My Evenings with Double-O-Seven

I live by the beach in Malibu. I love it, but I’m telling you right now our place looks nothing like what you’re envisioning. Same as most in our neighborhood, our house is very humble. I often refer to it as a cottage, but the technically correct architectural term is “tear-down” (tair-doun). A little ways up the street, however, sits a whole ‘nother world -- a world where all the original cottages have been lovingly restored … into 20,000 square foot beachside getaways. Many represent picture-perfect examples of the architectural style known as “holy crap, that place is huge!” Most evenings I pour myself a glass of wine, slip a plastic bag in my pocket, and head out to let Bebe, our trash talkin’ Chihuahua, do her duty. My husband once suggested the neighbors probably didn’t appreciate my whole drinking in public ritual, but I told him having a toot while walking the dog seemed like a cool-chick, Chelsea Handler-type thing to do. Hubs said it seemed like a Mrs. Roper-type thing to do. So be it. Three’s Company – me, Bebe and Robert Mondavi. Anyhoo… as soon as we walk out the door, Bebe makes a beeline toward the fancy houses, as if she honestly believes she belongs to one of those families instead of with us.


During one such sojourn, while I was distracted trying not to dribble my wine as I cleaned up after the dog, a smooth baritone laced with touches of Ireland wished me a lovely evening. I looked up in time to see a ridiculously gorgeous, instantly recognizable actor stride by on his way up his driveway. To respect the man’s privacy, I will refer to him here as Bierce Prosnan, but, trust me, you know him. (If you can’t crack my code, there’s a mega-hint in the title of this blog).

Now let’s take a slightly deeper dive into exactly how this first, fateful meeting between me and People Magazine’s 2001 “Sexiest Man Alive” went down. I’m wearing a t-shirt covered in dog hair, a hole-in-the-seat pair of cargo shorts my husband didn’t want anymore, and that most seductive of footwear, Uggs. I’m bent over like an arthritic old man, picking up dog poop. Lovely evening? Probably not from any onlooker’s perspective, but Remington Steele was far too suave to mention it. He, on the other hand, looked smashing. If memory serves, I turned red, croaked hello and spilled my Mondavi all over the dog. Boy was she pissed.

After that, Thomas Crown and I had several encounters. Almost all of them involved me picking up dog crap, but each time I sensed a certain thrill -- on my part. And each time, Mr. Fifty Most Beautiful People in The World offered me a heart-stopping smile and debonair greeting. If anyone else stood in the vicinity, he offered them the same, so as never to hint at our special … ah … bond.

Alas, earlier this year he and his clan moved to a snazzier stretch of the ‘Bu … way too far for Bebe to walk. My evenings with James Bond have come to an end. I’m kind of relieved. I can stop brushing my hair before I walk the dog. I did spot Danny DeVito once recently, but it wasn’t the same. True confessions time. Ever meet someone famously yowza up-close-and personal? Did you stutter and blush or smile winningly, toss your hair, and say, “Hey, how’s it going?” Post a comment. Inquiring minds want to know.