by Ross Mathews
I took a deep breath and clicked on Inbox. There it was—the e-mail.
Again dear reader, there is no need to gild the lily or put an artistic spin on this. Would you throw glitter on the Declaration of Independence or add a fart joke to the script for Steel Magnolias? No, you wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t dare change even one word of Gwyneth’s first e-mail to me. I offer it to you now, in all its simple, pristine beauty:
Mon., March 25, 2002
Hello, it’s Gwyneth. Very nice to meet you last night. Is this the right address for you? Verify before I continue or say anything too risqué.
xo, gp
Umm, what?!? Are we having an earthquake?!? Am I having a stroke?!? Did I just accidentally smoke some black tar heroin?!? Pinch me, smack me, punch me in the face. This. Cannot. Be. Real.
Needless to say, I e-mailed her back faster than you can say Shakespeare in Love !
For the next few days we traded revealing e-mails back and forth, each of us giving the other a crash course in our backgrounds—everything from boys to parents to careers to fashion. In other words, pretty much everything that matters between a straight girl and her new gay bestie. You’ve heard the phrase fast friends? This was speed of light! And it was fantastic!
I was so wrapped up in our newfound friendship, I almost completely forgot that my brand-new pen pal was a bona fide superstar. I felt so at ease with her, but why? Maybe it was because I felt so comfortable behind the safety of my computer screen? Maybe it was because I had always been convinced we’d be friends if we ever met? Or maybe, just maybe, it was because part of me didn’t believe the e-mails were actually from Gwyneth at all.
A little voice in my head was pestering me, whispering, Psst! Hey, moron! This is too good to be true! Did it ever occur to you that maybe someone is playing a cruel trick?
Oh no. Perhaps that cruel voice inside my head was right and some jealous journalist, having witnessed our love fest the night before, had decided to screw with me? Yep, as much as I wanted to believe my friendship with Gwyneth was genuine, I had to admit that the more plausible explanation was that this was all some kind of cruel joke. Things like this just didn’t happen to normal people like me!
As the months went by, this suspicion festered and grew into a full-blown conspiracy theory. After six months of nurturing an intimate friendship with either Oscar winner Gwyneth Paltrow or a designer-imposter Gwinyth Paltroh, I decided it was time for me to either finally meet my new best friend in person or call the bluff of the most heartless prankster in the history of the world. I took a brave step and asked her to lunch.
Regardless of which Gwyneth—fake or real—showed up, this meeting was technically my very first Internet date. Accordingly, my outfit choice was of paramount importance. After much consideration, I opted for Gap jeans in a medium wash, paired with an extra-large gingham print dress shirt in bubblegum pink. It was a look that said, I’m friendship material and, more important, I’m not afraid of color.
The location for lunch was ladies’ choice and she recommended the Ivy in Beverly Hills. I’d never heard of it, but once I arrived I quickly realized that it was paparazzi central and totally fancy. If this was indeed a faux-Gywneth, they had done their homework. I had to tip my hat to their attention to detail, as this place was spot-on. I approached the maitre’d and shyly muttered, “I’m here for…um, the reservation’s under…um…Gwyneth Paltrow?”
He glanced down from his podium and responded, “Ms. Paltrow hasn’t arrived yet, sir.”
I stood there and waited, taking in the ambience and trying not to eavesdrop on the well-known dining patrons, including agents and starlets (all of them ignoring the baskets of bread on their tables). I took advantage of the time spent waiting, taking a few precious minutes to remind myself that I deserved to be there, that I was worthy. Moments later, I looked up and saw a blonde vision approaching. It was the real deal, Ms. Gwyneth Paltrow, in the flesh.
My first thought? HOLY SHIT! THERE’S GWYNETH PALTROW!
My second thought? HOLY SHIT!!! SHE’S HERE TO SEE ME!!!
What a weird feeling, you guys. The only way I could describe it is like this: pretend you’re at the Louvre seeing the Mona Lisa for the first time, and you’re like, “Oh my God, it’s the actual Mona Lisa!”
How cool, right? But while you’re still freaking out over that mind-blowing fact, the security guards take the painting off the wall and hand it to you. It was beyond surreal.
Gwyneth approached me, her arms opened wide, “Ross!”
I couldn’t even reply. I was still kind of in shock while we hugged. As she squeezed me tight, she continued, “It is so good to see you! Are you hungry? Let’s eat!”
Fame and food? She really was the perfect woman.
Gwyneth and I were seated at our table and began looking over our menus. She looked even more lovely than I had remembered. She had no makeup on, her hair was down and she was wearing flip-flops. She looked effortlessly ethereal, like your really pretty friend from junior high who just so happens to be a movie star. Still, I had first-date jitters and decided to come clean about it.
“I have to tell you,” I said. “I’m feeling a little intimidated.”
She seemed shocked. “Are you serious? You’re intimidated by me? Why?!? We’ve been e-mailing for months.”
“I know, but it’s different in person. I mean, this might sound dumb, but you’re…Gwyneth Paltrow.”
She cracked a reassuring smile, reached across the table, and put her hand on mine. “Give it ten minutes, you’ll be over it.”
And you know what? She was right. I hate to use the word perfect. I don’t even know if “perfect” exists (the closest I’ve ever seen is Justin Timberlake in his music video for “Sexy Back”), but it’s the only way I can think of to describe our lunch. We gossiped and laughed for hours—you know, like real friends do. The only difference was that, when we left, we had to sneak out the back to avoid the hordes of paparazzi that had camped out front after learning that she was there.
In the years since, our friendship has grown and continues to blossom. I’ve flown all the way to London to visit her, and we make a point to get together for dinner as often as possible when she’s in Los Angeles. We also continue to e-mail on a regular basis, keeping each other up-to-date on our daily lives and also helping one another through life’s challenges, most notably the loss of both our fathers just months apart. I can’t speak for her, but when I lost my dad, she was the only friend of mine who had gone through the same experience and knew how that felt. Her support and insight were invaluable to me.
What started out as a mission to become very best friends with a version of a person I had created in my head has evolved into something entirely different and much deeper than what I had ever expected. Somewhere along the way, through birthday presents and broken hearts, shopping trips and shared meals, it stopped mattering to me that she’s Oscar-winning actress Gwyneth Paltrow. Nope, that doesn’t matter to me at all now. What does matter is that I just really, truly love her and she really, truly loves me.
So I have a message to all of you out there who dream of someday being BFFs with the one and only Gwyneth Paltrow. I know how you feel. I’ve been where you are. I’ve walked in your shoes. But back off—the bitch is mine!
Get your own Oscar-winning best friend. I hear Kate Winslet is available.
Chapter Ten
Practically Paw-fect in Every Way
As I sit here in my cozy little Los Angeles home, typing away on my laptop, I am flanked on either side by my favorite “laptops” of all: my precious pups, Louise and Mijo. Along with my partner, Salvador, we are a perfect family. It’s hard for me to remember a time when we didn’t wake up to these furry joyful faces, tongues hanging out beneath their big brown eyes, their tails wagging enthusiastically. I truly believe that destiny brought us all together. But to really tell the story of how this human-dog family came to be, we have to go back in time to a day before these two cud
dly canines were even born.
Dogs are nothing new to me. I grew up in a family that loved big dogs. That’s all we ever had—wonderfully large, floppy, slobbery canines. The first official Mathews pup was a Springer Spaniel. I know what you’re thinking: That’s a large dog?!?
But, come on, gimme a break. I was three years old and everything seemed big to me then. Her name was Bootsie, and because I was so young at the time, my only remaining memory of her is a photo taken of us when I had chicken pox. We were both covered in matching spots: hers brown, mine bright red. Adorable, right?
After Bootsie, we had Iggy, named after Ignatowski, my dad’s favorite character on Taxi (played by Christopher Lloyd, best known as Doc Brown in the classic Back to the Future, the pretty good Back to the Future 2, and the crapfest Back to the Future 3 ).
Our dog Iggy was a big, strong golden Lab, and an expert hunter. Witnessing Iggy diligently deliver mallard after dead mallard to my father’s feet left my dad’s hunting buddies in awe. “Shit, Tom, you ol’ cocksucker,” they’d marvel, “that son of a bitch Iggy is the finest damned dog I ever did see.”
They were right. Iggy really was the best. He must have weighed like a hundred pounds, and yet he’d purr like a tiny kitten when I’d pet him. I had such a great childhood with Iggy. While he gnawed on enormous Flintstones-sized soup bones out on our backyard patio, I used to sit on the other side of the sliding glass door with a dry erase board, trying to teach him English. I found it so frustrating that he couldn’t speak and I yearned to know what he’d say if only he could. He’d stare attentively at me as I delivered my lecture. “A is for apple! A sounds like ‘Aaaaaayyyyyy.’ You like apples, don’t you, Iggy? If you say it, you can have all the apples you want!”
This was pre–cell phone, or I would have the footage to prove it, but I swear one time he almost said it.
We truly had a soul connection, Iggy and I. He lived until the ripe old age of fifteen, when the agonizing pain in his hips finally took its toll. Dogs can never really let you know how much pain they’re in, but you could see it in his eyes and almost feel it every time he tried to stand up. He was so much braver than I would have been. I’m such a drama queen—I get a sore throat and you’d think I was starring in the Broadway musical version of Terms of Endearment (mental note: tweet Tony winner Kristin Chenoweth about this). But not Iggy, he was strong.
Even though it was inevitable, putting him down was something my family constantly dreaded for the last few years of his life. But when the time finally came, the experience was actually quite beautiful, believe it or not. As he lay on the examining table at the vet’s office, my entire family gathered around him, recounting our favorite Iggy stories and telling him over and over how much we loved him. The vet administered The Shot, and as our beloved Iggy drifted off into an eternal nap, gently dropping his head into my arms, we kissed him on his chocolate nose and said a final good-bye. I wish we could all go that way—gracefully and surrounded by love.
It was the first time in my young life that I’d ever experienced death. Initially, I was worried that the pain of Iggy’s passing would scar me forever, making it impossible for me to even consider touching another K-9 with a ten-foot pole. But once a dog person, always a dog person, and by the time I was in college, I could no longer deny that I was, in fact, one of “those” people. I began to allow myself to daydream about my postcollege pet. I would graduate, move into an apartment, and get a dog of my very own.
I already had an inclination as to what this new puppy would look like: she’d be a she, and as small as she could be. Owning a small dog was a first for a Mathews man. As I mentioned earlier, I come from a long legacy of large-dog lovers. Historically, Mathews men measure their masculinity by the pounds of their pooches, but I was smart enough to know that ignoring lapdogs was a complete lapse in judgment.
Don’t get me wrong: big dogs are wonderful. America’s loved them for generations—Rin Tin Tin, Lassie, and the dog from Turner and Hooch (I can never remember which one was the dog and which one was Tom Hanks). If big dogs work for you, by all means, go adopt two or three right now and give them a wonderful life and a good home.
You’ve heard the phrase “Bigger is better”? But when it comes to dogs, at least, I personally couldn’t disagree more. For me, it’s less about “size” and more about “sighs” (as in, “Ahhhhh! Oh my God, how cute is that scrumptious li’l dog?!?!?!?!?”).
Here are some arguments for why, in my opinion (and it’s my book, so, not to be rude, but it’s kinda the only opinion that matters right now), little dogs tower above their gargantuan counterparts. I have to warn you, I was on the debate team in high school, so you might want to skip this part if you don’t want to be absolutely convinced that I’m right and you’re so totally wrong.
Small dogs make traveling with a pet a breeze!
Heck, one of literature’s (and cinema’s) most famous tiny terriers, Toto, accompanied Dorothy all the way to Oz. In real life, pint-sized pooches are so portable, they can easily and comfortably fit right beneath the seat in front of you. Ever seen a Standard Poodle in first class? I didn’t think so, lady!
Small dogs make great dates!
You can tote a teacup toy poodle with you pretty much anywhere: while watching a double feature at the movies, browsing organic beets at the farmers market, or leisurely enjoying the most important meal of the day, brunch. I can’t imagine anything harder than trying to hide a Doberman Pinscher under a flimsy plastic patio table while discreetly feeding it nibbles of turkey sausage and simultaneously sipping bottomless mimosas. It’s just not gonna happen, buddy!
Small dogs put the “fun” in “bodily functions”!
Have you ever looked at poop and thought to yourself, Okay, now that is positively precious!? Take it from me, a little doggie’s doodie is ca-ca-cuuuute! Every teeny turd looks like a tiny Tootsie Roll! I’ve seen strangers struggle to use industrial-sized Hefty bags to pick up putrid piles of poo after their giant dog takes a mountainous dump. Yuck! Is that a dog or a horse? Get a shovel, honey!
Small dogs are so cute, they almost look fake!
When I was a kid, I always wished my plush Pound Puppy from Toys“R”Us would magically come to life and hug me back. I named him Spanky, but for the life of me I don’t know why. What was I thinking?!? I’d love to know where my head was back then. “Spanky” sounds very S&M, which is so not me (unless you blow a kiss my way during happy hour—I mean, who doesn’t bust out the faux-fur covered handcuffs after a few too many two-for-one Mai Tais, am I right or am I right?). Anyhoo, Spanky never did return my affections, and I still crave it to this day. So whenever I come upon a little dog, I can’t help but see a living, breathing stuffed animal—just like that toy I had always wished would cuddle me back. Okay, okay…I see that look on your face. What? I bravely open up to you about my childhood need for companionship, and you have the audacity to judge me? Learn to love, asshole!
Small dogs have big hearts!
While all dogs offer unconditional love and faithful devotion, which would you rather have sitting on your chest while fighting the flu or a nursing a wicked hangover (damn those discount Mai Tais!)—a massive Pit Bull or a mini Pomeranian? Like Snoopy himself, small breeds offer an endless supply of healing and sweet kisses that can soothe every Charlie Brown situation, from unrequited love to failure on the football field. Good grief, Lucy!
Small dogs are good in bed!
Gross! That’s not what I meant and you know it, perv! What I’m saying is that they don’t take up as much room in bed as big dogs do. Although you’d be surprised at what a shameless mattress hog an eight-pound Maltese can be. How is that even possible, by the way? Seriously, it defies science. Still, it’s better than a king-sized Setter on a queen-sized Serta. If you don’t believe me, go ahead and try to count sheep with a sheet-stealin’ sheepdog. Sweet dreams, sister!
Doggy Style is awesome!
Jeez, you really need to get your mind out of the
gutter! I’m talking about the most irrefutable selling point of all to raising a little dog: you can dress them up! Fido fashion is fresh, fearless, and infinitely fun. Black tie, business casual, sports gear, Western wear—the outfit possibilities for a small dog are endless (trust me on this, because I’ve explored them all). Check out your local Petco, people. Think about it: when was the last time you saw a simply sensational sundress and sassy sunflower sombrero made to fit a sixty-seven-pound Saint Bernard? Exactly—it doesn’t exist. I don’t make the rules, I just blindly follow them. Gnaw on that, numbskull!
By now, I’ll assume you’re thoroughly convinced and have enthusiastically jumped aboard the Small Dog Express. Toot toot!
For me, the case was clear. A little dog was the way to go. Unfortunately, pets weren’t allowed in the small apartment I lived in after college, which was a shame, because it was only a few hundred dollars a month and had relatively few cockroaches (probably because the rats ate them). The decision was simple: I had to find somewhere else to live—a place where wagging tails were welcome, drinking out of the toilet bowl wasn’t a crime, and man’s best friend was considered an acceptable roommate.
You know when the universe gives you exactly what you need, exactly when you need it? Like finding a $20 bill in your pocket when you’re broke and your gas tank is empty, or when Christina Aguilera’s “Genie in a Bottle” comes on the radio when your spirit is broken and your soul is empty. Just like that, finding my next apartment proved to be one of those cosmic, meant-to-be kind of things.
Driving to the craft store one day, I took a wrong turn down a side street and got lost. When I pulled into a driveway to turn around, I almost hit a For Rent sign that read: 2 Bedroom, 1 Bath, Fenced Backyard, Pets Welcome.
