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.

My parents must had made a horrible mistake naming me. So horrible, in fact, that it was in my best interest to use initials to hide both my first AND middle name. And maybe that wasn’t even enough. Maybe it would best to deep six the whole thing and start fresh.

And, to be fair, my mother was right. It’s not a first name you want as a child. Kids goofed on me because of it. Childhood is hard enough with a normal name like Gene, Paul, Ace or Peter (I’ve been listening to a lot of KISS recently). And let’s not forget how important it is to be popular in school. It’s everything. You don’t want something bizarre singling you out, making you a weirdo. You want to fit in. While I knew I couldn’t be cool with my real name, using “D.J.” seemed to work. So I kept it.

Over the years, however, I’ve found that I’ve grown to love my first name. People think the name is cool. It’s not – it’s just unique, but I’ll take the compliment. On first dates when my first name is revealed it is met with positive response. I suppose it makes me sound exotic. Mysterious. Like that Dos Equis guy.

I have a garbage memory, but, if mine serves me correctly (it often doesn’t) I believe I have never written about my first name on this site. I go by D.J. Paris in my personal and professional life. The D stands for Delfin.

The reason for the backstory is to establish context for the 2018 ThoughtsFromParis holiday card.

And, in case you didn’t click on any of the links above, my holiday card is a thing. More than a thing. It is, without question, the best holiday card any of my friends receive. I know this because they tell me. I also know this because their cards suck. Fourteen pictures of someone’s kids in a 4″x6″ collage is not exactly what I want to display on my mantle. (I don’t have a actual mantle, so I balance the cards atop the guest bathroom toilet tank next to the adult wipes.)

Let’s pause for a moment to reflect that I am so thoughtful in my role as host that I provide adult wipes in the bathroom to guests. I’m not saying I’m the most thoughtful person that ever lived, but I’m not not saying it either, okay?

Back to the holiday cards. In case I didn’t clap myself on the back hard enough earlier, my cards fucking rule. One year I was several meerkats. Another time I inserted myself into a weird family. And yet another weird family. I even once created my a fake family. I morphed into Poodle Businessman. Once I was Delf On The Shelf. Last year I was a Hallmark holiday movie star.

This year I was Waldo.

I have a Chihuahua named Meepers and a cat named Pantaloons. And while the name Meepers means nothing, Pantaloons is named after old-timey underwear. They’re in the picture above, too.

As I was working on this card, being Waldo meant I wouldn’t use my more common moniker. “Where’s D.J.?” doesn’t look right. “Where’s Delfin?” is funnier. And, let’s face it, that name is ridiculous. So I went with it, even though nobody on the planet calls me Delfin.

What if I really did have peeps at Shutterfly? I guess if I was famous they might give me special favors with my card orders, but in return each year I would be contractually obligated to mention them on the blog, or you know – no more 80% discount codes on glitter envelopes.

The reviews from the above card are in. The feedback is that this is my finest effort to date. And it probably is. The bad news is now I have to top it in 2019. I always thought that a full-nude painting of me would be the ultimate holiday card to my loved ones. But before I commit to it, I need to make a list. I’m not exactly at my fighting weight, so I ought to drop ten pounds first. I should do a few pushups, too. Ooh, and let’s not forget to manscape. And I should probably start perfecting the sultry look I’m going to give the camera as I make love to it with my eyes. It’s time to get organized. I have a bar to clear.

I believe that someone has to send cool cards. I’ll always believe that.

So, I do.

This is an essay originally published at InThePowderRoom and is reprinted with permission

Attention, small-chested women!

Have you ever been dumped because of your tiny bustline? Sure you have. As a man, let me first apologize for the horrendous treatment of flat-chested women. It’s not entirely our fault—we were raised on a steady diet of the Playboys our fathers kept stashed in the upstairs hall closet—but to expect all of you to have the perfect rack of a twenty-one-year-old Jenny McCarthy is unfair. You deserve as much attention as the large-chested gals receive.

And I want you to get that attention. So I have a solution.

No, I’m not about to suggest that you head to the surgeon for saline or silicone implants. That’s the easy way, and nothing worthwhile in life is easy. Also, let’s say you get giant implants, and a month later you take up extreme kickboxing. The next thing you know you’re in the city’s kickboxing tourney, and the number one seed hits you with a surprise roundhouse kick to the left tit, and your implant flies out of your chest and through the air only to land in a guy’s beer the second row.

I’ve seen it happen.

No, my solution proposes a much safer and more natural route to a big juicy bosom. Intrigued? Introducing the F-cup Cookie from Japan.

That’s right! You can now grow your jacks several sizes just by eating cookies! And while it’s true you can make most body parts bigger if you eat enough of any cookie, the F-cup Cookie is infused with an herb that allegedly heads straight to your mammers upon ingestion. You only have to eat a few cookies a day for natural breast enhancement.

Now, I know you’re thinking: “But I don’t want an F-cup, D.J.!” Don’t fret! In Japan, DD-knockers are called F’s.

Don’t ask me questions about how it works. I dated a chemist once, and let me tell you—that shit is boring. The important thing here is that you’re already eating some kind of cookie, right? But does noshing on Oreos increase your ability to get free drinks at bars? No. Does Famous Amos care that you wear two push-up bras at the same time? Not even remotely. But the makers of the F-cup Cookie care.

They care a lot.

So, just because you’ve been the chairwoman of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee since puberty, you no longer have to serve another term. Hand in your resignation and get ready for a lifetime of lower back pain and fending off perverts. You’re worth it!

This original piece by D.J. Paris was written exclusively for In the Powder Room, a division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. Featured image © doodco via depositphotos.com

One of the funniest websites south of the Mason Dixon was In The Powder Room. Run by funnywoman Leslie Marinelli and edited by funnywoman Sarah del Rio, this site accepted my pitch of a monthly column where I reviewed products for women. Sadly, the site is currently on hiatus, but they have given me permission to repost content I had written exclusively for them. I’m proud of my work, as silly as it was. They were a great partner and supportive of my immature ramblings. If they ultimately decide on a permanent vacation, I will restart the column here. In the meantime, read some old stuff.

I would like to point out that while all the words below are mine, they were edited by Sarah del Rio. She makes me funnier. I bow to her.

The DivaCup: What Does HE Think?

I should begin by pointing out that I failed Biology in junior college, and have never had a real girlfriend. My knowledge of how menstruation works is limited at best.

Also, I’m a dude.

Still, my understanding is that every month a woman gets her “curse,” and gone are the times where gals would be ushered to the edge of the village for three days. Victory for the Women’s Lib movement!

But before I talk about The DivaCup®, let’s go over the options a modern woman has to surf the Crimson Wave during Leak Week:

First, tampons. I don’t understand exactly how they work, but I did see a Playtex ad in Seventeen magazine once where a girl asked her mother, “Are you sure I’ll still be a virgin?” Since you should save your virginity for a true love, let’s steer clear of tampons. No girl should ever have to say: “My first time was with Tampax.” Keep your crack intact until the night of your senior prom. You’re worth it.

Next are sanitary napkins. I prefer this terminology to “maxi-pad” since it sounds classier. Plus, I don’t know what “maxi” means. But a napkin that keeps that area clean? Sign me up, s’il vous plait! (French idioms also make stuff sound classier).

But here’s the problem with sanitary napkins. Let’s say you land a hot date with a guy at the office in Accounts Receivable. He takes you for a high-end steak dinner (Pro Tip: steak is rich in iron, which is good when replenishing blood loss) and then back to his condo for “dessert.” Dessert, he tells you, is his wiener. So, you’re getting hot and heavy on his divan when all of a sudden you remember you’re having a spotting day. Gadzooks! You excuse yourself to the bathroom, but then what? You can’t flush a maxi-pad since you’ll clog up the toilet. If you toss the soiled napkin into the garbage, he’ll see it the next day and never speak to you again.

But if you’re wearing The DivaCup® you can yank the sucker out of your vajeen and wash it in the sink. Return to the loveseat, and let him ravish away without fear of embarrassing yourself—but remember that you’re going to need to actually remove it before he “serves you dessert.”

Highest possible recommendation!

UPDATE: I just learned you can get a patch or something where you never have a period again. Do that instead.

This original piece by D.J. Paris was written exclusively for In the Powder Room, a division of Hold My Purse Productions, LLC. Featured image © The DivaCup via Instagram.

You know what commercial you never see during late-night tv? A family owned urinal/bidet store offering 0% financing for three years. #fb

— ThoughtsFromParis (@tfpHumorBlog) April 2, 2010

Not one person liked or retweeted it. Which is fair because it’s not my finest one-liner. But back then I was thinking a lot about bidets and urinals. I mean, none of us have ever seen a bidet or a urinal inside an American home. Now, to be fair, bidets aren’t commonplace in America. But urinals are. In fact, men find urinals in almost 100% of bathrooms that have a specific “men’s” room. That’s an odd ratio. 0% of American homes have them, and 100% of “men’s” rooms do. And urinals are superior to toilets. Well, for peeing. Not for #2. They’re clearly inferior if you need to move your bowels. But for urination, they’re the better option. Just ask any wife who has to clean the bathroom floor once a week. Men are gross and we have terrible aim. And since I live alone, when I stumble toward Johnny Crapper at 3am still half-dreaming about a leggy blonde, I choose to sit rather than stand. It’s practical. And I vow that one day I will install a urinal in my home – one of those waterless jobs from Sloan. Classy, functional, and environmental. But this essay is about bidets, not urinals.

I have two dreams. Martin Luther King only had one, but I’m an over-achiever. One I just mentioned (urinal in master bath). The other is getting a bidet installed in that same bathroom. Now, the dream of owning a bidet is unusual for a few reasons. Most notably, is that I have used a bidet exactly once in my life. It’s not like I grew up on the DuPont estate where I assume they had bidets in every water closet. I only encountered this magical appliance one night in Paris when I was eighteen. Paris is the city of love, and fall in love I did. Then, as in a typical Parisian-American romance, I bid my French porcelain lover adieu the next morning and hopped a train to Italy. While the bidet didn’t come running down the platform shouting my name as I looked out the seat window, I’m sure she would have had she not been bolted steadfastly to the hotel bathroom floor. Technically the noun “bidet” is masculine, but I think whoever decides what is masculine or feminine for the French language made a mistake. That device is all woman. And I knew her touch. It was tender. Also thorough.

I have not been back to Paris since that original visit twenty-two years ago. While I’ve traveled to other countries, I’ve failed to secure a hotel fancy enough to provide a luxurious bidet. I’ve been in dozens of bathrooms with heated floors (yawn), or six-nozzle shower heads (double yawn), or phones right next to the toilet (who’s calling me in my hotel room, anyway?), but never one with that cleaned your fanny for you. Oh, I never got back to the “I had two dreams thing” mentioned earlier. Let’s do that. So I have a bidet now. Like right this very second.

Well, not a true bidet. Mine is an attachment with controls that sit just to the right of the toilet seat. In France bidets are a separate appliance often located next to the toilet. You do your dirty business in the toilet first, then waddle over to the bidet where it cleans out the remainder of your dirty business. I have neither the room noor the plumbing requirements for two devices in my bathroom. Thankfully egghead scientists have combined these two appliances into one. A bathroom mash-up, if you will. But instead of combining Led Zeppelin with horrific dance beats, it’s a perfect union of symbiosis.

If you’re not familiar with the functionality of a bidet, let me provide you with the most direct explanation I can muster. It shoots water (you choose the temperature) up into your hiney after you poop. This water cleans out that area perfectly, and without having to reach for the Charmin. As a man, I can only speak to this one application. My understanding is that a bidet does other things for women, but I’m not a woman, and that whole area is complicated and confusing to me. I think it washes out the front, but I didn’t get to that part in the manual yet.

Since I have only encountered a bidet once (and over twenty years ago at that), I wasn’t sure if my memory was reliable. I’m one of those people that romanticizes the past. If a woman dumps me, months later I continue to see her as a perfect being. “But she nailed the milkman several times a week for two years while you were at work!” my friends remind me. So, I can’t entirely trust this one-off memory, but I was confident that I had recorded it correctly in my hippocampus. The way I remember it, that sole experience I emerged from the bathroom a new man. A content man. A man with the cleanest backside that side of the Rive Gauche. And with a matching smile to boot.

To install this device I needed to enlist the skills of a tradesman. The instructions claimed I could do the install myself in twenty minutes. And, to be fair to my masculinity, I tried. But due to the positioning of the toilet, it would have required me to unbolt the bastard and I’m not that confident in my plumbing skills. I was able to get the water hooked up correctly, but then it started leaking all over the place. I took to Craigslist, where only the finest contractors that have no license or insurance are abundant. The guy I hired (we’ll call him Greg because his name is Greg) reeked of stale whiskey when he arrived fifteen minutes later than our scheduled appointment. While a bit bleary-eyed he did seem to know what he was doing. “I’ve installed probably fifty of these bid-dits, you see! Go ahead and toss the instructions. I don’t need them.” I decided not to correct his mispronunciation, but I held onto the instructions just in case. He had quoted me $75 and promised it would be done in twenty minutes.

Two hours and three trips to Home Depot later, Greg announced he was finished. He called me into the bathroom to demonstrate its use.

None of this is exaggerated. He really went to Home Depot three times in two hours.

If this next scene was written into a slapstick comedy script, it would never make it past the first draft. What I’m about to share with you is way too obvious and the only joke you can make with a new bidet. But it happened. Like a guy who slips on a banana peel and falls into an open manhole, Greg did the one thing anyone who’s installed even one bidet in their history should know to not do. He faced the toilet and said, “So, you turn this knob here to start the water, see?”

And with that, the bidet sprayed him, full blast, right in the face. In his open mouth. Water ran down his chin and into his denim shirt. It took him a full two-mississippi to turn the dial to “off.” I didn’t dare laugh because I felt bad for him. He just got sprayed in the face with hot toilet water. To be fair to Greg, it was fresh water from the tap, the same we drink from, but still. I’d love to say that it didn’t happen a second time two minutes later, but it totally did. I was examining the connections, making sure nothing was leaking behind the toilet. I put my hand where I thought the water would hit, to block it from shooting out of the toilet. I turned on the bidet and the stream shot past my hand and directly onto Greg. He was standing in the same spot. He had his mouth closed this time, so it only further soaked his face and shirt. “Sorry,” I said to Greg. He shrugged.

I ended up giving Greg $125 which he seemed to appreciate. We said our goodbyes and he left. Five minutes later I was seated ready for my own maiden voyage upon this new vessel of the sea. Would it be as glorious as I remembered? I said a prayer to Saint Zita who the Catholics call “The Saint of Cleanliness.” I’m not a Catholic, but she’s not that well-known as a saint and probably appreciated the spiritual fist bump. And with that I evacuated yesterday’s brisket.

But instead of reaching for the toilet paper I reached for the bidet controls. Damn! I should have tested the temperature ahead of time. I decided on a moderately warm setting and hoped that my dial was accurate. I turned on the spray and let the bidet do its thing. I had to adjust my posture as the the first blast hit the upper part of my left cheek. Once in position I felt the power of the bidet at work. I have no idea how long you’re supposed to sit there, but I figured you can’t really over-do it, so I read an article about probiotics on the NY Times mobile site. Seemed apropos. After two minutes I had finished the article and turned off the nozzle. My rear felt wet, but, well, it felt clean. It was time for the acid test. I now reached for the toilet paper.

While my intention is never to gross out the good people who visit this site, I’m pleased to announce that the paper came back unblemished. I grabbed some Scotch tape and reaffixed it to the roll as it was in perfect condition to be used again. Okay, that’s not true. I threw the paper in the toilet and waved goodbye as it circled the drain. I made a vow to never again use toilet paper. Well, unless I happen to go to the bathroom anywhere other than my own bathroom. Then, I’ll use it like I did before. But I’ll be frowning. I’ll judge the homeowner for not having a bidet installed. I could have sent Greg over to install it, and let’s face it, he needs the work.

So, one dream realized, one to go. The urinal will happen, but I’m in no major hurry. I mentioned it to Greg as he was leaving. He paused, thought for a moment, and then said, “That would be awesome, man. I can do that. I’ve done a ton of those.” He was lying, but I appreciated the support.

photo credit: OneEighteen Duchamp at the Venice Guggenheim via photopin (license)

photo credit: libertygrace0 Cleaning the Bathroom 1970’s Style via photopin (license)

Not that I’m so narcissistic to believe that you live, die, and breathe my words like oxygen. I hope you don’t. But if you do, you just may make it into the Paris will. Anyshit, I haven’t been updating the blog as much as usual. There’s a few reasons why…

First, I’ve been diligently working on the official ThoughtsFromParis mobile application. This means you no longer have to visit this site directly from your phone’s browser. I do have a really easy to read mobile site, but I wanted to create something a little more fun. Shortly Android and iPhone users will be able to download from their respective app stores.

I’d also like to formally announce that I’m removing all ads from the app and that it will be free. Initially I thought there would be banner ads to help recoup some of the costs associated with building and submitting the software. But then I realized we all hate apps with banner ads. So, I got rid of it.

The app is being built more as an exciting thank you for reading and supporting this blog. What started out as a little website has grown thanks to your readership. Much of my life has changed due to the engagement I receive from your comments. I’ve connected with thousands of people and developed (and continue to develop) strong friendships. I’m taking a risk that a mobile app will actually make getting to my posts easier (or at least add more options). I could be wrong. Either way, it’s a fun thing to build.

Second, I’ve been busy working on a partnership with a media company. While I don’t have all the details yet, there’s a very strong chance I’ll be making an exciting announcement within the next few weeks. I couldn’t be more flattered that this firm is interested in working with me, and I may be the first blogger they’re supporting. Of course, this could all go to pot, too. I hope not, but you never know with these things. Nothing will change content-wise. They want me to keep being me.

Now that I’ve spewed out my reasons for being absent, I would like to restore some additional balance to my life. Which means writing more.

The great Karen and I are working on oSex episode four. That should be fun and we’ve got all sorts of sicko and non-sicko questions to answer. I also set up a lot of great interviews for the Bloggers are Weird podcast and I appreciate you supporting both of these efforts.

While I haven’t been very active here, I continue to tweet and Facebook post quite a bit. Without tooting my own horn too much, I’m pretty damned good at it. If you’re not following me, I’d love it if you would consider. Selfishly, I dig when someone bests one of my jokes. I’m constantly amazed at your responses to my jokes and am secretly jealous when you come up with something better.

Oh, my app developer’s name is DongDong, which is nothing short of excellent.

Last (or is it “lastly”?), you may have noticed a little box at the top of this post (regular readers probably won’t see it) where I encourage you to subscribe to my posts via email. Once again, just another way to access my content.

Thanks again for the support and I’ll be back soon.

He’s a gay Asian from New York.

I know this because back in 1998 when I stumbled across his website, this is what appeared as his tagline. I was simply looking to see if there was, in fact, a djparis.com. Turns out there absolutely was and is.

Now, as a straight  Caucasian  from Chicago this could not have been more hilarious for my family. Of course they started telling everyone that their son had built a website and to go visit djparis.com. Which, naturally, is an awesome joke.

D.J. is a great guy. (I’m talking about me – zing!). I reached out to him back in 1998 and asked if I could have an email address with his domain. He thought the idea was hilarious.

I have to credit him with being an inspiration to me finally getting online to start a blog. His website has changed probably a dozen times over the years. When it launched it received a ton of publicity for being a popular gay men’s resource for all things New York. He’s received  accolades  and was one of the early blog pioneers.

I remember when he added a webcam feed so you could watch him work and live twenty-four hours a day. Today that sounds like a self-absorbed douche move, but at the time it was a really innovative and cool idea. And I did check the webcam every once in awhile to see what I would have been doing had I been gay and Asian. He was always integrating new ideas and features to his site and it was exciting to watch it evolve.

We’ve tried to meet up a few times when I’ve visited my sister in New York, but it hasn’t worked out. We’ve played Words with Friends and he’s always beaten me. I don’t ever assume, however, that I can beat an Asian at games academic. The next time I head east I’m definitely taking him out for a cocktail in the Village. That’s not a gay/Village joke – my sister lives there. I could insert a really great gay Village joke here, but it would be too easy.

If you haven’t found your same name internet opposite I encourage you to do so now. Be careful though, not everybody will strike awesome like me. You could find out your person posts weird religious rants on Facebook or is into that disturbing My Little Pony adult online thing. Don’t be too quick to give out your P.O. Box.

Also, if you learn that your  doppelganger is doing five to ten in San Quentin for aggravated battery but loves to use the prison library computer, proceed with caution. He’s going to need a place to crash when he hits parole.

Even though we’ve never spoken on the phone or seen what happens when two D.J. Paris’ shake hands (my suspicion is the world will implode onto itself), I feel a connection. Not a connection that weirdo twins have where they know when the other person is having sex and stuff. A milder kinship. Even so I need to thank him for when I saw my name on his extremely popular website I realized it was possible for me to build something of value online, too.

I don’t know if gay people celebrate Thanksgiving but, if they do, I hope D.J. has a nice holiday. I’d like to mention that he’s staring in a new film coming out shortly. Watch the trailer here.

image courtesy of djparis.com

So, this loser police officer decided to take my driver’s license and write me up a moving violation (the same that you would get if you blew through a red light in a car). As he drove away I wished ill upon his children. Smallpox, if I remember correctly. When I arrived to work upon hearing the story everyone laughed at me.

I figured there had to be something wrong about him taking my license. I found this online commuter forum and asked the bikers. As it turned out Chicago had, a few months back, made some law that said bicyclists had to obey the same traffic laws as motorists.

Since I have a perfect driving record I decided to go before the judge. I had never been before a judge and I have to admit, I was pretty excited.

At traffic court they congo-lined me up with a group I titled The  Who’s Who of Societal Delinquents. Lots of great neck tats and not many suits. We were told that the judge would read our infraction aloud and he’d rule on the matter. You were not allowed to speak unless spoken to.  There was one douche in the line who brought an attorney. He thought he was so cool. Me and the neck tats pointed and laughed at this puta madre.

If I forgot to mention, there were a lot of Mexicans in the group.

The process interested me. As each person went before the judge he never looked up from his papers once. He ruled, and you were dismissed. It would all happen within twenty seconds.

I was fifteenth in line. I know this because I counted and watched fourteen people all get ruled “guilty.” Then, it was my turn.

He started reading the citation…

Mr. Paris drove through a red light on a bicycle. Wait… A bicycle?

For the very first time since he had entered the room he looked up from the desk. He broke character and smiled. I could tell he wanted to laugh. But, being a judge, he couldn’t.

It was also clear he saw something he didn’t like on the paper.

Is the arresting officer here today?

Turns out he was. The cop was sitting just to the right of where I was in front of the judge. They all look the same to me, so I didn’t even notice him. In fact, with the first fourteen cases before me the judge had asked the same question. No officers were present.

One of Chicago’s finest stood and addressed the judge.

Uh, yes, judge. I’m here. Well… it seems I put the wrong infraction number on the ticket.

Oh… okay. Um… What do you want to do?

It was our mistake and…

Should I just give him back his license?

We no longer wish to pursue to matter, judge.

—

The judge looked me in the eye and again flashed a tiny smile. He handed me my license and I turned around to walk out. But before I made even one step, I said to the officer, “Wow – thank you! Thank you very much!” It was a subtle f-you and I wanted to anger him by suggesting that he was consciously doing me a favor. Then, I walked out. Triumphant.

I’m sure that I was the envy of the rest of the bozos.

What I assumed happened was that somebody who looks at tickets written by cops found the error and summoned the officer. Since he screwed up they probably told him to get his ass to court before I made a big stink about their mistake. Of course I had no idea they had goofed. It never occurred to me to check the violation number.

I’d love to say that I learned my lesson and have never blew through a red light again. But I did the very next day after I got my license back. I’ve been biking to work now for four years and I’ve never had a close call. 95% of my ride is along the lake on a designated path. I don’t like biking in the street and only do so when there’s no other route. I wear a helmet and all that nonsense.

So, that’s the conclusion. I fought the law. I won.

My record is clean and the city just sent me a “ten years without a ticket” sticker thing for the back of my license. I threw it away. I’m way too cool for that nonsense.

Sadly, still riding high from the ticket victory three years ago. I’m invincible!

A few weeks back I ordered this generic tail light from China. It came equipped with lasers that let everyone know I mean business. I haven’t yet turned it on because I don’t know that ground effects is the best look for me.

EXCEPT WHEN THE DREAMER IS MARRYING HIS SISTER.

Yes, I had a terrifying dream last night. I was in a tux backstage at a wedding. I don’t know what the secret area is named for a wedding even though I had my own once. But I am in a band and we do  occasionally  hang out backstage. Anyway, I was there, and I was nervous. Then panicked. Finally I was screaming and crying at the same time.

Yes, today was the day I was marrying my sister.

Everything about it felt wrong, but there I was. I had the  corsage and everything. I was pleading with my family who seemed to be the ones making this thing happen. I was crying and yelling that this isn’t right and I couldn’t marry my kin. (Man, I can’t say that word enough – it works every time.) With every plead there was a logical answer about why it made sense to unite with my sister. She was lonely, I was lonely – we knew each other well – blood should marry blood. These were the reasons provided to me.

Then I hit them with my trump card.

“But,” I said with great confidence, “Surely you wouldn’t have me and my sister procreate! Why, the children would be mutants!”

There’s no comeback to this – the science is pretty clear about banging family members. It’s not suggested.

“Oh, that’s hogwash,” my parents dismissed. “That’s just something the British made up hundreds of years ago. There’s no evidence to suggest that anything bad happens.”

Hmm… I was not going to win this one.

I seriously screamed and yelled and cried at the top of my lungs as one would when the argument of genetic abnormality falls on deaf ears.

The wedding dream ended with a wake-up trip to the bathroom alone in the dark. Yes, I sat like a woman.

———

I was at this big event just milling about by myself. Even in my dreams I’m lonely.

So, I started walking around and talking to people and just being social. Everyone’s nice enough. But since I can never have a dream where fear and anxiety don’t play a roll, things quickly took a painful turn.

There was Britney Spears walking by herself. She looked shorter that I would have thought. A bonafide celebrity. I ran over to her and tried to grab her for a moment. She was walking to something and I basically had to stop her. All I wanted was a photo. And to put my arms around her and hold her tenderly but firm, like a man. Okay, that last part isn’t true. I just wanted a photo.

The  trollop  turned me down! But not just a normal dismissal. First she stared me right into the eye through to my soul. And she did not like the info that came back form that journey. She looked at me we disgust and just said, “Uh, no.” I was crushed.

But at least it happened once again, minutes later! I ran into Paris Hilton.

Now, we both have Paris in our names. That’s something! Obviously she would want to hang out and take a photo. This second trollop did the same thing as the first trollop!

As she was walking quickly away from me I tried to reason with her. “But both are names are Paris! If you married me, you’d be Paris Paris! That’s funny! Right?” She was gone.

Rejected by two celebrities in the same dream. Sadly, this is probably  exactly  how it would go in real life, too.

———

If you’d like to share a disturbing dream I won’t feel so alone. Maybe you made out with your high school biology teacher, Mrs. Greenblatt who was rocking 67 at the time. Or you had one where you gave birth to four chimps. Tell us about the time your teeth fell out and when you picked them up you were ashamed because they were butter-yellow.

photo credit: Anirudh Koul via photo pin cc

Why?

Because I think people don’t know what the hell to think when they visit my site for the first time.

• Am I from Paris, France?
• Is this about a trip I took to France?

And let’s be honest, nobody cares about anything from France.  I mean, I get a few French visitors every week, but I don’t need any more smelly folks hanging around.

I don’t necessarily need a tagline that clarifies, “I’m not actually from France” or that my last name is Paris (it is), but I want people to know that this is a blog about humor, vulnerability, and honesty.  You know, girl stuff.

It needs to be short, and something that can fit under my title. The Bloggess has a great tagline. “Like Mother Teresa Only Better.”  Noa Gavin has “I’m Funnier Than Your Grandma.”  Both awesome.

So, what do you think, readers?  Write your suggestion below in the comments.  If you don’t help me, I’m going to have to figure it out myself.  And that just plain sucks.

Read Part I Here – and then come back, because, well, you’ll totally want to!

I was telling my father about Jessica, the woman in the previous  story with whom (Or is it “with whom”?  Or “to whom”?  To which?  Damn my feeble attempt at grammar! I just learned the commas rules recently. I still promptly ignore them. But I learned it!). I was really starting to connect.

The bottom line was I was starting to fall for this girl. Not in love, but in that initial early phase of infatuation. I couldn’t wait to talk with her each night. I felt comfortable sharing the real me with all my faults.

I was going to say instead “with all my warts” from that famous Oliver Cromwell quote, and then make a joke about how I really do have warts as my body is ravished with HPV. Get the  inoculation ladies!

(Um, just to clarify, the above was a joke. Truly.)

She, too, was sharing intimately. To me, this felt like the beginning of something real. I also know that I tend to fall deeply very quickly, so I tried to keep a level head about the whole thing. I mean, I hadn’t even met her yet.

I mentioned to my father how we had plans to spend New Year’s Eve together, with me flying to Atlanta where she lived and going on a proper date.

After telling my father of this plan he casually said, “Why don’t you just invite her to Peoria for Thanksgiving?”

I immediately was at loss for words. For me this is a rare and special event. Just ask those who have to deal with me. But the truth was I was at a momentary standstill on how to process what he just said.

Seven seconds later I stammered out, “But, but Dad – that’s crazy. I haven’t even met her yet! She’d get totally freaked out! ”

Then, I added for dramatic effect, “It’s just not done.”

My father’s answer was a calm and collected, “Why not? We’re fun!”

Now, the exclamation point in the last sentence was not meant to read “We’re fun!” in an excited, jovial way. He meant it in a defensive, why-are-you-questioning-this way. While I’ve never seen my father drunk, this felt like a drunk sort of thing to say.

His two-word argument for inviting a woman that I’ve never met to spend five days with my family over Thanksgiving was rocky at best. Like McNamara’s logic for Vietnam. Just wanted to throw that in there. Compare my father to McNamara. That’s funny to me. Not Vietnam. Vietnam’s not funny. Well, maybe today. Not then.

“Yes Dad, I understand that you, mom, and Dana (my sister) are fun. I get it. But Jessica’s going to run screaming if I offer this up.”

Once again, just because I like how it sounded, “It’s just not done.”

“Well, you do what you want, I’m just telling you what I’d do.”

And that was the end of the conversation. He was right, too. It was exactly what he would have done. He didn’t see anything the least bit uncomfortable or weird about it. To him, the Paris family is fun and welcoming and warm. To his credit, we are sort of that way. We’ll wait until after the weekend to pick you apart and dress you down. Like if you still wear banana clips in your hair.

Also, I don’t have a history of bringing women home to my parents who were anything other than lovely. I, myself, have lots of issues, but the women I date are usually pretty normal. Even my  ex-wife, who bailed on our marriage, was normal. For a bailer.

I was about to make a terrible pun about how she actually did grow up on a farm, and bailed a shitload of hay, but it seemed dumb.

I thought about this proposition for a few days. And just like anything you ultimately really want to do but have to talk yourself into, I eventually came around to this conclusion:

It would be fun.

The plan was such: I’d call Jessica and throw the idea out there, totally understanding how crazy and nutty it sounds. I would make sure to give her an easy out, and not apply pressure.

And that’s exactly what I did. I carefully and slowly set up the idea of getting together sooner than New Years, and if she didn’t have plans for Thanksgiving, she should come to Peoria and hang out  with my family.

Her response was an expected, “Oh, I don’t know. That’s a lot to handle, and I’m not sure if I’d be comfortable.”

I assured her that I completely understood.

But then she came back with…

“However, it might be really fun, and I actually don’t have plans for Thanksgiving. Let me think about it.”

During the next few days we continued to talk and get closer, as we had been doing all along. We even Skyped a few more times. She would not give me the full body camera pan I was hoping for, but, well, I had to ask. I’m a guy.

A few days later she called and said, “I’m throwing caution to the wind. Let’s do this.”

Now just so that you understand how this decision was made, Jessica and I are talking for a few hours each night, often video chatting on webcam. We knew each other – at least a little.

Also our conversations were not that of surface. I’m just not that way. I talk about my insecurities, my fears, and I expect others to as well. I push hard and deep. It’s how I’m built.

So, we were probably building an accelerated level of intimacy during these daily conversations. Everything felt good to both of us and we constantly checked in with each other to make sure we were on the same emotional page.

When I mentioned this Thanksgiving plan to my therapist, however, she was not amused. But screw it, I pay her.

I called my father after Jessica had purchased her ticket to tell him that his suggestion actually became our reality. This is how the conversation went:

“Hey Dad, so, she’s coming to Thanksgiving!”

“Who is?”

“Jessica – you know the girl I was telling you about?”

“Oh, great. You just asked her to Thanksgiving dinner?”

“Uh, yeah, you told me to.”

“No, I never said that.”

“Dad, yes you did, just four days ago.”

“I did? Hmm. I don’t think I said that.”

“Are you putting me on?”

“Oh wait, maybe I did suggest you invite her for Thanksgiving. Either way, I’m excited to meet her.”

“No, there’s no ‘either way.’ There is only one way – the way you said specifically to me. You definitely told me to ask her.”

“Okay, well, great. What kind of wine does she drink?  I’ll make a trip.”

In Part III – The Meeting! (God, she better be an actual woman… Seriously.)