All of you that have less than two please take one giant step forward.  Not so fast, Mr. Paris.

Please ignore the observation that I appear four months pregnant.

My girlfriend Jessica has been here for the past two weeks.  She brought her cat and dog, who happens to also be a chihuahua.  His name is Dirk.  Mine, as you may know, is Lil’ Miss Meepers.  Both dogs get along swimmingly and cause no problems in my life.

Sleeping is another matter.  First of all, I’m just shy of 6’3″.  Doesn’t that sound cooler than 6’2″?  Instead of going with the more humble and rounding-down 6’2″, I have to try to sound like a big-shot (pun INtended) and round up.  Let’s remove ego and start over.

Sleeping is another matter.  First of all, I’m 6’2″.  My girlfriend is 5’11″.  That’s a bunch of tall yoyos for one bed.

By the way, trying out “yoyos” instead of “fools” or “foolios” or “bozos” which I use more regularly.  Not sure if I like it.  Will keep you posted.

It’s time to get a king bed.  Sharing a queen with two tiny dogs who burrow and one girl whose skin runs at 104 Fahrenheit is a little much.  If I bump up against her in the middle of the night, it feels like the onset of a chemical burn.  I have to recoil and retreat to my side.  This is an inch and a half to the right.  Not a lot of buffer.  Plus, she wakes up with my hand across her mouth every morning.  I must have dreams where I’m beating the plops out of something.  Hopefully it’s not dreams where I’m beating her up – but that would sort of explain things, right?

I’m putting a two-year plan together on this bed thing.  First I just bought a new queen set for my other bedroom.  That was expensive. Also, my frame on this bed was not cheap, and it’s a queen.  Putting 2k into a king frame and mattress would be painful at this time.  I could do it if I started selling my essences (blood, semen – not sure if you can sell urine).

I hope you are sleeping better than I at the moment.  But I am grateful to have two animals and a lady that wants to share my bed.  Also, I wait for her to fall asleep before unleashing my vapor.  I’m a gentleman.

My website simply loads too damned slow.

Partly it’s my fault – I have burdened this bitch down with tons of scripts, images, and customization.  I’ve tried various solutions to decrease load time like eliminating extraneous functionality, moving my server to a cloud, combining image sprites, caching stuff, and all sorts of nerd crap.  Nothing works.

Today, I came to a realization.  I need to redesign the mofo.

I plan on working on this pretty much nonstop until I get it done.  It could take days, weeks, or maybe even a month or two.  Add that to my day job and the band I play in, girlfriend responsibilities, and the posting I do each day.  I’m going to be busy.

The new design will be simpler and cleaner.  I also plan to have an adults-only section with a live webcam hooked up in my standalone shower so you can see me using shower gloves on my magic.  You’ll have to pay $1.99, but you can swing it.  You’re not that poor.

My biggest challenge is in graphic design.  If you have suggestions of what imagery might suit my personality and writing style, I’m all ears.  If you don’t have suggestions, I’ll just go with what I think is coolest.  Which may or may not be coolest.  Remember, I used to wear tight jeans thinking it would impress chicks.

For example – the slider at the top of the homepage.  I love the slider.  I think people dig it.  But I’m not sure whether to keep it or not.  It takes up real estate.

Also, my logo – it needs to be redone.  Again, I have no thoughts.  Nor any good jokes right now.

Since this will affect you, my readers, I implore you to give me suggestions.  But whenever I ask for suggestions I never get any.  It’s a weird, antithetical situation.  I write about how cotton balls gross me out, and everyone replies.  I don’t get it.

So, since I desperately need feedback, and you never do what I ask, I command you to NOT comment below with thoughts and suggestion.  While I’m at it, you must never send me homemade confections or size 13 Italian loafers.  Also, no nude photos.  Oh wait, this is the opposite thing, so let me clarify.

Guys – send TONS of nude photos.

Okay, I’m done.  Time to sleep and dream of CSS and PHP and HTML.  Also taking the big exam in college when I didn’t study or go to class all semester.

If you don't help me, I'm just going to make it an all-walrus design.

photo credit: ucumari via photo pin cc

One of the primary maxims of exercise is that if you’re constantly doing the same activity, repeatedly, over time, it should become easier.  This is due to muscles rebuilding and getting larger, and the cardiovascular system working more efficiently.

But this just doesn’t really happen for me.

I bike every day to and from work – about twenty miles roundtrip.  I’ve biked in all sorts of winds and conditions, and I take the same path along the lake every day.  Yet, when I get to work, each time, I am completely wiped.  I’m not really in shape, mind you, but still.

But that’s a workout and burns a few calories, so I’m not complaining.  Hard cardio in the morning and after work is a good thing.

What I don’t understand is this…

How – after seven years of climbing four flights of stairs each day, multiple times a day, has that not become any easier?

It’s not like I hire some foreigner to carry me up half the time (they cost too much).  There are no elevators.  Yet each time, whether I’m carrying loads of groceries or simply the mail, by the time I reach my door, I’m winded.

I read a story of an overweight dude who started marathon training by starting to walk from his house to his mailbox.  Ten months later he was able to run the whole damn thing.

I’m not overweight.  I eat decent.  I don’t smoke.

Why is it so incredibly hard to walk up four flights of stairs?  How have my muscles not adapted?

Well, I guess it doesn’t matter.  It’s just hard and probably always will be.  Here’s my advice…

Don’t assume that whatever is inconvenient will  change.  Or, morever, you will not adapt to make that change more bearable.

I feel like this is solid advice.  If your boss is a dick, he’ll always be a dick.  If your car pulls to the left, get used to it.  That rash you get each year on your inner thigh is coming back this October.

I think the trick is to learn how to co-exist with the discomfort of things that don’t change.  I’ve spent way too much time thinking that the stairs will get easier.  I’m always disappointed when they suck fat balls.  So, I give up.

Stairs, you have beaten me.  I bow to your power.

It is really awesome when I order food to have the delivery guys panting hard at my door.  I give them the knowing nod.  But secretly I’m laughing at them for going through my pain.  Then I usually leave a crappy tip.

I know your pain, sister.

photo credit: Éole via photo pin cc

If you’re a blogger, this is a must.  Last year I went to BlogWorld LA – loved it.  Not only did I get to hear from some of the most effective bloggers online, but I met and hung out with people who were passionate about blogging – you know, nerds.  I have five close friendships today that started and blossomed there.

I’m heading in September to BlogHer, a conference in NYC that focuses on women bloggers.  I’m going because I want to spend time with other people like me (even if they have boobs – wait… especially because they have boobs!).

And in October I’ll be heading down to Atlanta to go to AimingLow’s Non-Con.  I’ve written before how AimingLow is simply one of the funniest sites on the web.  I’m also a bit partial, as I’m on their “comic relief roster” and publish regularly there.

Their Non-Con is similar to the large conferences without the big presentations.  Just blogger to blogger interaction, with a focus on small group conversation.  This is what ends up happening after-hours at the big conferences anyway.

Best of all – this conference is totally free.  That’s amazing because to go to BlogHer or BlogWorld, you’ll shell out hundreds of dollars just to get in (and even then it’s a total steal).  As far as I know, this is the first time anything of this scale has been attempted.

I’ll be speaking with two incredible ladies.  The first, Una Lamarche, is a HuffPo writer and all-around badass.  The other is Robin Plemmons, a hilarious writer and artist.  Her greeting cards are the only ones I will be buying from now on (aside from the Bieber line at American Greetings that I send out on Arbor Day).

Head over to AimingLow and sign up for information about this event.  Trust me – it’s going to be great.  And if it sucks, I’m not going to take responsibility for your poor decision.  T.S.

You may or may not find this amusing, but I discovered a piece I had started to write (for myself apparently) about how high schoolers should drink alcohol because being in high school is stressful enough.  Obviously, it’s satire.  I really don’t care if your kids drink or not.  I have my own problems.

I have no recollection of writing this at all, and it’s just a very basic draft, but it really made me laugh.  I must have been inspired by all those dopey pamphlets available to teenagers about various life subjects.  One in particular I remember was about how to get comfortable with your own body (as a boy). In that pamphlet there was a photo of a 15 year old, shirtless, staring at his bicep in the mirror.  The caption was something like, “Like you, Tim spends hours looking at his muscles in the mirror, deciding whether lifting weights will make him more popular with the girls.”  If anything spawned this piece, that was it.

Just for posterity – as best I can tell, this was written back in 1995.  That’s sixteen or so years ago.  So, again, it’s not perfect.  But for an eighteen year old, not terrible.  I’m proud.

This is just a start of a story, and I’m bummed I never completed it.

I love the idea of a pamphlet for teenagers making the argument that drinking will help ease social concerns, reduce stress and anxiety, AND make you cool at the same time.  Which is sort of does, actually.

Note – I, personally, don’t drink.  I haven’t touched alcohol in eight years.  But this is still funny as hell to me.

Note Note – If you’re on a mobile device you should see a link below to download and read.  For us on computers, you probably will have to scroll around a little and zoom in to read it.  Sorry.

Download (PDF, 751KB)

While Jessica is visiting I try to carve three minutes each day to search her extremely thick and luxurious hair for white follicles.  But now I have a new obsession.

Yanking off rear dewclaws from chihuahuas.

If you’re not familiar with the awesomeness that is a dewclaw, it’s that weird nail that starts a third of the way up a dogs leg on the side.  I’m too lazy to look it up, but I’m pretty sure it never touches the ground.  I think dogs can use it to grasp stuff.  I’m not sure what dogs grasp, as my dog had a real issue with Elementary Physics.  (Get it?  A fuckin’ pun!  I’m tired.)

Anyway, the other chihuahua that is staying with us, Dirk, has rear dewclaws.  This is rare.  Dewclaws are almost always on the front legs, not the rear.  Jessica’s dog has ‘em on both.

The other thing about dewclaws, especially those on hind legs, is that they grow a lot faster than the other nails.  About twice as fast as I understand it.  So when I was examining Dirk’s nails I noticed his one rear dewclaw were basically turning in on itself like those freaks from India in the Guinness Book of World Records.  I mentioned this to Jessica and asked if I could clip it.

She never clips his nails because he screams bloody murder.  She takes him into a pet store once a month and they do it.  I looked at his other rear dewclaw and noticed it was missing.  We later found it on the couch.  He had jumped up earlier and somehow tore it right off, all the way down to the quick.  I was staring at a perfect dewclaw ripped straight off his leg.

I grabbed the nail clippers to get the other one.  He began acting like a dick trying to squirm out of getting the nail cut.  It was near impossible to get under there as it had curled into an almost perfect circle.  I put down the clippers and dug my own nail under his nail, to try to find the opening where I could jam the clippers under.

And then it snapped.  Clear off, into my hands.

The dewclaw just magically left his body and landed in my palm.  It was beautiful.  I had two amazing dewclaws that just moments before was hanging off a dog.

I rolled them around in my hand.  I scratched my face with them at the same time.  I tried to figure out which one I liked better.  I even attempted to see  if I could pick my teeth with them.  I could.

I tossed them after a few minutes.  I’m no psycho.  But I’m excited in about four weeks to rip off the new ones – maybe I’ll make a dewclaw bracelet and give it away to one of you.  Admit it – you’d wear it to a cocktail party.  It’s at least more fun that your grandmother’s pearls.

These are not the dewclaws I had, but I would have been happy with them, too.

photo credit: Nottingham Vet School via photo pin cc

There are only two types of famous people that follow you on Twitter.  Famous people that follow everyone that follows them (which is rare), and famous people that actually follow you for some weird reason.

There’s a great tool called FriendOrFollow that will help you determine if you have any famous followers.

Now, with 13k followers, it’s not like I’m going to go through each one and determine their level of fame.  You can, however, sort by “verified” accounts.  These are accounts that for some reason Twitter deems important.  Usually celebrities who Twitter has determined are the real McCoy and not fake impersonation accounts.

So, currently the only two famous people that I can find that follow me are Fran Drescher and Larry the Cable Guy.

What’s most interesting is that I follow neither of them.  Fran’s is more suspect – she has around 111k followers and follows 23k.  This probably means she started out following a ton of people, and then stopped as her Twitter account began to grow.  So, I’m not counting her as a real ThoughtsFromParis follower.  Although if she is, I’m a huge fan.  Her role in The is Spinal Tap is brilliant.

Larry the Cable Guy is a puzzling Twitter situation.  Again, I am not a follower, but he follows me.  His stats are thus – 125k followers, and only follows 1k.  So, out of the 1k he follows, I’m in that group.  Is he a fan?  Did he follow me by mistake?  Does he appreciate my white collar comedy?

I would assume he doesn’t read my stuff and that it’s some weird mistake.  Not that I wouldn’t be super flattered if he is a fan.  Hell, I’d quit my job right now to write jokes for him.  He’s currently the most successful comedian in the country, I believe.  I don’t know much about redneck stuff, but I’d learn.  You know, trailers and meth and bad mustaches.  I can dig it.

Just in case he’s reading, I’d like to audition to be on his crew.  Now, I just have to come up with a blue-collar premise…  Ahem…

“You know your kin can sometimes be an embarrassment?  My grandma was heading to the store and I asked her to pick me up some Redman.  Well, wouldn’t you dang blasted believe that granny came back with a real live Indian.  I was like, “Damn, grandma, I wanted some tobacco not a Tomohawko!”

Not my finest writing.  But not my worst!  (okay, it’s pretty much my worst)

There are some people in your life that you need to disengage and bolt.

Recently a woman that I went on a few dates with a year ago asked me to help her find an apartment.  Since I have dozens of leasing agents that work at my office, I offered assistance.  Apparently she had started seeing some guy in her building, an artsy type that could hardly pay the bills, and they decided to move in together to save on rent.  They were in love, but there were problems in the relationship.  He has erection issues and also they never see each other due to their schedules.  She wanted to move out, but was afraid he would be devastated and not able to take care of himself.  I provided no advice other than that she trust her feelings.

She found an apartment and then had to tell him the news.  She texted me a few times (didn’t want to talk over the phone for fear the boyfriend would suspect something) about being nervous and knowing that this was going to break his heart.  I told her that I was there to support her if she needed anything.  Eventually she revealed to him that she was moving out.  He got angry, shamed her, and the situation was hard for both of them.  Like all breakups are.

A few weeks go by and I thought to check in with her.  I sent a text asking for an update.  She wrote back.  ”I’m alive.  Barely, but still here.”  I freaked out, picked up the phone and left a voicemail.  I wanted to confirm she wasn’t laying in a hospital bed.

A day later I got a test that said, “Thank you for the call.  I’m okay – but it’s more complicated now.  I’ve met a boy.”

I wrote a message back – “Jesus.  No more dating.  Learn how to be alone for awhile.”

She wrote back – “Hey, dumb ass, I haven’t dated for the past year.  That’s why I am now.”

Thoroughly confused, I started to write a message back.  And then I did that thing that I have failed to do many times before.  I paused and ask the question, “Is this worth my time?”

I looked for an upside to continue this conversation.  I couldn’t find one.  And then I remembered she had only reached out to me to ask for help.  She didn’t seem to be interested in my life.  I’m not mad at her, but I realized that is not what I need.  Plus, she’s obviously a little batty.  I have my own crazy to deal with.

So, I did the responsible thing.  Deleted the text messages and went and bought flowers for my hanging boxes on my patio.

Yes, this person's house is a piece of shit. But a piece of shit with petunias.

photo credit: PixSaurus via photo pin cc

Now, that’s a pretty bold claim.  You are right to doubt.  Many charlatans will separate you and your money with such proclamations!

I want nothing other than your attention.  Well, actually, down the road I will want your money when I write a book, or come out with a line of crappy t-shirts and sports bras.

I noticed something profound last year, and then again this morning on the bike ride in to work.  It’s that time of year when women come out of hibernation.  When you ladies start making yourself seen, we men notice one thing – your hotness.

And, you know what?  There’s a lot of sixes out there that have bumped themselves up to eights.  With one simple move.

Cosmetics?  Liposuction?  Hot water and lemon diets?  Facial reconstructive surgery?  Nope.  Not even close.

Some sixes know a secret.  A very powerful secret.  Oh yeah.  Get excited!  Here it is!

Wearing sunglasses makes you instantly hotter.  Two points, to be accurate.

How does this work?

A pair of Oakleys does something critical to a bump up in your sexy – it  divides the face into threes.  This is important because we men can’t see your full face and make an complete judgment.  We’re missing the middle bit which is critical to this assessment.  So, is it what’s under the sunglasses that’s important?  No.

I have never paid attention to a woman’s eyes even when looking right into them.  I’m not kidding by saying that I can’t tell you the color of my mother’s eyes, my current girlfriend’s eyes, nor my ex-wife’s.  None of them were green, but that’s all I say with confidence.  So, if we don’t care about what sunglasses are hiding, why does this make women hotter?

Let’s start with the bottom third of the face – the lips, lower cheek and chin.  Every woman looks awesome when you view this area alone.  Even if you have gross little lizard lips, by itself, they look hot and loaded with collagen.  Look, I can’t explain it any more than I can explain how Copperfield made the Statue of Liberty disappear.  But, he made that fucker disappear.  In the same right, your lower third looks perfect on its own.

Now, the top third – the forehead.  Not much to say here.  Every forehead is the same.  They’re all fine.  Nobody cares.

The middle third, what you can see with sunglasses on, is simply the nose.  Every nose, by itself, is the perfect size and shape.

My observation is that by breaking up the face into sections, all sections look good independently.  This creates a lot of checkmarks in the “hot” column.  When sunglasses are removed, we see the full picture.  Does the forehead clash with the lower chin?  What kind of symmetry are we seeing here?  Ooh, that one cheekbone is slightly jacked – look at how it’s too close to the nose.  Offensive!

When you see the totality of a face all at once, all bets are off.  You are what you are.  Maybe a seven.  Maybe lower.  When a face is broken up into thirds, each third will come out hotter than if you saw the whole thing at once.  It’s just science.

This goes for men, too.  I asked a few women today, and they concurred.  So, if you’re rocking a solid six, have no shame!  This shallow world may want you to be an eight – and now you can.

Now, I only judge women on what beauty they possess inside.  I’m evolved.  The idea of ranking women on their outside appearance is distasteful and objectionable.  Goes against my inner fabric, it does.  Shame on those men!  I happen to only see “inner hotness.”  Like a woman who just has to cook lobster twice a month.  Or one who is great at taking out the dog for ones and twos.  You know, important stuff.  True beauty.

When you add a hat like this, you actually go from a six to a nine. An extra point!

photo credit: NYCArthur via photo pin cc

If you don’t know the story of how I met Jessica through this site, you can read that story here.

Now  that I think about it, driving for twelve hours to come visit is a bit surreal to me.  It was only a year and a half ago that my wife divorced and moved across the country to the west coast.  Here’s another thing – I have never left a girlfriend.  They have all left me.  Now, it’s not like I had dozens of serious relationships.  Only four or so in my life.  But they’ve all left.

I’m not worried about Jessica taking off.  I’ve been in therapy and various support groups for over three years straight, and worked through a lot of the issues that would cause me to attract women that leave.

Okay, enough emotional claptrap.  This is a humor blog, for chrissakes!

So last night my girlfriend awoke and saw this.  Since she didn’t record it with video I’m going to explain what was happening.

I, dead asleep, with arms crossed, was tickling my upper triceps with light fingernail brushings.  Then, I moved to my forearms doing the same thing.  Next I went to my ears, and then the sides of my face.  She said it was amazing that I had such precision in my movements. I then did my thighs and then stopped.  This was over five minutes long.

I have written before that I wake up regularly with my forearms in the air lightly tickling them.  The feelings is nothing short of pure ecstasy.  A 9.9/10 on the pleasure scale.  I told this story once to a woman at a dinner party and she basically leapt across the table to hug me, as she thought she was alone in this craziness.  The rest of the dinner party was thoroughly creeped out.

I believe this light tickling thing is symptomatic of Sensory Processing Disorder.  I’ve written about this extensively, and how I get so much pleasure and comfort from that lead apron at the dentist that I looked into buying one on Ebay.  Then an animal hospital graciously donated a lead vest, gloves, and neck protector.

So, while we don’t have video of me lightly tickling myself, here is a photo with all my heavy lead things that us SPDers love so much.

Try to top that in weirdness, readers!

Well, to be fair, they didn't say the vest was clean.