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.

White pizza

I have similar feelings about white pizza as I do about white chocolate and white-bean chili.

In a word, imposter.

White pizza a big round tasty breadstick but it’s not pizza. I may not be Italian but I’ve eaten a buttload of pizza during the course of la mia dolce vita. A perfect pizza, with chewy crust, bubbling cheese, and a tangy tomato sauce, can cause me to temporarily lose my mind, only to find it right next to an empty pizza box or tray. I have been known to hoover the whole thing, be it a thick Chicago-style pizza from Gino’s East or a homemade jobber with a cornmeal-dusted crust and fresh sauce.

A white pizza, however, has never inspired me to do more than flip the page on the menu and order another carafe of chianti. I need some color in my life and if I can’t get it from my pizza, I’ll just drink my dinner instead. I’m not saying it’s not tasty but when faced with a choice between a pizze bianche or a tomato pie, why would I ever choose the white one? Olive oil is an oil, not a sauce.

I call bullshit on white pizza.

(photo: emerilware.com)

Vegan baked goods

The farmers market in my neighborhood is a delicious place of magic, wonder, and things to delight the senses. I love to peruse the stalls, sampling soups and spreads and breads. The vegan bakery looks so charming, like etsy was blended with anthropologie and shot through with a dash of country café. 

So I suspend my disbelief and reach for a peach muffin.

Five dollars lighter, I lick my lips and prepare to make my oral assault. What’s that? How is it? Ummm, hmmm, gaaaaa, uhhh, kakakaaaaaaaa.

Hey, thanks for that sip of organic goat’s milk. Whew. I forgot there for a minute that sawdust is vegan.

I’m pretty particular when it comes to breads, pastries, pies, and baked goods. Since I don’t eat them every day, I want to make sure that when I do, it transports me to my grandmother’s kitchen, an authentic pâtisserie, or a dessert cart at a four-star restaurant.

I don’t want to conjure up the lumber yard, lawn clippings, or a wood chipper.

When it comes to baked goods, no butter + no eggs = no dice. There’s a lot to be said for going vegan, sure, but melt-in-your-mouth muffins and flaky croissants sure as shit isn’t a vegan baker’s sweet spot.

(photo: espressoandcream.com)

Miley Cyrus's feet

Britney, bless her trashy heart, started it but Miley picked up the baton and is running with it. Barefoot. Like Zola Budd barefoot.

Over and over again, Miley and other teen sensations are scampering around Toluca Lake and Malibu in their bare feet. I love walking around bare foot as much as the next country girl-turned-city slicker, but usually I like walking on grass or sand or my hardwood floors, not on asphalt or stained gas station bathroom linoleum. There's always gonna be another mountain, and you need some proper fucking footwear to climb it.

Slip on some flip flips, dingaling, before I have a real party in the USA and go off on your ass. Don't even get me started about the side boob and dreamcatcher tat. That's a whole tumblr blog waiting to happen.

(photo: knottycelebs.com)

Special-occasion fleece

As the curtains opened on my evening, things looked promising. I bellied up to the bar, where I was greeted by a handsome man in a natty suit. We moved on to the theater to see Lewis Black's charming and funny play, One Slight Hitch.

There was, however, one slight hitch. Actually, there were a few hundred hitches surrounding me. Men and women alike were sporting fleece vests, cargo shorts, baseball caps, polo shirts adorned with Microsoft logos, and grotty comfort sandals. The audience looked like they were ready to gut a fish, not watch a performance by professional actors (that they paid good money to experience).

Like weddings, job interviews, and black-tie galas, the theater is a special event. Like spotting a unicorn or rainbow, it's not something that happens every day, at least in my world. The theater is a reason to get dressed up, not give up. Akin to wearing pajamas as outerwear, wearing convertible pants and your favorite hoodie is a sign that you don't give a shit, either about yourself or the cultural institution. I know I live in Seattle, but for fuck's sake, people and REI employees, would it kill you to wear tinted lipgloss or pants that reach to the floor?

If you keep insisting on wearing the same garb for weeding the garden and supporting the arts, I'll have no choice but to bring the lights down on your sorry performance. And...scene.

(photo: theepochtimes.com)

Preschool graduation

Ahem, what is a four year old graduating from, exactly? Pull-ups? These days, every kid gets a trophy, a sticker, a certificate just for showing up to school, to soccer, even to the breakfast table. And they spend a good fortnight in class making mortar boards and crowns, baking Cake Pops, and scribbling out a sloppy diploma for a ceremony that causes overworked parents to rework their already jammed Outlook calendar.

There's no real sense of achievement being cultivated when a diploma is handed to a pre-schooler for finger painting, playing well with others, and going number-two successfully. Where's the competitive spirit? I trounced the rest of my first-grade Lybrook Elementary class to win a spelling contest because cold hard cash was involved. I—no one else—scored a crisp dollar bill. That made me want to succeed, not a collective gold star for attendance.

Sorry to matricuhate, but too much fanfare over little piddly shit results in little shits growing up to be big shits with entitlement issues. Today's little graduate is tomorrow's massive unemployed bunghole.

(photo: buzzle.com)

Well drinks

I spent nigh on three decades wondering what all the fuss was about. I grew up with blue-collar alcoholics, I saw a buttload of drinking in college, and then I entered the working world, which meant a lot of ill-advised shoulder pads, crap happy hours, and drink specials.

Which meant a lot of cheap hooch and well drinks.

I didn't get it. Whiskey sours, sea breezes, white wine spritzers, Cape Cods, gin and tonics, highballs, vodka gimlets, screwdrivers, scotch and soda… I sampled the hell out of them all and found one common thread.

They all sucked gas-station attendant ass.

They tasted of medicine and jet fuel, laced with teeth-bruising sweetness. I didn't get it. I didn't cotton to beer and while I liked the pretentiousness of wine culture and barrel-aged reds, my migraines didn't.

So I stuck to Diet Coke.

Then something miraculous happened. I ordered a Tanqueray and tonic. My taste buds screamed their approval and I never looked back at the nameless bottles behind the bar. I traded up to the literal top-shelf liquors, trying Bombay, Tanqueray 10, Hendricks, Plymouth, Death's Door, and other kinds of fancy-pants gin. I asked a bartender to create a flight of martinis with different vodkas so my girlfriends and I could do a proper taste test. I no longer need to wish at the well because my dreams came true in a delicious green bottle.

 What's the worst drink you've ever knocked back?

(photo: mchenryconightout.com)