

When people ask me what my hometown is, I always pause, thinking, "Well, technically, my first years were spent in Sodus, Michigan, but then I moved into Benton Harbor but I went to school in St. Joe, but maybe I should just say Southwestern Michigan, not far from Kalamazoo, because people might actually know where that is." By the time I settle on Benton Harbor, my head hurts.

So you can imagine my delight, when watching Kathy Griffin's Life on the D-List, a Bravo TV guilty pleasure, to find her sitting in a restaurant in Benton Harbor. She was doing a gig later that night at Lake Michigan College (or LMC, which was always confusing, since I went to Lake Michigan Catholic, also LMC). Now, I only remember going to LMC to research a term paper and to perform in several plays on their stage since my high school didn't have a theater (my stage career started with a Tri-Parish production of Godspell the summer before my freshman year and ended with my unforgettable performance in Don't Drink the Water, a role for which I channeled my inner Edith Bunker).

But those weren't the only memories Kathy's visit conjured up. When she sent her assistant to wait tables at Texas Corral, I sort of fell off the couch. I had a high school reunion last summer and I got to be the girl I never was in high school: life of the party, flirt, lush. I swear I was drunk for 72 hours. It was glorious. I felt free. (Of course, this only lasted until I got to the airport in South Bend, but it was nice taking a break from my serious, worried self). As a teenager, I was so focused on getting out of town and leaving this world behind that I opted out of nights spent TP-ing Mr. Carr's house or drinking at the beach or cruising the mall.

But not during that reunion weekend. During the pre-reunion festivities at Babe's Lounge, I drank, played pool, flirted with Rhonda Winters' brother, as well as with Bill King. Bill came from farm country as well, and back in fifth grade, he was my boyfriend for a hot second. But nothing ever came of it.

Until that reunion weekend. Before I left town, Bill and I went out by ourselves, chowing down at the Texas Corral, drinking margaritas, and catching up. With his baseball cap pulled low, he told me about his divorce, his job, his daughter, and I could see the life that I rejected. Honestly, it didn't look too shabby; it just wasn't mine. But I'm happy to visit a couple times a year, especially if it includes a trip to Texas Corral. That there is some good eatin'.

10 reasons why I'm suspicious of the Nancy Drew movie

1. In the books, Nancy was 18 and dating Ned, a dreamy college boy. The kid playing Ned looks like he just stopped drinking out of juice boxes.
2. Nancy is cool—not only did readers admire her, but so did everyone around her in the books—and Emma Roberts is playing her as a cute nerdy outcast in a plaid skirt. It's like Rory Gilmore is starting Chilton all over again, but this time, there are CGI ghosts to investigate.
3. In my mind, Nancy belongs in the 1950s, wearing tea-length dresses and stopping for lunch at ladylike tearooms.
4. The movie's subtitle is "The Mystery in the Hollywood Hills," a far cry from River Heights. I don't want to see Nancy hanging out at the Chateau Marmont or Club Hyde. She hangs out with the wrong crowd and the next thing you know, she'll be going without proper undergarments and showing her hoo-ha when getting out of a car.
5. Tate Donovan plays dad Carson Drew. Seriously?
6. I'm afraid there's going to be a makeover montage, like in Clueless or Pretty Woman. Okay, maybe that wouldn't be so bad.
7. I don't get to see her ride bareback, perform in a figure skating competition, scuba dive, tap dance, or otherwise perform some crazy skill she just happens to be studying when a related mystery pops up.
8. Where are Nancy's chums Bess and George? Instead, the trailer shows a chubby boy as her sidekick. Wha, wha, whaaaa?
9. I love me some Liz Phair, but not on the Nancy Drew soundtrack.
10. If I go, I'm pretty sure I'm going to be surrounded by tweens. It will be like a Delia's catalog come to life.
(By the way, I'm the author of Nancy Drew's Guide to Life. Check it out!)