Behold the 2018 ThoughtsFromParis Holiday Card

Meepers D.J. Paris Stocking
It’s not the most respectful place to sit, but at least she didn’t pee on it.

I realized I had a crappy first name when I was five.

Our family was moving from Chicago to Peoria. One day, close to moving time, sitting shotgun, my mother was running errands. At a stoplight she turned and said, “We’re moving somewhere where nobody knows you. If you’d like to change your first name, now is the time.” I had always gone by D.J. (and still do today), but the message I received in that moment was clear. READ MORE

Children Aren’t Freaking Me Out as Much as They Used To

dj paris reading to child

The voice echoed from behind my right shoulder and I was surprised to hear my name.

“Uncle D.J. is going to read you a bedtime story. Go pick one out.”

I stopped and spun around. My friend Justin was walking his youngest son Jude to his bedroom. Not knowing much about four year olds, a bunch of questions raced through my head. How long do you have to read before a child falls asleep? Can’t they read themselves? I couldn’t recall a memory from my childhood where someone read to me. My earliest memories of life start at six years old, and I had been reading on my own for a few years at that point. My mother brags that I taught myself how to read at age four. And I guess now I’m bragging to you. Anyway, since I couldn’t recall a personal experience of being read to, what came to mind was Peter Faulk reading to that boy in The Princess Bride. And that movie was two hours long, for chrissakes. I can’t read aloud for that long. As a self-centered adult without children, if I spend more than ten minutes with one, I get nuts.

I sighed and followed Jude into his bedroom. He told me to shut the door and to climb into bed. He was rifling through a series of books strewn about the comforter. I went to shut the door and when it latched I noticed my discomfort. Not only was I not used to being around kids, but I had never climbed into one of their beds. It’s funny because, albeit innocent, I felt like I was doing something wrong. It was too intimate. Remember when Michael Jackson talked about sleeping in bed with kids and how we all retched at the news? But this is my close friend’s son and I’m a good soldier. I climbed into bed into the space that he had made for me.

The book Jude chose was a series of short stories about zombies who live among us. Except in this version the undead were just like you and me except they looked different (rotten flesh) and didn’t murder humans for their succulent brains. In these stories the public treated these zombies as if they were real pieces of crap. It was an attempt to teach tolerance of people who looked different. Which is just what a four year old understands – subtle metaphors about discrimination.

About halfway through the first fable I realized that stories about zombies are pretty energizing. It’s not exactly the literary equivalent of chamomile tea. Try to put a child to bed reading aloud a story about teenage dracula figuring out how to get his blood fix halfway through the senior prom. That’s a thrilling narrative! Nobody falls asleep during the last ten minutes of a Walking Dead episode, you know? I should have picked one of those Berenstain Bears novellas. Those bears never did anything interesting.

And, no, I spelled it right. It’s Berenstain. We all called them the Berenstein Bears growing up but we were wrong. They don’t celebrate Purim and I don’t recall the bear son ever getting Bar Mitzvah’ed. READ MORE

I’m Going to Have To Give Up The Cat

pantaloons laying in sink
Taken this morning. I was naked at the time. Naked, people!

I recently came to terms that I’m going to have to give up my cat Pantaloons.

My girlfriend is allergic. She’s a good sport when she visits and takes a Benadryl which clears up her symptoms. But how long am I going to make her pop meds to be comfortable?

We’re only six months into our relationship. Neither of us has gone ring shopping or started practicing the Viennese waltz for our first dance. This partnership is healthy and progressing at a normal clip. We both have our own homes and see each other a few times a week. That’s plenty.

This is the healthiest relationship I’ve experienced. Part of it is choosing the most compatible woman for my craziness. The other part is all the work I’ve done to minimize my craziness. While we just crossed the half-year mark in the relationship, I just passed the five-year relationship mark with my therapist. I work on stuff.

My cat is important to my well-being. She’s coming up on six years and has been a loving companion. When I arrive home from work she runs over and brushes up against my leg. Pantaloons is affectionate without being needy.

She’s also in love with the dog.

You already know that I bring my dog to work in a backpack that I take on the subway. After greeting me she rushes over to the backpack and waits for it to be unzipped. The dog springs free and the cat follows her and starts to rub her head against the dog’s body. They sleep together, too. Pantaloons is actually much bigger than Meepers the chihuahua. The often curl up together next to my body while we all pass out. I’ve noticed that their sleep cycles are synced – within seven minutes of falling asleep (I’ve timed this) they start dreaming simultaneously and have paw, nose, and eye twitches. It’s wild to see them shaking together.

There’s a ritual that happens every night before we drift off. The dog, since she’s the alpha, walks over to Pantaloons and extends her neck in front of the cat’s face. The dog is then groomed, first with the neck, then moving down to her shoulders and back, by the cat’s tongue. She licks the dog for five minutes. Since cats have that sandpaper tongue thing, I imagine the dog likes the sensation. Pantaloons is purring wildly during the entire cleaning.

Now, many cats are stinkers. We’ve all met some. Your grandmother’s, for example. Standoffish and stoic, these unholy terrors bite and scratch anyone who dares come near. For these felines, drowning them in a river would not be unjust. So, it’s not like I’m a de facto cat lover.

But mine is solid. Sure she spees on anything I leave on the floor, and I don’t trust her not to soil the bedspread in my second bedroom, but other than the urination thing, she’s great.

The cat also loves my girlfriend, Beth. Even though Beth cannot touch her due to allergies, Pantaloons is crazy for her. She constantly brushes up against her while sitting on the couch and tries to sit in Beth’s lap. The cat never even sits in my lap, for chrissakes. Also, when we sleep Beth will wake up with Pantaloons perched atop her belly, purring loudly.

The reality is, though, that you can’t marry a broad who is allergic to cats and have a cat. It’s unfair.

Last week I started to come out of the denial that we would all live together. I’m sure if Beth and I were to take the next step it would be at least a year away. That means I have some good time left with Pantaloons. It’s sad to look at her and realize that she won’t be with me forever. I know this horrible inevitability that she doesn’t.

Once it happens I’ll be sad and then get over it with time. Loss has a predictable grief cycle. However, I’m wondering if now isn’t the hardest part. To stay with the discomfort of a future loss is not easy for me. There’s no solution for this pain except to celebrate the cat as often as I can.

Now, if you excuse me I have to go beat the shit out of her for missing the litter box. AGAIN.

I Have a Big Brag to Announce About My Greatness

pantaloons and ms meepers
For no reason at all here is my cat and dog.

I’ve been busy over the past two days.

First I released a new version of my Apple and Android app which include push notifications. Yes, you now get a popup whenever I write something new. Does my narcissism know no bounds?

Also I launched a Twitter web app which pokes around through your followers to see if anyone famous follows you. It’s pointless and silly but so are a majority of the activities in which I participate.

Okay, so now that the housecleaning is out of the way I’d like to publicly state that I’m a fantastic boyfriend.

This is not a proclamation from my ego. Believe me, there are many areas of life where I’m not proud. Just ask my therapist. She gets to hear all about it every Tuesday.

However, I have made a simple decision in my current relationship which has transformed the intimacy to a level I had never experienced before.

Years ago I was out at a party. There was a couple and the man was holding his girlfriend’s hand as they walked around the room. I watched them interact over the course of the evening and I noticed something that, at the time, seemed strange. He was constantly checking in with her and asking her what she needed.

He would make sure she had a full drink. Went around introducing her to his friends. Made sure she was having a good time.

Now, I know this couple. He’s not a controlling guy.  She’s not needy – in fact, she’s independent. However, you could see her appreciation each time he did something to show her he cared. It was obvious that she was the most important person at the party to him.

He understood a principle that I have only recently adopted.

Meeting your partner’s needs is the most important part of a relationship.

My guess is that at this party she felt insecure (she didn’t know anyone). To make her comfortable he never left her side. He was constantly touching and engaging her.

My girlfriend at the time remarked, “Wow – that’s a real man. Look at how he takes care of his woman.”

It took me seven years before I adopted this into practice. That’s not to say I was a jerk to my previous romances. I wasn’t. Often I tried my hardest to do things that I thought a good boyfriend should do. I didn’t, however, pay attention to what the woman actually needed.

This time I’m able to show up for the relationship in a new way. I make sure that my girlfriend’s needs are met first.

Now, I should point out that I’m dating an emotionally healthy person with reasonable needs. That helps.

I’ve paid attention over months and discovered what is most important to her. What makes her feel loved. Where and when she needs support. How to show appreciation in the way that she prefers.

Some of this I’ve learned by flat-out asking. “When you’re feeling sad, what should I do?” Other times I let my intuition take over and I do what comes natural.

The question I keep in the front of my mind is, “Does my woman need anything?” It’s a mantra to me.

When I see an opportunity, more often that not, I take action.

The damnedest thing has happened as a result of this focus. My woman feels like she is the center of my universe. She’s fulfilled.

Now, I’m far from perfect. I make mistakes and screw up in the relationship. She’s not always thrilled with me, I’m sure. But my batting average is solid.

In past relationships I used to worry about my needs being met. I withheld if I wasn’t receiving what I thought was fair. I no longer think or act this way. I now give at my fullest and assume that she will do the same. She does.

I wish somebody when I was younger would have sat me down and said, “If you take care of your partner, odds are they’ll take care of you. But you have to go first.”

Now, will I continue to put the work in as time wears on? I hope so.

 

Moms are Supposed to Annoy Their Kids

pantaloons and meepers
One of her cuter, not destroying the hardwood with her poison moments

Mothers are supposed to have at least one expression designed to send you into a frenzy of anger and frustration. It’s their job.

Mine is the moment my mom walks through the door of my condo. Without exception, she mentions that she can smell cat pee all throughout the house.

To be fair to her there was a time where my place smelled like urine. First of all I’m a guy. I’m not cleaning the litter box twice a day like some of your fanatics. Second, I’ve well-documented here my struggles with my cat peeing outside her designated area. I probably wrote twenty pieces on it last year alone. The bottom line is that she’s on Prozac and doesn’t do it anymore, thank God. Not my mom. The cat.

The place used to smell pretty bad because the cat would spray all over this enclosure I had for my cat box and I had no idea she was doing it. Once I removed that piece of furniture, the odor disappeared.

Well, the cat still does go outside the box once in awhile. She pees on the rubber mat in front of the box. But I clean that up as soon as I find it.

My mom is on the “your place always smells” trip. She hasn’t changed that tune in two years. And it drives me nuts.

I guess the biggest problem is on my end. I expect her not to do this each time she comes over. I’m violating that Buddhist principle of “What is, is.” What is, is that my mom is going to say the place smells bad. And my insanity is that I keep wanting her to change.

She made this comment when she came in last night (I had two air fresheners going), and again once this morning, blaming the smell on her inability to sleep last night. I became offended and the reason is that I thought she was lying. Not out and out lying, but exaggerating.

Growing up I was blamed for a lot of the family’s problems. That was my role – the scapegoat. And whenever anything touches around that “it’s your fault” thing, I go nuts.

So, I asked my father who was also here if he noticed any smell. He said he didn’t.

I asked my mom to pinpoint the location of the smell so I could find and eliminate it. She just said the whole place smelled. I brought my dad into the bedroom where they slept and we both couldn’t smell anything.

It’s hard to correct something you can’t locate, of course.

My mother accused my father of lying to protect my feelings. Now I was really confused. Did it smell in there or not? Was someone exaggerating or lying? It was a mess.

I’m not so sensitive I can’t handle the truth. If it smells like cat pee, tell me where and I’ll fix it.

So, we’re all basically yelling at each other at 7:30am. It was brutal.

Here’s what I know. I can’t control my mother’s nose. If she’s exaggerating about the smell (and I don’t think she’s doing it on purpose), that’s her deal. Only she knows. If she’s being honest then I have a horrible sense of smell.

Either way she’s going to say it smells like cat pee, as she does every time. And that’s going to trigger the “It’s all my fault” pattern in me. And I’m going to go nuts and explode.

So, how do I avoid this?

Well, first is to make sure the place actually doesn’t smell like cat pee. After this ordeal I ordered a three pack of professional cleaners to come over. After three cleaning sessions it should be roses in here. As a dude this is a solid investment.

Second is to learn to release control of someone else’s hangups. I’m a big control freak and need things to happen exactly the way I want them too. Not a good strategy in life. I’m working on it.

Also, I need to remember that aside from their best intentions moms are just built to annoy their kids. It’s the way of the bushido.

I am picking on my mom a bit. My oSex co-host, Karen sent me a message today saying I have the greatest parents in the world. We all went to a Cubs game last night. She’s right. I’m very lucky. 99.9% of the time we get along perfectly and they’re generous, supportive, and loving.

She’s coming back this Thursday to spend the night again. I will hear more about the smell. I will not go nuts. I will not go nuts. I will not go nuts.

But, since I’ll definitely go nuts, I’ll try to record the audio so you can see just how batty I get. Will make for a great post.

Cat Pee Tarp Purchased

meepers vs geese

I went out today to buy a cat-pee tarp.

My cat Pantaloons has a problem with inappropriate elimination. I’ve written about it on this blog at least a dozen times. Over the years I’ve tried a number of solutions including rubbing Prozac in her ears. Every so often, no matter what, she pees on my comforter or clothes left on the ground. After a lot of research online I’ve determined that this is probably just a brain glitch that can’t be corrected. If I’m wrong and one day I find a solution, awesome.

Until then I’m surrendering to her liberal bladder.

I am powerless on where or when she pees. Whether it’s on the bed, the ground, or even, like earlier today, the guest bathtub, it’s out of my control. In the ultimate act of acceptance I went out and picked up a weatherproof tarp cover that is going over my bed when I’m away. This will allow her to pee like a drunk twenty-one year old in the alley of my condo after a Mars Volta concert next door. She can whiz away.

In the past I have kept the door to my bedroom closed. But I always felt a little like a dick because there’s a loveseat in here that she adores more than anything. I’ve outfitted the room  with a second litter box. The thing that bugs me most of all, though, is when I come home and open the door it smells like stale D.J. farts. I keep the ceiling on 24-7 and it still reeks. I clean the sheets every week and all that, so keep your judgement down.

For me to throw the tarp over my bed will take an extra ten seconds each morning. I can handle that. She’ll be happier and I won’t have to freak out if I realize I forgot to close the bedroom door. I’ve been to the laundromat ten times this year because the comforter won’t fit in my washing machine.

One of the biggest things I’m working on personally is the need I have to control things. It’s exhausting. I’m specifically working on this with my girlfriend. I’ve tried to control women ever since I started dating. Now, not in abusive ways. Little things like, “Oh, next time do it this way.” Or, “Hey, I know you apologized, but you really didn’t say it in a way in which I believe you. Are you sure you’re sorry?” Of course, while I’m doing these things it seems totally logical and I don’t realize I’m being controlling.

I carry around a little notecard now that says, “Your inclination is to control Jessica [girlfriend]. You will think that you are absolutely right and want to change her. When you find yourself trying to correct her – STOP IMMEDIATELY.” This is a good reminder and in the past three days, I caught myself twelve times trying to change something about her actions or emotions. So, I thwarted twelve attempts. This is a good thing.

As I was walking around Home Depot today I thought there must be a ton of other areas in my life where I try to control outcomes. I’ve had a few therapists and each one has said how exhausted they would be if they were stuck in my thoughts. I run multiple scenarios for future action I want to take, trying to pick the best strategy for the best possible outcome, even when it’s just making lunch. I have a hard time simply making a sandwich when I think about what would be the most nutritious and exciting lunch I could create. Yes, this is nuts. I know.

So, I’m not exactly mellow. That’s okay, but if I could float down a river instead of trying to chart my own path that might be against the current, that would be helpful. Because the truth is that I can’t control hardly anything anyway. It’s an illusion. I mean I can’t even control my being controlling! The card in my pocket is evidence.

I’m going to start noticing each way in which I control and then just practice “letting go.” I’m terrified that it will all go to shit if I don’t control it, and maybe it will. That’s okay. I’ll just blame somebody else. Ooh, I could probably blame God! That will be fun. It’s the big guys’ fault! I like that.

In a totally unrelated story I was biking home and realized I had never seen how my dog or the geese I see every day would react together. I stopped and let Meepers out of her backpack. She looked at them. They panicked and started walking away slowly. I thought this photo was kind of neat.

This Was Written In The Nude

pantaloons meepers sleeping
Took this during the writing of this post to point out my sincere nakedness. Notice how my dog is sleeping against my awful chest hair.

I just checked and ThoughtsFromParis now has 174,800 words published. To celebrate the achievement I decided to try something different. A blog post written in the nude.

Now while this sounds like  shtick  masquerading  as filler since I don’t have any ideas of what to write tonight, I will tell you that is correct. Plus, I just got out of the bath and was nude already. The only thing I’m wearing is the laptop on my thighs and a wet dog around my shins. She had her bath at the same time. With me. Totally sexed out, ladies?

Okay – this just hit me. Where do I feel the most insecure and naked? I don’t mean emotionally or figuratively. I mean, where do I actually feel naked physically?

It’s not when I’m actually naked. I don’t shut my blinds and I live alone so walking around from the shower to the kitchen is no big deal. I’m not an animal – I make sure my neighbors aren’t hanging out on the porch first.

I’m pretty comfortable with my body. Except when I dance.

Not kidding at all when I say I feel the most naked dancing at weddings. It’s terrifying for me. And it makes no sense since I have fantastic rhythm, I play in a band, and I understand how to count to four. When I took a dance class in college (with my sister), she said I was one of the best dancers there.

And, oh yeah, ten years ago I worked for a beer company and took a truck that opened up into a fully functioning nightclub all over the country. I danced my fanny off for nine months.

Thinking about it, why am I worried now about dancing? Well, first, I have no moves. So, it’s a loss of control thing. I don’t know what to do. I’m not joking when I say I have no moves. I literally don’t know what to do with my feet.

Before I got married, my now ex-wife and I did eight lessons at Evelyn Wood and perfected a several minute routine for our wedding. Not to be one of those douchey couples trying to impress everyone – we just needed to know what to do with our feet.

I see my friends at weddings jumping all around the dance floor having fun and they don’t know fat dick about dancing. But they haven’t a care so it works. I have absolutely no fun dancing. It’s scary and I can’t wait for it to stop. Even the slow dances with my girlfriend are uncomfortable. I feel like I can’t even do that right.

I’m aware that nobody at a wedding is watching me. I also know I have rhythm and can at least fake it. I just want to be able to let go and have a good time like everyone else. But I’m not sure how.

This is about me needing to control how I’m perceived. I place myself in situations where I can manipulate the variables to the outcomes I desire. Since I have no dance moves, I have no control and I don’t think I’m “looking good.” Therefore, I’m exposed and vulnerable. And that is scary, and scary is bad.

I honestly believe that my well-being can be measured in my ability to dance at weddings in front of my friends. My goal in life is to learn to let go of that control and trust in my vulnerability. While I can’t do it on the dance floor, I often do it here.

Every time I’ve shared a hard truth on the blog, I’ve been rewarded with kindness. I’m glad that you are here to soothe me when I reveal something difficult.

Bottom line – I need to get out to more weddings. Here’s what I want from you:

Invite me to a shitload of weddings. I don’t care if it’s a second cousin or that creepy chick with the adult braces from accounting. Hook me up with a date and time. I own a  cumber bun so I’m all set.

I’ll probably start out with that electric slide garbage, since it’s easy, move up to a  Viennese  waltz, and then, over time showcase some serious popping and locking.

Note to self – buy book on popping and locking.

Pets Die

pantaloons miss meepers
Oh, and by the way, my pets will never die. I have my fingers and my ears and am going, “La-la-la-la.” I can’t hear you!

My girlfriend’s cat is dying.

The vet has given her three months.  They found a bunch of tumors in Muchie’s abdomen and think that this is a terminal situation.  She also has had diabetes for years.  When Jessica visited me for three weeks this summer she drove up from Atlanta with both her cat and dog.  She couldn’t leave the cat by herself because sometimes she doesn’t drink enough water and needs fluids.  Plus, you have to test her blood sugar and all of that.

Just the other day Muchie was prescribed some pain meds.  The next day, while eating, she fell over.  Essentially she’s been listless, and has only eaten laying on her side.  It’s very sad.

The vet suggested to take her off the pain meds to see if that improves coordination.  Either way the end is near.

Jessica has been crying off and on for the past two days.  She is devastated like one is when a family member is dying.  I consider pets family members.  But, then again, I’m also the guy that rides his bike to work with his dog in a backpack.

When I was getting divorced there were times that I felt my pets were all I had.  Obviously, this is not true, as my friends and family were really the key to me pushing through that pain.  But to come home and not see my wife was heartbreaking.  I was able to be comforted with my dog and cat who would sleep with me.  (hmm… there probably is a way to have worded that better)

As a man my inclination is to look for imperfection and suggest solution.  If my girlfriend is speaking about a problem she’s having, I have the answer within seconds.  I can’t wait to tell her exactly what to do.  Obviously this is a poor strategy.

So, while she’s crying I find that for a second I want to tell her what to do to cope with this upcoming loss and how to give the cat some pleasure during her final days.  Then, the urge passes.  This woman is wholly capable of taking care of herself.  I know this.  Since she is not asking for me to solve her problems all I can do is listen and empathize.  I feel powerless to fix this situation.

Sadly, there is no solution for the cat, nor a solution to cope with loss except to dive headfirst into pain.  I remember reading  A Grief Observed  by C.S. Lewis back in college.  I thought emotions like anger and sadness were “bad” and the whole way through I just wanted him to “get over it.”  I thought that was just practical.  Emotions were untrustworthy.

When my family dog died (who was really  my  dog) at 18.5 years, I didn’t cry.  The previous two years I had prepared for her death, so when it came I felt nothing.  When my parents were beside themselves with grief I thought they were just being immature.

I know how insane that sounds, but it’s true.  This is why I do all the work on myself.  I need it.  Today I can empathize with someone’s struggle.  I can get angry to defend a boundary.  I can stay with fear and not shame myself.  In short, I’m a human being with emotions.

I love my girlfriend, and in the time Muchie was in my condo, I fell in love with her.  It’s a pet – you have to.  And over time, everybody leaves.  Either alive or not alive.  Being with my girlfriend and witnessing her pain is difficult.  But staying with the pain, and being present for someone else’s is intimate and supportive.

That said, you have been through a lot of my pain, too.  I appreciate it.  (I write pretty awesome dick jokes, too)

I Need Validation From My Ex-Wife

pantaloons face down
Pantaloons occasionally sleeps with her head face down into a blanket. And starts to snore. This isn’t an example of a joke I make. Just saying.

I had a great joke for my ex-wife yesterday.

No, I didn’t mistype.  â€For” – not “about.”

I’ve been open about my journey through divorce.  I  have even been on tv and spoke about it.  My relationship now with my ex-wife mostly consists of questions I have about the pets (she’s a veterinarian) and something funny I know she’ll laugh at.

We probably only chat live maybe once a month, and never about anything other than those two topics. (four “t” words in a row! And yet, it’s not a hey-I-just-used-for-t-words-in-a-row thing. You hadn’t even noticed.)

I called up yesterday expecting to get her voicemail so I could just leave the joke.  It was a one-liner about our cat.  Not funny enough to reproduce here, but she would have dug it.

I think it’s important to note that I didn’t write the joke for my ex-wife.  My brain is wired to always look for humor.  The joke about my cat wrote itself.  Then I realized that my wife would laugh if she heard it.  Nobody else would.

Anyway, when I called, for the first time ever, she was sort of cold and distant.  You could tell she had probably picked up the call by accident.  I got the impression she was in a group of people in a public place.  Halfway through the joke (which was all of seven seconds) I felt a “don’t call me with this bullshit” vibe.  Now, she loves a good joke and has never responded that before.  But I could feel it.

And after I told the joke she politiely laughed, said it was funny and then, “I have to go.  I’m sitting down to dinner.”  I apologized for bugging her and hung up.

She could have been out with friends, or a boyfriend, or her parents.  No idea.  But it was obvious she was somewhere where she didn’t want to explain why she was laughing hysterically on the phone with her ex-husband.  I understand this.

I was devastated.  I didn’t realize that her approval still meant so much to me.  I don’t long for her.  I don’t have fantasies where we’re together again.  But I was saddened that she brushed me off.

And then, right then, I realized that even though a good joke is a good joke, I had been using my ex-wife to validate me since the divorce.  If I said something funny to her, she would laugh.  I would feel good.  This dynamic is not totally crazy as she validated me a lot when we were together.  I have struggled to validate and self-soothe my whole life.  I mean, I write a blog.  A good chunk of that is about external validation.

The message I had been transmitting to my ex-wife from me was, “Don’t leave me again!  I’m good!  Can’t you see?”  Now, please understand, I have a girlfriend show loves and supports me very much.  More than any other relationship I’ve ever had.  I could not be more grateful or happy to be with her.

Obviously I won’t be calling my wife the rest of my life whenever a one-liner about my cat comes up.  And I hope I can get to a point where if I reach out to her it’s not to get something I need for myself.

So, to help me, I’ll make a deal with you.  I’ll just tell the jokes about my cat.  And you can pretend to laugh.  Deal?