Last night both my mom and sister were in town, and we went to dinner. There's this really trendy new restaurant called Paris Club, and my mom had just been there and wanted to go again.
What I found sort of funny is that there were three Paris's at Paris Club. Okay, that's really more cute that funny. What WAS funny is that it didn't even occur to me that our last name was the restaurant's name.
Even stranger – my sister, Dana Paris, is an exec over at L'Oreal Paris.
My connection to our last name is simply a lampshade I have in my bedroom in the shape of the Eiffel Tower. Not very impressive.
By the way, I need to spend a minute talking about lampshades.
After the Eiffel Tower lampshade started looking crummy, I tossed it and put “get new lampshade” on my to–do list.
That was two months ago.
I can't figure out where the hell to go to get one.
I work directly across from a Bed Bath & Beyond and a Home Depot. “Surely they must have lampshades,” you say! No. No, they do not.
So right now you're thinking, “Buying a lampshade is easy!” But you're wrong. Try to name three places that sell lampshades. You can't. I have a Target two blocks from me. They don't either.
I know I can order one online, but I'm worried it would look funky, not fit, etc.
Okay, I know you don't care about lampshades and you're tired of reading about it.
At dinner last night I ate incredible dishes such as pig feet, lamb meatballs, and pÃ¢tÃ©, I get home and start talking with my future editor about this new humor site she's launching to which I'm going to contribute.
She sends me over an email with a list of blogs that she loves and specific articles she finds funny. These are to serve as examples of the kind of content she wants for the new site.
There's also some comments from her in the margins – personal notes about what she likes about a particular blogger or story.
I get about two pages into this document and I see a few of my own stories with notes.
I didn't think anything of it, as this is not a big deal. Surprisingly, somebody got a little offended I wrote about when I did the dad's dick stories. Prude.
So, about thirty seconds after my eyeballs reached this part of the story, I got an urgent instant message.
Her: Wait! I sent you the wrong thing! Don't read that!
Me: What? The thing about my story? No big deal.
Her: It's really a compliment, actually. Sort of. But I don't want you to feel bad.
Me: Seriously, I didn't even have a bad thought about it. Don't worry.
Her: Now I feel like a jerk!
Then I spent the next five minutes trying to convince her I was all right. I mean, if she would have called it “…an abortion of an article, but a really bad abortion, like a fourth trimester abortion” (that's a particularly bad abortion), then maybe I would have felt not so great.
Oh, speaking of… I'm currently working on my next feature-length story on the time I was forced to watch a video in high school that showed an actual abortion. Thanks mom and dad for sending your non-Catholic son to Catholic school!
And I learned I have a very sweet and thoughtful editor. Also one that doesn't like stories about Steve Agee. So, fuck her.