June 2012

The Flood Gates Are Open

June 14, 2012

I’m not going to pretend like today was all roses.

It was not.

And these pictures brought even more tears to my eyes.

Thank you Penny Sylvia. Thank you so much.

I am beyond grateful for these photos.

I was also grateful for your understanding, when I said “it’s so nice to finally meet you in person” and you kindly reminded me we had already met, that we had in fact shared a long and lovely lunch together at Tower Café. I have never been so mortified in my life (well, maybe I have). I never forget people, names or faces. Especially people, names or a face like yours (that’s a compliment, you’re a doll). I am still so ashamed of myself. There is obviously nothing forgettable about you. I have issues.

P.S. I’m purposely being vague about the tears. I don’t want to elaborate.


On May 15, 2012 at 9:54 p.m., I received this email…

Dear my friend Natalie,

Let’s get right to it: Your blog gives me pain. Not in a broken leg or needing stitches kind of way, but in a “you can have one bite of my delicious candy and then you must leave without anymore bites” kind of way. Because of this, you strike me as selfish. Selfish with your delicious candy. Now, I’ll admit that early on, I assumed that Natalie “Daily” meant that you’d write something all the time. Perhaps even daily. Then my wife told me that it was actually your last name (spelled Daly, I’ve since learned). I guess I thought the Paulson part was still hanging around and am, very clearly, slow to catch on. 

Natalie Daily my a$$, though. Natalie Monthly is more like it. 

I like your blog. It is real and funny and sometimes personal. You make me laugh or at least smirky. But you seem to post on an annual basis. What the hell? I check for something new regularly and, at this point, I’ve seen his face so many times that I feel like I went to prom with Goins and I’ve never even met the dude. 

My point is that I want more Natalie candy. Share it with me because I’m starting to annoy my wife with my complaints about how you should just go back to Paulson and stop living this daily lie. That is all.

Your friend,


Despite the fact that Mike spelled my last name (which is still legally Paulsen, Paulsen with an “e”) incorrectly (twice), this was still one of the most amazing/amusing emails I have ever received. I was mostly amazed/amused that it came from Mike. Mike is funny. He’s actually really funny. But I never thought Mike thought I was funny. Or that Mike thought labia were funny. Who knew?

To show Mike how much I sincerely appreciate that he a) reads – and took the time to tell me he enjoys – my blog b) took the time to double-check the spelling of my last name c) made me laugh hard, like ridiculously hard, on a random Tuesday night and d) was born on this day – I’d like to devote some of my most recent, deepest thoughts to him.

I’d told you I’d recognize you someday. Today’s the day pal. Today’s your day.

These deep thoughts are in no particular order…

I can’t remember the last time I was as excited to see a movie as I am to see Magic Mike. I need to Google the opening date again and put it on my calendar. Like an appointment. And then I need to get a whole bunch of dollar bills. So I can make it rain in the theater.

Somebody sent me a picture of their children. Naked. In the bath. Or was it the pool? Who sent me that picture? I think I forgot to respond. I need to look through my text messages and respond. That was so rude of me, if I forgot to respond. I can’t keep up with all these kids and babies. I also need to delete that picture. That’s weird. Right? To have a naked picture of someone else’s kids on your phone. I’m pretty sure it was just their butts. And their parent sent it to me. But still. I need to delete it and respond. I’m such a bad friend. And now I’m potentially a Dateline episode. I shouldn’t even be joking about this. It’s not actually a funny topic of conversation. At all. Jesus Natalie. Just text your friend.

Erin and I need to finish our website before I pluck out every single one of my eyelashes. Then we need to plan a launch party. I can’t wait to tell her my thoughts on the theme. I want to be the planner, the emcee and the entertainment. Is that ok? I might be narcissistic. At least I’m not a sociopath. Or both.

I think about Dana. A lot. I should tell her.

Why did I ever leave Santa Barbara? Or Spain? That was stupid.

I think traffic school actually worked on me. I never want to speed or be forced to complete traffic school again. That was a special kind of hell.

I should spend more time with Allison. We shouldn’t go to the Virgin Sturgeon every time, but I have the best time with her. And when I’m with her, I remember who I used to be. I forget that I’m afraid. Somehow, she has never forgotten who I was. She makes me feel like that’s who I still am. She’s seems confident I’ll find myself again and end up being exactly who I’m meant to be. She never forgets to remind me. I just wish we didn’t cry in public. For two typically tough broads, we cry a lot together. We’re lame.

I feel like Scott Moak is slowly replacing me as Allison’s office confidante. On one hand, it should be Scott. He is pretty awesome. I seriously love that guy. On the other hand, I feel like I should Tonya Harding Scott’s knees. She’s mine. All mine. Everybody knows that. Except Scott. Obviously.

I wish Miss Red Pants was a dragon and I wish I was the Mother of Dragons (if you don’t watch Game of Thrones, you’re going to think I’m off my rocker after reading this one).

I want to be friends with Lena Dunham and Judd Apatow. I also want to write, produce, direct and star in my own show on HBO. How do I make that happen? Must work harder. Must ask Lena Dunham and Judd Apatow.

I can’t believe I ever had a bad day in college. I had so little responsibility. I really only needed to get good grades, which I didn’t even manage to do all the time. I lived on the ocean, with my best friends. I lived in a house where people made my meals for me. And did my dishes. My friends and I shopped for costume parties at least once a month. Sometimes more. I had so much freedom. And so much fun. More fun than you should ever be allowed to have, at our age, on the ocean. I can’t believe I had one dramatic day in college. I can’t believe I cried one tear while I was at UCSB. I mean, really Natalie? You thought life was hard then? Dummy. Just look at how “hard” your life was below…

If I spent as much time fighting my fears as I do running away from them, I’d be Oprah. I wonder if Oprah is afraid of anything. Other than carbs. Carbs scare the @#$% out of me. Because even Oprah struggles with them.

I wonder how many friends I would lose if I started posting pictures of my belly on Facebook every week. It definitely changes size. It totally gets bigger and smaller relative to my self-control (or lack thereof). I just feel like those of us who are never going to have children need a way to include their baby making friends in their growth/development.

I really like being alone with my car stereo. I like it so much.

I remember when Goins told me the only time he ever worried about what was going on inside my head was when I wasn’t saying anything at all. We were in high school when he said that. He was the smartest kid alive. It’s really the only time anyone should ever worry about what’s going on inside my head. Quiet is near impossible for me. When I’m silent, something is seriously broken.

When will Sons of Anarchy be back on TV? With the exception of So You Think You Can Dance, I hate summer programming. I need Jax Teller.

I like being tan. I want to be tan all the time. I also need to stop watching shows about people from New Jersey. I think it’s rotting my brain. My tan brain.

Ashley should trademark the term “shame spiral.” It so accurately describes the emotional rollercoaster you experience after drinking way too much as an adult. I remember when we could abuse our bodies, wake up, and do it all over again the next day – with little pain and little remorse. Now it physically and emotionally hurts. It’s excruciating. It’s the “shame spiral.”

Why do most men get better looking with age? A LOT of men go straight from dark-haired devil to silver fox. WTF. Bob is exponentially hotter now than the day I married him. In fact, my business partner referred to him the other day as my trophy husband. We agreed, he’s like a super hot Kevin Costner. He was not this hot when he was my age (we’ll save jokes about the age gap for another post). He was skinny. Super skinny. Like runway model skinny, but he wasn’t a runway model. He was in the military. And he had a ponytail at some point in his life. I wouldn’t have looked at him with my business partner’s eyes. But now…WOWZA…Bob. I’ve caught women trying to put their hands up his shirt and tightly clutching his tie (both great stories, for another day). In any event, I think women should date older men until they hit their late 40’s. Then they should dump their silver fox before he buys a sailboat or a motorcycle (whatever his mid-life crisis looks like). They should dump their silver fox for a barely legal, Latino pool boy. Or Magic Mike.

I’m tired of thinking so deeply. I should sing for a while. At the top of my lungs. Enter Adele.

Happy Birthday Mike.


Natalie (trying to be more) Daily



Reality Check

June 12, 2012

I realize that “broadcasting” my business leaves my life open to the interpretation of others.

I understand that being human and candid about my bull@#$% means it could come back to bite me in the a$$.

I am totally aware of the fact that people may unfriend, dislike and/or criticize me – because of what they read/I write.

I get it. I made my bed. I should happily sleep in it.

BUT…it still sort of jars you when someone says something hurtful about you or passes judgment about your life. Especially when you have not disrupted theirs. Especially when they do not know you. Especially when they do it anonymously. Especially when you know they would probably NEVER speak those words to your face. Especially when you have not, in any way, projected your strengths or weaknesses upon them.

So…this is what poked the bear…

My wedding was featured on a reality television show. A microphone was taped to my bra and sound equipment was strapped to my thigh…on my wedding day. And if you Google the right words, links to the network and video clips will quickly pop up in search engines. Last night, I stumbled on a link to said clips while I was looking for a description of my wedding dress online (that’s a story for another day). As uncomfortable as those videos make me (watching them is like hearing myself attempt to hit a Mariah Carey-esque note), I don’t feel like I have the right to be uncomfortable. I made a conscious decision to be on TV. Nobody forced me to do it. I knew there would be reruns and reminders. I knew there would be links online. I knew we could/would be judged. I knew we might even regret our decision. I did it anyway.

And…it was one of the best decisions we made. We bonded with the producers and crew in a way that we never anticipated. By the end of the week, they felt like family. I cried when we had to tell them goodbye. And my eyes water every time they call to tell us they’re coming back to visit. They were one of our favorite parts of the occasion. And regardless of how I feel about watching myself on the show, regardless of what other people say or think…I would not (and obviously could not) take it back.

I don’t know why, but I clicked on the link. Normally I won’t/don’t.

I scrolled down to look at a few of the videos on the page.

That’s where I found Bestbride’s comment.

Here’s what Bestbride had to say:

“everything about the wedding was awful! from the bride’s bangs to the location! Really? the Library Galleria?? Why not just have the local homeless and jail birds be the valet and servers? I guess when you are marying for money rather than love it doesn’t matter. good luck on reaching your 3rd maybe 4th anniversary. Lol!”

I know I seem bitter, because I’m taking the time to blog about Bestbride’s words. But I’m not. I’m honestly not. I don’t care what Bestbride thinks about my wedding or my marriage. Because I know the truth. I know what kind of day it was. I know the best and worst parts. I know if I married for money or not. I know how I feel about the benchmarks we may or may not reach. I know who we really are and/or aren’t. I know who paid the price for our big day. I know how much it really cost.

I also know how to spell the word “marrying” (sorry, I had to take one low blow).

Above all else, Bestbride reminded me that I must accept responsibility for leaving myself wide open for this kind of personal attack. And, I have to take the bad with the good. Whether she (or anyone else) has positive or negative things to say about me, I don’t really have the right to feel bitter about her remarks. I put myself out there. She took a swing. So be it. It’s not the first time it has happened. It’s certainly not going to be the last.

Bestbride also reminded me how foolish we sound, as women, when we needlessly attack OUR OWN KIND. What is wrong with us? If we supported each other the way the good ole’ boys do, we’d rule the world. We really would.

And, Bestbride inspired me to try harder. I’m going to try harder not to insult others, whether I know them or not. Because I don’t walk in their shoes. And they don’t walk in mine. Please keep in mind that I’m human, and I have a uterus. I’m sure something catty will eventually make its way out of my mouth. But I’m going to try harder. And if I fail, I’m going to try to make sure that whatever ugly remarks I choose to make are remarks I’m willing to make in front of the person I’m making them about. I should try harder to be that kind of person. We probably all should.

Now I need you to disregard what I just said, so I can say something catty…

Did the !@#$% really have to attack my bangs? Did she really have to go after my pride and joy? What did my blunt bangs ever do to her? I mean, why did she feel so compelled to bash a sense of style that was simply not her own? We’ve never even met. At least I don’t think we’ve met. Seemed like she knew an awful lot about Sacramento. I wonder what her hair looks like. I’d actually really like to know. I bet it’s blonde, but really supposed to be dark brown or black. I bet she destroyed her perfectly gorgeous, thick, dark locks with a bottle of bleach. And I bet she thinks it looks good. She probably didn’t even dye her brows to match. I hate when girls do that. I bet her forehead isn’t perfectly poised for blunt bangs either. So even if she didn’t hate them, she could never have her own. That sucks. For her. They’re not for everybody. Not just anybody can have them. They’re special.

Note: I might be bitter about the attack on my bangs. I might be sensitive about that.

I didn’t feel the need to respond directly to Bestbride, but I did need to process my thoughts. Thank you for “listening” (not like you really had a choice). I’m not looking for validation or reassurance either. Like I said, I know what kind of wedding day I had. I know how I feel about it. I also know what kind of bangs I have. The logo and tagline for my blog are devoted to them. Clearly, I don’t need reassurance on that front. I just needed to process my thoughts. And felt like doing it publicly, so I could leave myself open to more personal attacks. LOL.

In closing, my bangs and I would like to thank Bestbride not only for this “reality check” but also for this little trip down memory lane.

Natalie Daily wearing crystal Erin Cold headband with blunt bangs on Platinum Weddings

Photo Courtesy of True Love Photo