Author: Jimmy

JimmyPom@gmail.com

Spring is Coming and Gym Rules (3-13-2018)

OUR WORLD:

Now that daylight savings time has arrived (or left? What’s the difference?) I have started my official countdown to Spring activities!  ACTIVITIES!  Yes, it’s 31 degrees outside today, but it’s sunny and it’s March 13 and GODDAMNIT I CAN’T TAKE THE WINTER ANYMORE!!!  People who live in cold weather cities turn into fatter, sadder, angrier versions of themselves from November through whenever it’s 55+ degrees for three days in a row.  This past February, I got so fed up with everything that I bit my steering wheel. And when I say “bit”, I mean I kinda screamed and definitely chomped down on it.  You could see teeth marks in my steering wheel for a few hours.  There’s bitter cold, shoveling, salt stains on everything, darkness, you have to put those fuckin booties on your dog every time you go outside, and wear that jacket that makes you look puffy AND I’M BITING MY STEERING WHEEL!!!! That’s what a Chicago winter is like; you bite your steering wheel.

So, once March hits, you start thinking about the activities you’re going to get to do that will signify making it through the wars of winter.  It’s a time of hope, that lasts until…god, we’re gonna have another snowstorm I know it…

Drinking a beer outside:  You’re toasting right in the face of winter once you’re able to do this.  “Hey Winter, have fun with the dumb penguins in Antarctica!”  It’ll probably still be a little chilly when you have your first outside beer of the season, but you’ll pretend that you’re not shivering and don’t need a jacket.  (I said I’m done with jackets!)  It will always be my favorite Chicago sight to walk around the blocks of bars in mid-March when it’s 53 degrees and EVERYBODY is sitting outside pretending they’re not cold.  It’s such a meatball/hardo-move, but the entire city takes part in it.  We are all meatballs.

Pretending you’re excited at a Cubs game before mid-May:  Going to Wrigley is straight fantastic, but April/Early-May games are BRUTAL and you’ll never admit that to your friends.  Every year, you’ll get invited to a game where the weather won’t be great, and you’ll have to fake that you’re blown-away-excited about going.  While there, however, all you’re thinking is “Jesus baseball is slow, this beer stinks and I. AM. FREEZING!” Then you’ll smile at your friends and talk about how glad you are that “baseball is back!”

Buying a new pair of shoes that look AWESOME only when wearing shorts:  I bought a pair of light tan leather slipper shoes (don’t know what those are called) that had little pineapple-bombs on them last year.  It was a pretty hipster purchase for me, but I was blinded by my early-March excitement and convinced myself that, with shorts, I’d look like one sexy papa in ’em.  The next 40 days of wearing mostly pants (and not the pineapple-bomb shoes because they look no bueno with pants) definitely cooled my excitement about these shoes, but the act of buying them is a tradition that is not worth abandoning.  This year, I’m thinking, wait for it, about boat shoes.  It’s been a while since I rocked the boat shoes and shorts look, but I’m thinking since my wife is southern and Jimmy Good Times LIVES for the summer months, that boat shoes are a due for a Jimmy comeback.  (I will be nervous about what people at work say about me wearing boat shoes, but I’m a brave boy.  Dad? YOUR SON IS A BRAVE LITTLE BOY!)

I’m aware that full-on warm weather is a ways out, but just shut up and let me dream for once in my miserable life.  This is the time of the year for hope.  I hope that I’m going to gamble myself into millions during March Madness.  I hope that I get to drink a beer outside in the next 2 weeks.  I hope that I don’t have to shovel my car out of a parking spot and then get in my car only to get cut off by a guy wearing a skull cap before 7:45 AM.  I hope I don’t have to bite my steering wheel again.

MY WORLD:

There are people that go to the gym, that have no right to be there and I feel it is my duty to stand up and say “GET OUT!”  While the majority of my time inside the greasy purple walls of Planet Fitness is spent trying to not look at the clock, the remaining time is spent convincing myself not to say anything to the mutant next to me.  It’s rush hour traffic with body odor and no laws, I’m amazed there hasn’t been a real life “The Purge: Planet Fitness”.  (No, I have not seen any of “The Purge” movies because they’re scary and “Unsolved Mysteries” gave me nightmares as a kid.)

Now, I am aware that some people get nervous about going to the gym.  I have friends like this (I call them “Slobs”).  I think I understand the fear of being a gym beginner.  Nervous about not knowing what to do, not knowing how machines work, being judged for getting gassed after 4 minutes.  I get it.  I feel like that when I go to the weights section now, after not lifting for like 5 years.  (Do what I do when you get gassed super quick; grimace and grab your arm.  Try “working it out” by stretching your arm and then shake your head all disappointed like “damn, when will these war injuries heal?!?”  Boom, sympathetic character.)  

I’m not talking to my “Slobbo” friends (it’s making me laugh, but I don’t mean it).  I don’t want to ban beginners.  I simply want to institute some rules for the roads.  This is what I propose:

1)  If you are “the smelly guy/girl” who can’t seem to shake B.O., then you either have to wrap your pits with industrial saran wrap, or wear a MINIMUM of 6 thick sweatshirts to hide the stink.  Look, thankfully I have not been cursed with chronic B.O. and while I’m sympathetic to those who have been, there MUST be more awareness.  When I’m on the treadmill and Shteve (not “Steve,” his name is “Shteve”), the data miner/amateur gamer, gets on the one next to me with his nerd B.O. I have to stop myself EVERY TIME from stopping my treadmill just to glare at him while shaking my head.  (Instead, I’ll normally do cool passive aggressive things like audibly sighing or coughing.)  I don’t know if B.O. is like a medical issue without a cure (probably? right?) but you can’t dare people to offend you by pretending it’s not there.  (Did you say I stink?  YOU’RE A STINKIST!)  Listen, I get some gnarly looking rashes on the backs of my knees sometimes, and you know what I do?  I WRAP THEM UP BECAUSE I AM SELF-CONSCIOUS AND DO NOT WISH TO SUBJECT THE PUBLIC TO THIS HORRIFIC SIGHT!  In short, if you stink, get out.

2)  When getting dressed in the locker room, pants go on as soon as humanely possible.  What childhood trauma happened to these people who put their shirts on first?  If you put your shirt on first when getting dressed, your credit score should be docked 800 points because it’s time you leave this society.  Now, I don’t know about ladies locker rooms (because I don’t go in there, but I do have certain dreams about it and I do not wish to hear about your stories that do not align EXACTLY with my dreams.  Thanks for understanding,) BUT, men’s locker rooms in gyms that have men over the age of 50 are an absolute horror show.  I think something snaps with guys who have been married for 20+ years where the only way they can remind themselves that their balls actually do exist is by parading around their gym’s locker room in a shirt and no pants.  “Look everyone!  My testicles ARE here!  All of these mirrors and your horrified faces are proof!”

Ladies, this is a common thing in Men’s locker rooms.  An older dude will shower, come out of the shower and put the towel around his shoulders as he SLOWLY saunters his fat ass back to his locker.  Once there, he’ll sit down (BARE-ASS!) on the bench in front of the lockers for a not-so-quick breather.  Men like me (sane people) gasp at each other, in a whispered panic, to remind each other that this is not okay.  Old Balls McGee then, FINALLY, begins to get dressed only to disappoint EVERYONE IN THE HISTORY OF SOCIETY when he puts a shirt on and hits pause on the dressing process.  (Wait? You’re done?  NO!!! SIR!!! THE PANTS!!! THE PANTS!!!)  He’ll then take a lap around the locker room to make us all feel bad for his wife before using the hair dryer on the 8 hairs still in his dome…AND THEN HE USES THE SAME HAIR DRYER ON HIS BALLS IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR!

If the FBI hasn’t already begun forming a task force, I have lost faith in my government.

3)  If you are walking on a treadmill next to your companion and carrying on a conversation the entire time, you might as well be at home.  I’m not saying you can’t talk to someone, but the gym is a stop-and-chat-zone ONLY!  When I can’t fully hear my Bill Simmons Podcast because you’re too busy recounting why your boss sucks to your friend for 45 minutes, I should be allowed to chop both your heads off with an axe (I have thought of the appropriate punishment for this offense for years, and there’s no way around it, the loppin’ off the head with an axe move makes the most sense.)  Listen, I’m not a fan of treadmill walkers to begin with, but if you’re able to carry on a full conversation throughout a “workout”…YOU’RE NOT WORKING OUT!  You’re supposed to be panting, or at least focusing on how to breathe normally so you don’t pass out, fall down and get shot back into the wall by the belt of your treadmill.  (One time, I closed my eyes while on a treadmill, took a wrong step and got catapulted into the wall behind me by the treadmill.  Unrelated, I did not get laid in High School.)  

What these walker talkers must understand is that everyone else in the gym is trying to distract themselves from the fact that they are in the gym.  That’s why there are televisions and podcasts and music.  It allows you to zone out, and forget that you’re doing something that’s not that fun.  However, once that zone-out-zone is penetrated by your shrill voice and dull stories, the illusion disappears and we remember that we’re in fucking Planet Fitness and not eating Salt & Vinegar chips while watching Sportscenter.  The way you would never wake a sleepwalker, do not disrupt the workout zone-out.

That’s it, guys.  Those are the 3 main rules:  No stink, no balls, no talk.  There are many other things at the gym that annoy the shit out of me, but I will keep those to myself like a proper Irish-Catholic rage bottler that I am.  If you are a gym newbie and you follow these rules…I don’t know, I’ll probably find something else you there that’ll annoy me because I LIKE TO COMPLAIN ABOUT PEOPLE I WILL PROBABLY NEVER GET TO KNOW!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Almost warm = spring = baseball = fathers and sons making grown men strangers cry with sweet moments like this

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Screen Shot 2018-03-13 at 10.17.16 AM.png

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENUINELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE: 

UCLA’s play-in game is tonight against St. Bonaventure and I’m going to bet on UCLA (-3.5) because I went there and I have never seen St. Bonaventure play basketball.  Do I think UCLA is any good this year? Not really.  BUT! When you’re dumb and don’t know anything about one of the teams playing, but you like to gamble, you put money on the team you want to root for.  Classic Jimmy move here.

(My account currently at $59.11)

K bye.

March Madness and Sunday Groceries

OUR WORLD:

The NCAA Tournament starts Thursday.  Actually, it starts like Tuesday with these ridiculous “Play-In” games that nobody cares about except…ME!  OMG GUYS, I ACTUALLY CARE ABOUT THEM THIS YEAR!  Ucla plays St. Bonaventure on Tuesday and I’m terrified because I kinda remember hearing someone talk about “The Bonnies!” like 8 years ago during March Madness, and that makes me think they’re gonna pound UCLA.  And that, my friendos, is why this time of year is just lovely.  EVERYBODY IS ABOUT TO JOIN ME IN THE GAMBLING POOL AND SHARE THEIR RIDICULOUS REASONS FOR PICKING CERTAIN “SLEEPERS”!  (Except, they’re not ridiculous if you have a system and my system is SO due to work that anyone in a gambling pool with me this year should just Venmo me their money now.  Guys, I’m coming for fucking blood this year.)

As we all know, I do place wagers from time to time because I’m a gentleman and need a release from the endless, overwhelming stresses of adulthood that cause some people to do crack cocaine under a bridge.  I’m not doing crack cocaine under a bridge, okay? So, how ’bout ya fuckin cool it with the personalized “gambling is bad for Jimmy” PSA’s?  I REPEAT, I AM NOT DOING CRACK COCAINE UNDER A BRIDGE!  (Real talk, I don’t know what “doing crack cocaine” really means…Smoking I think? But, you snort cocaine so…you snort smoke? Yep, got it.  Thanks guys.)  Now that we’ve established that gambling IS part of a healthy lifestyle, I would like to share with you how I pick the games in the NCAA tourney.

First, I would like to point out that I went 6 for 7 on NCAA bball picks this past weekend.  I am aware that you may be skeptical, but there is proof in my bovada account.  Therefore, it is official that I. AM. BACK.  The best teams put it together when it counts, and that’s exactly what I have done.  Credit to me for sticking with it and ignoring the haters.  As Rocky Balboa said, in the feature film Rocky Balboa: “It ain’t about how hard ya hit.  It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.”  (I sent a GIF with this quote on Saturday morning because it was truly inspiring).  

Second, this time of year is a dangerous time of year because gambling RUBES think it’s their turn to share all their “secrets” because they won a work pool six years ago.  The VP of Ops is one of these people, and I have had it!  She placed 2nd or maybe 3rd in a work pool a couple years back or, as she puts it, she “Won”.  (Uhhhh, no ya didn’t.)  Therefore, she has felt it necessary to remind me that she picked Villanova when nobody else did (even though they were a favorite and many many people definitely picked them), so I should now listen to her gambling methods.  Seriously, within the past 36 hours, The VP of Ops has reminded me that she “won” (aka didn’t win) her work pool at least 19 billion thousand times.  I GET IT!  She’ll then recall her thought process when she picked Villanova as “ya’ know, I just heard someone say their name and I liked the way it sounded.”  Oh, you did?  Did you hear Jay Bilas say “Villanova is a one seed and, thus, a favorite to win the whole thing?” and then pick them?!?! IT WASN’T THAT GREAT OF A PICK!  JESUS H, SOMEBODY SAVE ME FROM THIS HELLSCAPE!!!!

Now that we’ve established that I’m back and The VP of Ops should pipe down with her “tips”, here is how I go about picking teams in the NCAA Tourney:

1)  Do they have a player that I have heard is going to be a high NBA draft pick?  If yes, they’re going to win at least 2 rounds.  If they don’t, then it falls into a whole other category of research.  This year, the teams that fall into this category include: Oklahoma (Trae Young), Arizona (Deandre Ayton), Duke (Marvin Bagley), Missouri (Michael Porter Jr.), Alabama (Colin Sexton).  I know there are other top prospects, but these are the ones I’ve heard of the most sooooo…..LOCK IT IN!

2)  Did I watch them play and win at least one game within the past 2 weeks?  If  yes, I’m probably going to pick them “because they look good”.  That team for me this year is MOS DEF Kentucky.  I watched them beat Tennessee yesterday (and win me some stinky, sweaty money) and folks, lemme tell ya’, they’re gonna make some noise.  Why?  Happy, you asked…because they looked good.  (They may end up playing Arizona in the second round and my brain hurts trying to think of what I’ll do in that sitch.)

3)  Identify the team that BONES you every year, and attempt to pick their games the opposite of what you think will actually happen.  Michigan State is this team for me EVERY. GODDAMN. YEAR.  When I pick them to go deep, they get bounced in the first round.  When they’re my upset special, they make it to the Final Four and I get to watch endless stories about how close Tom Izzo is with his “guys”.  Guess what?  This year, if I think they’re gonna win, picking them to lose.  That’s called fighting fire with fire, kids.

4)  Don’t pick the favorite to win it all.  Pick like the 3rd or 4th most likely team.  You’ve got to plan ahead and assume that some stuff hasn’t gone your way in the early goings of the tourney.  How do you make this up?  By picking a team that not everyone has picked to win it all.  This year, everyone and their dumb mom is gonna pick Duke.  Don’t pick Duke.  (I kinda wanna pick Duke).  

5)  Find a traditional football school that you’re surprised is a high seed and BET THE HOUSE against them.  This one’s the best, guys.  Works almost every time.  This year, you can pick from: Texas Tech, Auburn, and Tennessee.  One, but probably all, are going down early because, like, get fuckin’ real guys.

And that’s it.  I would say I wish you all tremendous amounts of luck as you venture into the gambling paradise that is March Madness, but I don’t wish that.  I hope you lose.  I hope I win.

P.S. If you see The VP of Ops over the next 3 days, ask her about the time she picked Villanova.  She’ll light up and immediately start telling you every single detail about why she picked them.  As she starts to do this, put your hand in her face and say something cool like “long hair, don’t care,” then walk away.  Do this for me.  Thank you.

MY WORLD:

My underrated favorite part of the weekend is doing my weekly grocery shopping on Sunday afternoon.  It’s a grownup thing that I’ve really only started doing in the past year-ish, but it has become my preferred method of getting over the last remnants of a hangover/avoiding the Sunday Scaries for another hour.  My grocery shopping routine, however, includes an endless inner-dialogue where I’m constantly talking myself out of buying the unhealthier (but way tastier) options.

For instance, the grocery store that I go to the most has the produce section right when I walk in.  I’ll grab bananas (NANAS!), brussels sprouts, broccoli, potatoes, some sort of lettuce, and maybe a big fruit that requires carving for The VP of Ops (this fruit will 100% get old and rot before The VP ever cuts into it.  I will remind her of this CERTAINTY before we buy it, but she is forceful that “won’t happen this time”.  It will.  It always does.)  By the time, we get through the end of the produce section, we are feeling great about our healthy cart.  Someone will pass me with a cart full of carbs and I’ll shoot them a “check this shit out”-look.  The proud parade of a healthy cart, however, begins to slow as we hit the bakery section.

This is so mean when grocery stores put the bakery at the end of the produce section.  They lull you into thinking you’re healthy and then BAM, donut smells.  I normally make some sort of borderline-sexual purring sound, to which The VP responds: “don’t look don’t look don’t look.”  I want smash my fat face into the donuts and cookies and cakes and breads and I WANNA DIE IN THERE! I WANT TO DIE IN THE MARIANO’S BAKERY!  Somehow, miraculously, I don’t buy anything.  It’s a triumph.  I’ll look at The VP and we’ll share a smile as if to say “We made it.”  It’s sweet.

But then the fucking cheese section hits.  This a black hole for The VP.  I’ll normally lose her in the soft cheese section.  She’ll grab a hunk (term? no idea) of way-too-expensive soft cheese and just look at me.  She’s hoping I say yes, but scared that I will at the same time.  During the period of Chubby Jimmy, I said yes to soft cheeses too much.  Reminder: soft cheese is a gateway drug to the cracker aisle, a seemingly-innocuous aisle that kills many-a-skinny people.  I say no to these cheeses now.  The VP kinda pouts, but deep down is happy I’m such a magnificent influence (ME!).  

Once clear of the bakery and cheese section, we’re safe for a while.  Chicken, pork and steaks dive into the cart because they don’t have carbs and healthy people talk a lot about protein so…they’re all good for us.  MEAT!  Sometimes, The VP will try to talk us into buying salmon, but salmon at home stinks.  Real talk, I love salmon at a restaurant every now and then, but cooking it at home is A) gross, cuz fishy’s feel slimy, and B) the worst because your place smells like fish for the next 43 hours minimum.  No fishy.

Dairy section includes milk for coffee, butter for muffy and the occasional egg purchase if I’m feeling extra ambitious about cooking breakfast for myself that week (these eggs normally meet the same fate as VPs big fruit.  Straight trash homie.)  The VP may toss some yogurt in our cart, triggering my gag reflex HARD.  Yogurt makes a nasty sound when you swirl it and has the consistency of my nightmares.  I would rather be in a small room with angry ex-cons than be next to ANYBODY eating yogurt.  Seriously, eat yogurt alone in a closet.  It’s disgusting.

The final hurdles for me are the soda and chip aisles.  Technically, we don’t HAVE to go down either aisle, but I’m a man of intrigue…and these aisles intrigue me.  Since watching some way-too-real Katie Couric food documentary, we can’t drink soda anymore.  Evidently, it’s like poison.  (Thanks for ruining my life Katie!)  We’ll make our way to La Croix and try convince ourselves that all the flavors don’t basically taste the same (god, they’re disappointing).  The whole time, though, I’m remembering the guilt-free good old days where I’d drink Coke Zero and Diet Mountain Dew to my heart’s desire.  A faint smile will cross my face and I’ll look up to the stars cuz that’s what you do when you remember happy times.  Then The VP will dump a case of peach-pear La Croix bullshit into our cart and I’ll come crashing back down to reality.  Katie Couric can go STRAIGHT to hell.

Final aisle on the way to the register is the chip aisle and….ohhhhhh momma! Doritos, Salt & Vins, Ruffles! Guys, Lays!  They have all of them!  Again, another aisle I don’t need to go down, but I will convince myself that I really need the butter-free popcorn at the end of the aisle just so I can walk and fantasize.  Can some scientist somewhere just take a break from space stuff and focus on creating a pill that makes chips good for you?  Honestly, it’s ridiculous that this hasn’t been invented yet.  Ridiculous!

The register is the finish line.  Chubby Jimmy used to grab a York peppermint patty for the ride home, but no longer!  Now, I just plan the Sunday Night drinks menu in my head as The VP and I discuss whether it’s a “Documentary” or “Peaky Blinders” kinda-night.  Sunday Scaries creep in…and now it’s Monday and we’re all sad.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Inspiration in it’s purest form: (with spanish subtitles because I don’t know why)

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Top 10 Villain Face

Devos

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENUINELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE: 

I’m hot guys.  We all knew I’d get there, and I’m there.  Sitting out tonight to save my strength and gambling intellect for the rest of this week.  It’s gonna be a long one, guys.  Get your 8 hours.

(My account currently at $59.11)

K bye.

Car Crash Fall-Out (3/9/2018)

MY WORLD:

While waiting for the estimate for my repairs in the work lounge of the Glenview, Chevy Dealership, I texted Fred, the guy who hit me.  Yesterday, I nicknamed this guy “Cryface McFlatBrim”, but I’m going to call him Fred today because A) “Cryface McFlatBrim” is kind of a lame joke that I’m not proud of, and B) His name is Fred.  (Wait, he’s going to call someone by their name? No snappy nickname?  WELL, WHY THE FUCK AM I EVEN READING THIS?!?!)

While I didn’t delve too deep into it yesterday, Fred told me that he was driving his wife, Gail’s car to drop their daughter off at a nearby city college.  Gail, unlike fuckin’-ruining-my-morning-Fred, does have a license and car insurance.  I took down all of this info but, probably sensing that his wife would give him a harder pankin’ than any future fellow inmate, Fred insisted I contact him with repair costs so he could pay out of pocket and keep this all hidden from his wife.  Fred did not seem to understand that Gail may start asking questions once she saw the hood of her car looking like a boy scout tent.  According to my calculations, Fred is not a planner.

Now sitting in the work lounge, I texted Fred to see if he’d respond.  I didn’t trust my handwriting, so I wanted to confirm all of Gail’s car insurance info with him confirming some of her information.  But really, I wanted confirmation that I had just been taken advantage of by a bad driver with a good cry reflex.  No one would be mad at me for letting this dude go.  In fact, I’d tell the story full-well-knowing that I’d be portrayed as the real victim; a softie who got taken advantage of.  (Awwww, Jimmy’s so cute.)  Paying for the repairs out of my pocket would only enhance my victim-ness, creating even more sympathy for myself whenever I’d tell this story.  My cynical suspicions were confirmed.

Until he texted me back 8 minutes later.  (Well, he still won’t live up to his word.  Listen Fred, I’ve already written the end of this story in my head.)  He confirmed Gail’s car insurance information, but again insisted that I call him once I get the estimate so he can pay out of pocket.  He tells me “I work for GM I make a 1000$ a week I will pay u.”  (Shit, this guy makes more than me?)  I almost texted him back to just stop texting me now so I don’t get my hopes up that he’s going to follow through on his word.

Stevey Eyebrows, the manager of the body shop, comes to get me in the lounge.  (Wait, is Jimmy Nicknames back?!?! MOM!  JIMMY NICKNAMES IS BACK!)  Steve tells me that the oil change went well (do they sometimes not?).  He hands over a few sheets of paper and says “you may want to sit down when you go over the estimate” before pretending he was too busy to sit with me.  Hey Steve, ever heard of being a shoulder to cry on?  (Dear Steve’s Wife, you don’t have to live like this.)  

Alone and afraid, I read through the estimate.  Yomma momma. $1,100.  I took a picture of the estimate and texted it to Fred.  He responded “For tour bumber”.  Yes Fred, “for tour bumber”.  I reminded him that my car is leased and that they need to replace the bottom part of the “tour bumber” (it’s not mean to make fun of spelling because he has an iPhone and, therefore, HAD to have overridden autocorrect because he was POSITIVE that it was “bumber” and not “bumper”).  Then the texts went silent for a little bit.

I paid for my oil change and confirmed with Stevey “My Shoulder is not for your Tears” Eyebrows that my car was drivable.  It was.  I got in my car, eager to call my parents and friends to tell them how hard my life is.  (I’d end all the convos with something like “not that big of a deal” so they’d think I was extra tough.  Can’t knock this sturdy boy down! Oh, also…please help me.)  Then Fred called.

“You mean to tell me that your bumper is gonna cost me $1,100?  I’m going to need you to mail me that estimate” is how he started off the convo.  In my book, that’s known as “instigating”.  Sometimes when I’m put in situations that are about to require confrontation, I’ll channel my father; a 64 year-old hard-ass psycho who I’ll be afraid of forever.  So I did that.  Top of my lungs, not screaming, angry yelling that Fred is “fucking nuts if you think I’m trying to take you for a ride.  What? You think I forged an estimate sheet just to text you a picture of it?!”  I reminded him, in a not-so-gentle-way, that the reason I let him go was because he was crying hysterically.  His voice raised to say that he “barely hit me” and that “this just doesn’t sound right.”  As I took a deep inhale to unleash absolute-fuck-you-Fred-fury, I heard another voice on his end.

“Sir?”  It was a tough, older woman.  “My name is Gail.  I own the car that hit you.  Thank you for letting my husband go.  We are going to pay for your damages.  We just don’t have $1,100 in the bank.”  Shit.  Did they just pull a fliparooski?  Am I a bad guy now cuz I yelled at a poor, older woman?  (No Jimmy, all good guys in movies have that scene where they scream at homeless grandmas.  Moron.)  Maybe because she pulled off an immaculate fliparooski on me or just because she had a calming mom-voice (nothing better), but I liked this woman.  I apologized for getting so heated at her husband and explained what had happened earlier.  She thanked me for trusting that they’d follow through, and told me to go through her insurance.  “That’s what insurance is for” is exactly the kind of thing my mom would say, Gail must’ve known that.  I told her that I appreciated her (NOT FRED!) and that I only wanted to deal with her from there on out.  She gave me her phone number.

I went back into the body shop and went over how best to file the claim through her insurance.  (As an adult male, I’m aware that I should probably know how to do this, but I don’t.  I bet I know stuff you don’t know, so like…just chill.)  I needed her to file the claim before I did because that’s what Steve said and Steve knows.  So I texted my new pal Gail how she should go about doing this.  For entertainment purposes in this story (lawyers don’t read blogs, right?), maybe I said Gail was driving the car.  MAYBE IS NOT A DEFINITELY!  THIS IS ENTERTAINMENT! (“It is?” would be such a sick burn).  I sent the text and headed off to work.

Thing was, I didn’t really know Gail.  She told me what I wanted to hear, but I was still careening down poop-river without a paddle, and it had been 38 minutes without a response to my text.  “Oh, you think mom-voice is gonna get you off the hook? Check this out Gail!”  I shot over a kinda’ threat (was definitely a threat) saying “just so you know I have recorded our phone calls and saved our text message exchanges.  I will use them if I am forced to report this to the police.”  I’M A MAN! I AM STRONG!

My phone rang immediately.  Evidently, Gail didn’t want to respond to my initial text because she was driving.  She sternly told me not to threaten her.  “Don’t do that”-then hung up on me as I started to backtrack.  Well shit.  Always a bummer when the tough-guy routine backfires (wait, you actually DO want to go outside and fight? Uhhhh…just kidding! LOL!) 

A couple hours passed.  I did my job, figuring I’d file a claim with her insurance company a little later, that she’d then deny and…I’d just suck it up and pay the damages.  I wasn’t happy or mad.  I didn’t feel good for basically getting a guy out of jail.  It just felt like a reminder that everyone’s life is hard and, sometimes, you have to do selfish things in order to get by.  I understood Gail.  If I were in a little tougher financial position, would I bail on something like this if it were the other way around? Maybe.  I’d feel SUPER guilty, but…maybe.

Gail called me at 3:09 PM.  She told me that she had to retire due to a heart condition and that my threat-text had made her a nervous wreck.  (Threats are not chill!)  I apologized sincerely, and explained to her that I had put a lot of faith in a couple that lives in another state and that I’m not exactly made of money.  I told her that Fred was not my friend, and she started laughing.  “Oh, he’s keeping his distance from me.  He knows I’m pissed at his dumb ass.  I called you because I filed a claim with my insurance company saying everything you said happened.  I don’t care if he has to work a hundred extra shifts, he’s gonna pay me back for this.”  We laughed together cuz Fred really does suck!  We talked about how long Fred is going to have to be her personal servant for at least two weeks.  “Two weeks? More like two years!”  Gail rules, guys.  She didn’t know Fred took the car that morning and, supposedly, has told him multiple times to stop driving without a license.

I apologized again because I can’t believe I threatened an innocent older woman with a heart condition (writing that out made me feel worse.)  Gail reminded me that “this is what insurance is for” (swoon) and that her daughter, a nurse they were visiting, also leases her car.  I kinda but most definitely welled up.  After thanking her for dealing with me in an honest way, I told her to call me next time she was visiting the city so I could take her (NOT FRED!) out for a beer.  “Oh, honey, I will most definitely do that!” was the absolute perfect response.

I don’t know if I’ll get the money or if the insurance company will pull legal tricks or maybe Fred will convince Gail that getting out of this situation is worth a little short-term guilt.  But, I really like Gail.  I hope she comes back to Chicago sometime (BUT NOT FRED) and I get to buy her that beer.  Fuck cynicism.  Take a chance and maybe you’ll get to drink a beer with a new friend.  Offer stands forever, Gail.

OUR WORLD:

It’s Friday!

Honestly, it took me a very long time to write the ‘My World” section today and now I need to shower before I go to work (ooooo dirty boy!) 

HAPPY FRIYAY!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Yes, there’s an ad at the beginning of this video, but I am a new Khalid fan and feel V COOL about liking a young R&B guy.

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The face your dog makes when you leave in the morning.

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENUINELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE: 

I ACTUALLY WON 2 OF THE 3 BETS I PICKED YESTERDAY!!! I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THAT BECAUSE IT DID NOT GO AS WELL.

Today?  Alabama, Kentucky and Xavier against the spread.

(My account currently at $0.00…i said i didn’t want to talk about it)

K bye.

 

 

 

I Just Got Hit By A Car (3/8/2018)

MY LIFE:

I didn’t plan on writing this so soon in the life of JimmysChair, but sometimes life spills cheap marinara sauce down your white button-down shirt.  Well, this morning, that drippy spaghetti sauce found my shirt.  Here goes…I think I’m definitely a sucker, guys.  (Where is this going? What happened?  JIMMY! TELL US!  THE ANTICIPATION!  DEAR GOD, THE ANTICIPATION!) 

Being a responsible car-leaser (mos def does not sound as cool as “car owner”, but we don’t lie on these pages) I was due to bring my 2015 Chevrolet Equinox in for an oil change at 7AM this morning.  I made the appointment ahead of time because PLANNING!  I figured that leaving the city so early would help me avoid the stress of traffic, and maybe I would even have enough time to have my morning nana and coffee at a restaurant like Starbucks.  Oh boyyyyyy!

Unfortunately, while heading down Division St. in bumper to bumper traffic at 6:23AM (life!) I was rear-the-fuck-ended.  Hard, guys.  I immediately, angrily yelped a guttural “NOOOO!!!!” In the land of Progressive Insurance and a leased SUV, the crunch-sound of a minor accident sounds EXACTLY like the sound my phone makes when Chase texts me a low-balance notification.  I pulled over and hoped an apologetic, millionaire was driving this Pontiac Grand Prix to prove how humble millionaires can be.

Surprisingly, the driver was not an apologetic millionaire (this Jimmy fella’ is a real GOOF!).  Instead, he was a mid 50s guy wearing a flat-brim hat (not good) who pulled over, immediately opened his door and began bawling crying “I don’t have a license!!!”  Don’t worry though, it gets better.  As I debated calling the cops on a grown man crying, I told him I was going to take pictures of our cars.  Then my phone died cuz I dare it to every night, hoping that it’ll overcome the adversity of 6% battery and build phone-character.

My phone is a weak weak phone and I am a weak weak man.  Like father, like phone.  I told “Cryface McFlatBrim” that I wasn’t going to call the cops on him.  Honestly, it was awful seeing this.  I know what it’s like to be in some difficult times, but I’ve never cried in front of a grown man stranger.  That’s the type of “fuck-I’m-in-BIG-trouble”-stuff that nightmares are made of.  I’m guessing jail was on his horizon if I called the cops.  I can’t do that to someone who hasn’t made me bleed.

Being the sweetheart of a sucker that I am, I told him that I needed to take down ALL of his information.  I took down his license plate #, insurance card of his wife, VIN, a urine sample, his iPhone passcode, his deepest darkest secret, and recorded his opinion on whether the “Making A Murderer” proved, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Steven Avery is not guilty.  Why did I trust him?  (Is that my Dad screaming “you idiot!”? He may not say it, but he’s proud of me.)  I trusted him because he told me he worked at General Motors and he said “I’m a trustworthy guy.”  That’s kind of exactly what you want to hear if you’re wondering if a guy is trustworthy, right?  YUP!

Now, I’m writing this in the “work lounge” of my car dealership while eating a hollowed out bagel (stress cancels out cals and carbs).

work lounge  bagel

This story is about to continue with the estimate for the body damage that I’m waiting on.  The Body Shop manager is big time car-dealery guy named Steve, and I feel like I’m in the waiting room of a dentist office with a broken tooth.  The news he’s about to deliver can’t be good…and Cryface McFlatBrim is probably buying another hat that he’s too old to pull off with the money he should be sending my bumper’s way.  I’m gonna shoot him a text while I wait (I did get his phone number, Dad.)

I’ll wrap up this story on tomorrow’s blog.  (This is a supes profesh thingy called a “tease”).

OUR LIFE:

I want to write about why early-March is the worst time of year, but my brain is currently locked up in a self-loathing death spiral because I trusted that crying guy who hit my car.  Whenever I’m able to momentarily block that out, I’m hit with a digestional/morning-coffee issue that is not meant to be resolved in a Chevrolet dealership.  (I HANDLE ADVERSITY WITH APLOMB!)

So…uh…March stinks cuz it’s a total tease and I’m tired of wearing jackets that make me look puffy.  (No joke, my stomach just made an old-timey, British police siren sound. Right now, my inner-self is making an ugly cry face while saying “I just can’t” over and over again).

I just can’t, guys.   

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I very much wish this was the guy driving behind me this morning.

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME: 

Guys over 50 who wear flat-brim hats can go straight to hell.

 Picture1

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENUINELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE: 

Oh yay, now I get to relive another kick to my nuts.  I bet on South Carolina (-2.5) last night against Ole Miss.  SC was up 4…until Ole Miss hit a meaningless 3 at the buzzer for a backdoor cover.  Cool God, fun joke.    I have yet to pick a winner on this blog which is amazing.  Seriously, it’s amazing.  If I was TRYING to lose 8 picks in a row, I couldn’t do it.  Therefore, I have decided that naming this section “MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT PROBABLY WON’T WIN” is a jinx.  Thus, I am renaming this section to “MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENIUNELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE”

Today, I’m on Virginia, SMU and Boston College against the spread.

(My account currently at $34.28) 

K bye.

32 Year Old Drinking Habits and Who Should Be The Next “Bachelor” and “Bachelorette”

MY WORLD:

When your best friend has their first kid, is it appropriate to hold a funeral for the days of getting drunk together?  After my experience this past weekend, the answer is a resounding NO.  In fact, after visiting our best friends and their newborn this past weekend, it is clear that our drinking get-togethers are simply taking a turn away from crowded bars and into living rooms with GAMES!

The VP of Ops and I started dating when my roommate at the time, Mike aka “Mush”, started dating her roommate at the time, Amanda aka “Meanmomda” (cuz she’s mean to me and a mom.  Wit like this can’t be street legal.)  They had extra tickets to a concert one night, invited us, and let’s just say The VP couldn’t keep her grubby little hands off my carved-from-stone bod.  (Actually, we talked through the entire concert, pissing off EVERYONE around us.  However, we’re not the bad guys in this story because I had never heard of that band and care more about me than strangers so…like, whatever.)  HAPPILY EVER AFTER MY GUYS OMG SAHHHH KEWTTTT!!!

Fast forward a few years and this friend group has an addition in the form of a baby who is, no offense, like bald and kind of a slob (you know, with the peeing and pooing and barfing and boob grabbing).   Since Mush and Meanmomda live 7 hours away now, this past weekend was our first since the arrival of Baby Slobivia, I mean Baby Olivia.  (I immediately feel bad for making that “Slobivia” joke and vow to refer to her as Cute Sweet Little Angel Olivia from here on out.)  The plan was for us to hang in one night, and then go out the next when Meanmomda’s Mom would watch Cute Sweet Little Angel Olivia.

As I get further away from my 20s, my disdain for deep hangs at crowded bars grows, but there is part of me that denies this like it’ll make me younger.  (Excuse me, Bartender? Yes, I’m 32 but feel that if I admit to myself or anyone around me that I’d prefer to be on my recliner, eating pizza and watching “Parks and Rec” for the 19th time, that I will immediately become my father  Oh, so I’ll just have a vodka soda because I hate the taste, but it’s low in carbs and I’m feeling chubby.  I’m having fun!)  Thankfully, this Cute Sweet Little Angel Olivia took the heat off my aging insecurities, and kept us in the first night and, folks, lemmetellya’ it was just terrific.

Mush and I enjoyed cool craft beers at a reasonable pace (NERRRRDDDSSSSS!!!!!).  VP and Meanmomda drank red wine at a faster pace because Meanmomda was just sober for 9 months and MUST. CATCH. UP.  We played “What Do You Meme?” which is a game like “Cards Against Humanity” but better because The VP and I say so.  DID I STUTTER?  While playing the game, we had a stand-up special from Tom Segura playing on the TV that Mush and I would rewind to show each other our favorite parts.  AND! We ate sandwiches from a place called Newks that I love so much I’d be willing to risk my marriage for it (like, if The VP said she’d divorce me if I didn’t stop going to Newks, I would agree to stop going there to her face.  Then, I’d get in my car, drive directly to Newks and keep going there behind her back cuz I am one bad boy who loves dem saucy sammies!!!)  

Cute Sweet Little Angel Olivia cried a little bit, but mostly just drank her bottle and did a few lines of cocaine…I mean, pooped.  Meanmomda and The VP tried to cheat at the game multiple times because they both have undiagnosed personality disorders (not me though cuz I’m PERFECT! I’M THE BEST! ME!)  And we barely left the couch for the entire night and Jesus H Christopher I had a ball!

I think getting older is maybe just about having the confidence to say and do the things you ACTUALLY want to do and, the older you get, the more confidence you have.  When I was 17, I didn’t have enough confidence to fill a thimble (lamest Monopoly game piece of all time).  So if cool guy told me, when I was 17, that he’d be my friend if I put on a fancy top hat and marched around the grocery store yelling “I have to fart!” I probably would’ve started-a-marchin’ cuz my confidence was lowwwwww (do you feel bad for me? You should probably give me something then.)  

15 years later, my answer would be different thanks to my SKY-FUCKIN-HIGH level of confidence (due to my hard bod, shoutout Planet Fitness and genetic stuff but mostly my work ethic and…I have a double chin in most pictures…FUCK) Now, if I was asked by a cool guy if I’d like to ditch these parents and their new baby to go to some place sweet like “Tilted Kilt” to watch the Bulls try to lose, I would say: “Thank you for the offer Rex, but I prefer wearing sweatpants and watching Meanmomda chug red wine while cheering on Olivia’s farts.”  (The thing Mush was most excited to show me about having a baby is that they audibly fart and it’s awesome.)  

OUR WORLD:

Now that “The Bachelor” is over and Becca has been named as the next “Bachelorette” (meh) I started thinking about some celebs who should actually be the next “Bachelor” and “Bachelorette” (not gonna lie, feeling like I have to use these thingys “” every time I write “Bachelor” and “Bachelorette” IS VERY FUCKING ANNOYING!  YES I KNOW THEY’RE CALLED QUOTATION MARKS IDIOT!!! IT’S FUNNIER TO SAY “THESE THINGYS”!!!)

Jim Carrey:  He has reached peak level of “Is he a genius or just a super weird dude?”-status.  Watching him interact with 24 year old women named “Diamond” would be such a delicious cocktail of awkward, I’m sweating just thinking about it.  Imagine, a one-on-one date with Jim Carrey where he would talk about how splatter-painting is his way to mark his place in this never-ending evolution of time and space.  The girl, Diamond, would nod, start to cry a little and then ask the producers if Arie was still single.

Bill O’Reilly:  I don’t know if he’s single or not, but I would really love seeing how creepy he actually is when trying to get a woman into bed.  I also V much enjoy watching the women on this show pretend that they are INSTANTLY in love with whoever “The Bachelor” is.  No way you walk up to Arie thinking “MAN OF MY DREAMS!”  Bill O’Reilly would be that feeling times a billion.  “Oh, the saggy face guy who was on TV before it was revealed that he paid like $34 million to keep his sexts under wraps? LOVE!”  They should really put a heart rate monitor on these women and have a graphic on the screen showing us how their heart rate changes the second they step out of the limo to see the man they MUST instantly love.

Oprah:  The smart guys on the show (hello? anybody?) would be immediately excited that they hit the sugar momma lottery.  If you think guys fighting over a hot babe get competitive, just wait until they’re fighting over A BILLION DOLLAR WOMAN!  Weaponry would be allowed and the house would be deemed a lawless territory by the US Department of Justice.  Last man standing wins Oprah and her booming voice.

The Girl from “Peaky Blinders”:  I just think I really love her and would divorce the VP and try to be on the show if she was on it.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’m not posting this in a “let’s laugh at this loon!”-type of way.  I legit love the way Jim Carrey thinks.  It’s out there, but FASCINATING.

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

People who wave at you after you flick them off in traffic.

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT PROBABLY WON’T WIN:

The Nuggets lost by 17 to Dallas last night.  This is getting embarassing.  But…the night is always darkest before the dawn.  I didn’t make the bet because I was busy shaking hands and kissing babies at a work event, but I WILL BE BETTING TONIGHT!  What should I do?  God? Are you there?

South Carolina (-2.5) over Mississippi.  Please god please I’m losing faith in my gambling abilities.

(My account currently at $44.28)

K bye.

“The Bachelor” Recap and Excuses to Avoid The Gym

OUR WORLD:

I want to be more original than the rest of the internet today and write about something other than “The Bachelor”, but sadly, I am but a sheep unable to stray from my shepherd, Chris Harrison.  Last night became an exercise in distracting myself from how YUCKO I felt watching grown women get dumped on national television with cheap jokes in text message chains.  The VP of Ops told me she felt bad watching at one point early on in the show, and I snapped back that I didn’t feel bad because, as you all have hopefully learned by now, I am one tough hombre with big muscles who eats protein and NEVER APOLOGIZES!!! ARGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

Like 20 minutes later, I hit the VP with a dose of original sensitivity and said that I felt bad watching this (the VP immediately reminded me that she had JUST said that and that I had shot her down.  Well guess what ladypants?!?!? My feelings matter more than yours because mine are more unexpected since I’m such a big, tough, masculine protein powerhouse who only cries when 7-11 is out of chocolate Muscle Milk Pro Series 50).  As painfully dull as Lauren B. is, she did seem to genuinely trick herself into falling in love with this professional DOOF.  So when she walked like 18 miles down that hill, dodging Alpacas in heels along the way, only to get dunked on by Arie, guilt…creeped in.  I wish I could have maniacally laughed in her face, but unless they’re true villain material (Krystal!) then I do feel bad watching a girl cry.

Okay, so we’ve established that I’m not a monster, right? Cool cool.  Dude, Arie is a SAVAGE!  My favorite part of this epic, “If I say I have to follow my heart, I’m a good guy, right?”-meltdown, aside from Chris Harrison’s sad face taking us to commercial breaks, was that Arie never came close to crying when he broke up with Becca.  If this were me, first off, I’d probably cry because I actually am a sensitive baby (just kidding Dad, this is how I reel in all the hot babes), or if I had some sort of ocular issue blocking my tears, I would at least fake it!  During the whole Becca break up scene (still going btw…Arie ain’t goin’ nowhere!) I kept thinking “Dude! At least give her a sniffle, a wipe of the eye, a bite of a quivering lip!  Something! Anything! YOU LOOK LIKE A SOCIOPATH!!!

Now even though I don’t know exactly what a sociopath is (no, I will not look it up on Dictionary.com) Arie is def a sociopath.  It means like “attention-whore” right? Whatever, going with it, feels right.  Can you imagine breaking up with someone and then refusing to leave when they ask you to?!  I’ve broken up with someone once (time to look at the empty sky and wonder “what if…”) and I literally would’ve paid her over 40 dollars for her to tell me to leave as quickly as Becca told Arie.  “I broke up with you and you don’t want to talk about it and make me feel like an even bigger asshole than I already feel like? HELL TO THE FUCK YEAH!!!! k thx byeeeee”-Me.  Meanwhile, Arie “Can we just talk” Lyin’Dick (that last name joke has probably been made already but I’m proud of it) awkwardly continued to stay after she asked him to leave like 90 gabillion times because….ohhhhhh, cuz he likes camera time.  Yep.

That’s why he didn’t cry.  I’m convinced that the only time we’ll see Arie actually cry is if he puts a GoPro on his dumb face for the moment when Chris Harrison thanks us for watching this season of “The Bachelor”.  He is so obsessed with camera-time that he maneuvered a way to get an extra episode of the show.  I almost respect how conniving he is.  You know what kind of planning had to go into this?  I imagine after the show ended, Becca would go to bed alone, probably thankful that Arie and his weird hands weren’t groping her face, and Arie would retreat to his fort in the basement with ALL of his crayons and toy race cars (They’re not toys! They’re models damnit!) so he could draw out all the ways in which he could stay on TV longer to prove to his father that he’s not a massive failure let-down (How many times do you think Arie has scream-cried “I don’t want your life!” to his race-car-legend father?)  

When Arie decided that the only reason people care about Bachelor guys after their season is if they’re massive villains, that was his only route to staying relevant.  (I’m legitimately gaining respect for this move the more and more I write it.  Is Arie a genius?)  Yes, he will be booed in the head of most women he encounters for the rest of his life, BUT, 1) there will also be the women who, just to be contrarian, will claim that they like how he “followed his heart” and 2) he will be the male version of Omarosa on reality TV for YEARS: whenever a reality show casting director needs a male villain, Arie will be the first name to pop into their head.

Meanwhile, Becca will be fine guys.  Can you spare me this whole “she’s so brave!”-chant?  Why is she brave? Because she got dooped by rich kid who can’t commit to a job, much less a woman for the rest of his life?  Puhhhhhh-lease.  Now she gets as many supportive Chris Harrison shoulder pats as she could ever want, and will probably be the next “Bachelorette”.  Hey Becca, can you say hot guy parade?!?!  Arie let her off the hook!  What would have been worse is if she had to pretend not to be creeped out by Arie’s face-grabbing-tendencies for another 3 months until she snapped and decided that being lost at sea would be a preferable existence so she rented a boat and…just…left.

What we need is for Arie to be “The Bachelor” AGAIN.  I’m not kidding.  ABC should keep quiet who the next one is, only to start next season with a quick update on where Arie and Lauren are at.  They’ll go to shoot at the home they just bought (with a sandbox in back cuz Lauren loves sandcastles!) and right as the update is about to end, Arie dabs right in Lauren’s face and sprints into a waiting helicopter.  “Luyendyk out!”  He puts on “The Bachelor” tux while in the helicopter and is dropped off right back where we started…the front door of the house as all the new girls pull up in their limos.  I can already hear the new girls trying to convince their Dads that “he’s changed.”

MY WORLD:

I didn’t go to the gym yesterday because my stomach was weird and, I gotta tell ya’, there may be no feeling better than coming up with a great excuse not to go to the gym.  The earlier you can discover it, the better, so you can enjoy a not-so-healthy lunch only to be followed by a, GUESS!  That’s right, A-NOT-SO-HEALTHY dinner!!! “Listen, I would be working out if my stomach wasn’t so weird, but I can’t so I might as well follow Potbelly with Lou Malnati’s with some peanut M&Ms as a snack in between cuz I needed a happy boost on this gray gray day!”-Me to me all day yesterday.

Now, because I’m here not just for me, but for US, I wanted to provide some excuses to get out of going to the gym that don’t make you feel as Arie should have felt but doesn’t cuz, remember, he is now “Arie-rosa” (Arie/Omarosa mash-up.  Try to keep up, this blog’s jokes wait for no one.) 

1)  “I worked out over 4 times last week, so my body needs to recover and if I take time off, the shock of the return will actually burn more calories than if I had gone everyday.”  This is a real gem (god, I love complimenting myself on my blog.  ME!)  If you’re fatter, you burn more cals so…getting a lil chub chub actually makes your next workout that much more impactful.  Listen guys, who burns more calories when walking up a flight of stairs, Michael Phelps or your fat Uncle Terry?

2)  “My spouse has to work late so I have to pretend to be mad that I can no longer go to the gym because I have to be the one to take our dog out.”  Classic Jimmy-move here.  The VP of Ops will call me later in the day, right before I’m about to head to that purple, judgement-free hell-hole of a gym (Planet Fitness? More like Planet ItsaMess…k, not my best).  She’ll tell me that she’s not going to be able to get home until later so I need to let our Princess Belle out before she makes a tee tee poo poo on the priceless rug I kinda’ stole from my parents garage.  I’ll probably exhale on the phone and go quiet cuz I’m a graduate of The University of Pout, but really, I’m kinda excited that I get to put off sweating next to a stranger who thinks wearing cologne in Planet Fitness is a good way to make friends.

3)  “Weather.”  Raining? Roads are slippery.  Snowing? Roads are slippery.  Fog? Can’t see the roads (which are probably slippery).  Wind? Car might blow over.  Sun? Sun burns guys and I don’t wear sun block because I’m not a high schooler with no friends (been there, done that). Cold? Car might freeze OR my leg muscles won’t be able to fire properly and I can’t afford to risk injury when I need my body to go to work and earn an income to pay for The VP of Ops’ insatiable appetite for rare jewels and craft mayonnaise.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

People who wear cologne or perfume to the gym.

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT PROBABLY WON’T WIN:

There’s good news and bad news.  The bad news?  Yesterday’s Milwaukee pick lost by 3 when the line was (+2.5).  The good news?  I didn’t realize the game was at 6 Eastern Time SO I COULDN’T MAKE THE BET IN TIME!  THAT’S BASICALLY A WIN GUYS!  MY FORTUNE’S HAVE OFFICIALLY TURNED!  Seriously, if that’s not a sign that I’m back, I don’t know what is.

Tonight’s moneymaker is Denver (-5) over those stanky Mavericks.

(My account currently at $44.28)

K bye.

Mondays and Oscar Recap

MY WORLD:

I think companies should have “Monday rooms” in their offices.  They should with big bean bag chairs and mirrors so you could go in, dramatically drop to your knees, curl up and watch yourself gently cry as old Carole King songs played softly over the speakers.  Mondays really are for the birds and, guys, I am no bird.  I’m a man!  A HUMAN MAN! (If my brothers are who I think they are, they better text me a socially unacceptable joke about me being a man.  Clock’s ticking, fellas.  Also, if they don’t text me, I will convince myself that they don’t read my blog, hold it against them and probably tell my mom that it bums me out that they can’t find the time in their day to support a brother-me-WHO HAS BEEN NOTHING IF NOT SUPPORTIVE OF THEM SINCE THEY WERE BUT A TWINKLE IN MY PARENT’S EYES!!!)

At least I’m not starting a new job today, though.  Aside from a Hangover-Monday, Starting-A-New-Job-Monday is mos def the worst version of this wretched wretched day.  I don’t have an absolute nightmare story of a Starting-A-New-Job-Monday (thought about making one up but I respect the 18 readers of this more than that) but I’m going to do my best to remember as much as I can about the first Mon-Fri job that I had.  I’m hoping that remembering this day will put today’s Monday in perspective so that I won’t be a pouty baby at my desk and say things like “I said I’m fine!” later.

I was 28 years old when I started my first 9-5, Monday through Friday job.  (See?  You’re better than me!) Now, chill out.  I’d had jobs since I was like 13, but they were all restaurant jobs that didn’t make a day of the week feel like a 9-5 Monday.  Don’t get me wrong, there are plenty of I-hate-my-life moments when working in restaurants, but there isn’t a whole day where the entire staff returns after getting 3,2,1 BLASTOFF DRUNK for the past 60 hours.

So I was 28 years old.  Restaurant jobs, grad school (cue the crippling debt tremors) and a general fear of well dressed people in tall buildings kept me away from the 9-5 path up until then.  I had been dating the VP of Ops (known then simply as “Hot Fire Sexy Baby”)  for about 4 months and was beginning to feel…feelings…oh boy oh boy oh boy!  (Hey Erin,  that was cute, right? Pay rent today. K, Thx)   The sting of having dissimilar hours as HFSB along with the paralyzing insecurities associated with being a grown man whose work uniform consisted of a t-shirt reading “Fresh Pasta & Seafood” had pushed me TOO FAR!  It was mostly the insecurities.

I thought I should work in advertising because I live in Chicago, had a lot of good friends who worked in advertising, and I had seen commercials before.  That, my friends, is what you call a Natural Fit!  My good girl friend, nicknamed “Trone”, had become kind of a big-wig at one of these agencies, and posted something on Facebook about how her agency was looking for people for some entry-level position.  In my basically empty head, working at an ad agency probably consisted of me getting to write commercials for major companies who were too busy doing those secret hand-signal things on Wall Street.  Business stuff.  So I e-mailed Trone and probably made her cry with my well-worded, deeply personal plea for help.

She set me up with an interview, and I went shopping.  I had to buy cool, business pants because the loose, pleated khaki look that I had been NAILING on Easter Sundays for years just felt a bit pedantic (callback joke.  Comedy term.  Comedy mind.)  So I went to The Gap.  I think that’s supposed to be embarrassing, but once a Gap kid, always a Gap kid.  So shut up.  I nailed that fucking interview in those cool pants and proved, once and for all, that lying about being excited to work for a company you’d never heard of before getting an interview with them, WORKS!

I was hired to be a “Search Analyst” for an advertising company that I’ll call “Buttlicker Digital”.  (Good luck getting that burn to heal properly!)  I started in 3 weeks…on a Monday.  Would have been cool if I started on a Friday at 3:45PM, but GAH FUHBID A COMPANY DOES SOMETHING THAT CREATIVE!

The 3 weeks leading up to this career change were V scary for me.  I quit my restaurant job in a professional way because I was about to be professional and that’s what professionals do.  I went to the J.Crew outlet mall with my parents so my mom could help me pick out cool clothes like any mother would with their 6 year old.  I paid for these clothes by opening a J.Crew credit card because that I figured I’d have to be in J.Crew a lot going forward to keep up on hot trends.  (Instead, I paid off that initial $350 spend like 3 years later after making minimum payments until I got a bonus big enough to cover the remaining like $307.  I make money, guys).  Clothes bought, restaurant job quit, hair cut.  All that was left was this fuggin’ Starting-A-New-Job-Monday.

I drank more than I had planned in the weekend leading up to this SANJM because I was supes nervy and drinking’s fun!  Thankfully, my constant state of worry, kept me up most of the night, so getting up was not an issue.  I was thinner than I am now (we’re all doing our best here) so I looked pretty sah-weeeet in my new clothes.  Before I left, The VP wished me luck and was encouraging and comforting and…DEAR GOD, JUST GO FOR ME ERIN!!! YOU DO IT!!!

I took an Uber because I was paranoid if I took the train I would immediately black out and somehow end up at a Cracker Barrel in Southern Arkansas.  (I’m also the guy who has to get to the airport like 9 hours early just to be sure we have enough time to get through security.  This is not the VP of Ops’ favorite quality of mine.)  I got to Buttlicker Digital plenty early and took the elevator up to my floor.  Real talk, I went to the building the day before and mapped out where I was going to go so I wasn’t having a panic attack searching for an elevator on THE Monday.

I was starting with like 8 other people that day, so we gathered in the lobby together and said stuff like “I’m excited” and “I hear good things about this place”.  We met our new boss, an absolute self-centered douche who enjoyed flirting with me and wearing suit jackets that were 2 sizes too small.  But, I didn’t know that yet as he led us to our “pod”.

I was put in basically a large cubicle with 3 other nubes.  I had my own desk, nameplate, laptop and…wait for it…CHAIR!  I was given a schedule of “webinars” to take for the next 3 hours, until we would meet for lunch.  I remember ABSOLUTELY ZERO of the skills these webinars were supposed to have taught me.  I put my headphones in, went to the websites and thought about whether there was a military job looking for a scared 28 year old who DID NOT want to see combat, but did want to tell people, years later, that he was a “military man”.  Webinars are cool though.

After kinda doing what I was supposed to for 2 hours and 38 minutes (subtracting 22 minutes for at least 4 trips to the bathroom where I’d sit in a stall, take deep breaths, go through Twitter, and text the VP so she could remind me how brave I am.  I’m so brave.) AND THEN IT WAS LUNCH TIME.  Douchey flirty boss was taking us to PF Changs because midday diarrhea is even more fun when it’s the first day at a new job!  Bossman ordered like 19 apps for the table to show us that he was important enough at the company to waste their money.  V chill move.  I ate practically nothing.  I think I had a lettuce wrap with some chicken because brave boys like myself do need protein for their brave boy big muscles.

After we finished, Bossman let out a lot of deep sighs and eye-rolls as he typed on his phone.  This, kiddos, is a passive aggressive way for insecure people to remind you that they work hard and are constantly insulted because they are smarter than everyone who has ever sent them an e-mail.  I don’t like people like this (even though I’m sure I’ve pulled a move like this to impress people younger than me but…ME! ME, DAMNIT! ME!)

The day continued with my 36 other bosses calling us in to big empty conference rooms for meetings that didn’t really have to happen.  They’d talk about goals and synergy and Excel and, surprisingly, not why the Bears couldn’t find a franchise quarterback in the 30 years since their only Super Bowl.  I went to the bathroom so many times that I’m sure my co-workers thought I had IBS or a coke problem (IBS.  Come on, Jimmy, you’re not cool enough to pull off the “coke problem?”-look).  

5 O’Clock came and we all had to play the game where everyone knows it’s 5, but doesn’t want to be the first to leave so you pretend to type e-mails while praying to the Lord Our Savior that you hear someone drop a “see you guys tomorrow!”  Months later, I had learned to leave my jacket and bag in an empty conference room so that I could walk away from my desk at 5 (ON THE DOT!) and my co-workers wouldn’t know I was leaving for the day.  By the time I got to leave on the first day, I knew I was going to get many promotions during my sure-to-be-long-and-impactful stay at Buttlicker Digital.  Jk lol guys, I hung on by my fingernails and ended up quitting in a very cowardly way.

Really, in hindsight, it was a completely normal, not-that-bad day.  (Whoops).  BUT!  It was a worse Monday than I am going to experience today, and I ate a bunch of bread and pimento cheese yesterday so there. will. be. stomach. issues.  Which reminds me that a close third to Starting-A-New-Job and Hangover-Monday’s is the, all too familiar, I-Ate-Like-Absolute-Shit-All-Weekend-Monday.  Tell the people my story.

 

OUR WORLD:

The VP of Ops and I were driving back from Nashville all day yesterday, so we only got to see the final hour of the Oscars.  “The Shape of Water” winning for Best Picture is something I want to get angrier about, but we’re in the honesty business on this blog and, honestly, I’m not mad, just disappointed.

If you haven’t seen it yet, don’t worry, I’m not going to ruin it for you.  “The Shape of Water” had Michael Shannon and his big chin doing big chin things and a secretly V sexual mute woman who develops feelings for a fish that, no lie, was a pretty hot fish.  I’m guessing hot fish guy goes to an underwater gym for at least an hour 6 days a week.  You’re not just born with pecs like that.

This movie wasn’t one where I was excited to text my dad abut after, or one that I brag about seeing to people who doesn’t see movies as often as I do.  That’s the “Best Picture” test.  Are you excited to text your dad about it?  Are you telling your co-workers that they’re basically uncultured neanderthals for not having seen it yet?  (The only reason I’ll ever go to a museum is just to then have the ability to tell people that I went to a museum.  That’s a fun thing to say, but you have to play it off like it wasn’t a big deal.  Like, “yeah, I went to The Art Institute because it was a Saturday and that’s a thing we do on Saturdays.”)  

In the final hour of the show, the Frances McDormand speech is what stands out to me cuz she had a hairdo that I had never seen before and said a thing I had never heard before “inclusion rider”.  I’ve come to learn (shoutout google.com) that an “inclusion rider” basically says moviemakers can’t be racist/sexist dickheads when staffing their movies.  This sounds reasonable.  Her hairdo, along with Christopher Walken’s high-waisted pants were off-putting though, right?  I can say that, right?  (Why are my female co-workers glaring at me?  Is that a knife?  Seriously Keli, why do you have a knife?)

Real talk, my favorite part of the final hour was that you could feel how uncomfortable white, American males in the audience were.  That’s fair.  The rest of the audience has had to have that feeling on movie sets, in conference rooms, at award shows, and everywhere else for the past very long time because those white dudes and their dads were too busy being cocky to realize that the rest of the room felt lesser than.  Fuck having to feel like that.  I’m a white dude, but I’m poor so I don’t get lumped in with the bad ones, right? (Being not-rich but not-actually-poor is the best!)

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Omarosa

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT PROBABLY WON’T WIN:

I made a $50 deposit on Saturday night while secretly vaping in a bathroom stall.  I then IMMEDIATELY bet on 3 NBA games that included a parlay.  I won 2 of the 3 games and lost the other and the parlay.  Overall, that means I lost $5.72, but it’s basically even which is basically a win so….I AM SO FUCKING BACK IT HURTS.  GET ON MY BACK PRETTY BABIES CUZ WE ‘BOUT TO GET DAT PAPER!!!!!

Tonight’s sure fire lock of the century is Milwaukee (+2.5) over Indiana.

(My account currently at $44.28)

K bye.

Oscars Predictions and an Ideal Friday (3/2/2018)

MY WORLD:

Happy Friday y’all!  (I can say y’all cuz the VP of Ops is from the South and I’m  married to her so I get to do what she gets to do because marriage is fair and that’s fair and shut up).  The excitement I feel when I wake up Friday morning is the closest I now get to the excitement of childhood Christmas morning.  Instead of running down the stairs to see presents, I’m running down the clock to get to drink many many alcohols.  As a functional (FUNCTIONAL!) alcoholic, weekends are when I get to introduce the public to JIMMY GOOD TIMES aka JGT.  I rid myself of the crippling fear of hangovers-which has ruined weeknight drinking for me forever-and am an overall much nicer, funnier, relaxed, better looking person (the better looking part of JGT abruptly ends when I wake up Sunday morning and morph into JIMMY SWEATPANTS; an overwhelmed, disheveled manager of hangovers and Sunday scaries who ONLY wears the pair of black Jordan Brand sweatpants that he bought in high school using his parents money.)

Every Friday seems to get away from me before it even starts, though.  Like, I’ll get so excited that I’ll have a beer or two at lunch (BREAKING NEWS: Jimmy Good Times is at the gas station filling up that tank!)  After an afternoon of e-mails, Steve Winwood tunes and some V suave, yet subtle seated dance moves, I basically run out to my car, forget any plans that I had for the night and lose myself in a “whatever, as long as I have a beer”-mindset.  Think of how your dog acts when you ask if he wants a treat, then multiply that by FIFTY HUNDRED MILLION THOUSAND!

In an effort to plan ahead like uhhhhhh an adult, I would like to set forth my ideal Friday.  Now look guys, while this is ideal, I also want it to be at least potentially realistic, so it won’t include deep-tissue massages from the girl in “Peaky Blinders” or Eddie Vedder introducing me to Wrigleyville bartenders as his “inspiration”.  Let’s get real, here’s my IDEAL Friday.

EARLY MORNING:  I get up at 6:30 feeling like a crisp bill of fucking money.  The VP of Ops takes Belle out for her morning walk (already beginning to feel unrealistic…)  I put on my cool-guy gym outfit, go to my Planet Fitness (can’t hear your snide remarks in this purple judgment-free zone).  Bang out a killer sweat sesh to alleviate any guilt that may try to slow down JGT later in the night.  Take a shower, and go to work with hair day that deserves its own series on AMC.

MID MORNING:  Get to work and am greeted with coworkers feeling awkward around me because they were just talking about how much they enjoy my social media presence (don’t feel awkward guys, I’m a regular human being person just like you).  The song on the office stereo changes to “Valerie” by Steve Winwood.  I barely notice how great of a job I’m doing at my desk because I’m lost in chair dancing.  People pretend not to notice, but they can’t help but secretly envy my effortless rhythm in the seated position.

LUNCH:  We go to Big Star for margs and tacos and sit outside cuz it’s a sunny 76 degrees and my skin tans to the perfect shade of “did you go on vacation?”  I’ll eat 3 tacos cuz 4 makes my stum hurt and I don’t want to get too full to enjoy their supes refreshing margy’s.  Oh, and they better salt the ever-loving shit outta’ that glass, cuz JGT is a Salt Boi 4 Lyfe!  Tablemates ask why I haven’t eaten many chips, I lie to them and say “I didn’t even notice them on the table” when it’s really because I have tremendous self-control and am planning to overdose on chips tomorrow.  2 margs, 3 tacos and a solid base tan later and I’m ready to polish off the last 4 hours of this workweek (UPDATE:  Jimmy Good Times has crossed state lines into Illinois! “I’m comin’ home, I’m comin’ home, tell the world cuz I’m comin’ home”-JGT)

AFTERNOON:  Well worded e-mails come pouring out of my fingers with Queens of the Stone Age’s “Rated R” album playing in the background.  The office is beginning to empty, but I’ll wait because I’m a hard worker…and I brought a mid-afternoon beer back to my desk to sip on.  What beer you ask? Let’s go with a hoppy MONSTER that you’ve never heard of but has V cool artwork on the can (I will pour it in a glass though cuz I like to show off how I’m not chugging yet).   I finish that first beer right as 4:20 strikes and I make a funny, but like cool-funny weed joke to a co-worker who wears marijuana leaf socks.  After he recovers from his laughing fit, we decide that since we’re in the last 20% of people left in the office, it’s time to leave and get a beer downstairs (I work at a V hot and sexy brewery and my office is above the taproom. BRAGGY BOY!) 

DUSK:  Polish off a beer in the taproom and go outside just as the VP of Ops pulls up to drive us back (responsible).  VPOps parallel parks perfectly and takes Belle out for her dinner-time walk, while I crack an easy drinker and place my bets for the night.  I feel great about all the teams I picked, and my Bovada account shows that I’ve been hot for a while now.  The VP returns, Belle leaps into my arms and we twirl like we’re the last two beings on ear—(I just love her so much).  Time to meet only our most fun friendos at my fave bar, Sheffields, and Belle understands.  As we leave she sits, nods and smiles at us as if to say “you two deserve this.”  Thanks Belle.

NIGHT:  Sheffields is playing a mix of 90s alternative (JGT’S WHEELHOUSE!) along with the occasional pop BANGER that drunk 32 year-olds aren’t embarrassed to sing along to (anything by Sia or Rihanna and I. Am. In!)  We’re drinking beers and laughing.  My teams are up by enough that I just glance at the TV when I feel like smiling extra big.  My friends talk about how good I am at gambling.  VP of Ops is paying for everything because she is “so lucky”.  The bartender points to the ring on my finger so all the other girls around know I’m taken (I didn’t even notice those girls).  My main cool-guy bros and I hide from our spouses so we can take lemon drop shots without being judged.  JIMMY GOOD TIMES BARREL ROLLS THROUGH THE WALL!!! WHAT AN ENTRANCE!!!

It’s simple, really, but I’m a simple man with simple pleasures and a simple brain (wait…)  The rest of the night would mos def include late night food at Fatso’s (real place with the best late-night burger in the game) and that final at-home drink that I don’t need, but still enjoyed.  For the sake of certain readers, I will leave the rest of my ideal Friday up to your imagination…but…let’s…just…say….R. KELLY IS A BLASTIN’!

OUR WORLD:

Okay, real talk, I want to make Oscars predictions but aside from like five categories, they’re pretty boring and I haven’t seen all the movies yet.  Here’s what I got:

-“3 Billboards” for Best Picture because fuck this newfound backlash, this movie is bright, shiny gold.

-Frances McDormand for Best Actress is such a slam dunk that if I were her, I’d wear an “I Won” t-shirt on the red carpet.

-Gary Oldman for Best Actor because everyone says that’s going to happen and I won’t ever watch that movie cuz it looks boring and I ain’t into dat’ shiz.

-Sam Rockwell for Best Supporting Actor because he played a character that you can’t decide whether you hate or not and when you admit that to people you get nervous because you don’t know how they’re going to react to that.

-Chris Nolan for Best Director over Guillermo Del Toro because “Dunkirk” was an absolute two hour long heart-attack and “Shape of Water” made the VP of Ops and I feel weird about lonely people and their alone time.

-Jimmy Kimmel straddles lines like an expert line straddle and nails his job.  Crushes the NRA; reminds everyone that Woody Allen is King of Creep Castle and the #MeToo crew should tell their snipers “shoot to kill; pats Donny T. on his bald head, but stops before Alec Baldwin carries him off on his shoulders; and makes everyone feel moderately uncomfortable when he reminds the audience that “Moonlight” won best picture last year even though more than half of the crowd will never see it.

-Jennifer Lawrence looks great, but gets even closer to the “okay, you’re not that funny so just chill”-line.  I fully expect to look at the VP of Ops at some point to and say “do we not really like her anymore?”

-Quentin Tarantino shows up and I defend him because I love his movies, but deep down definitely think he does weird stuff.  DAMNIT!

-VP of Ops and I agree that JoolyAnna RanSICK was born in the “Men In Black” world and, thus, is an alien.

-John Legend and Chrissy Teigen kill the red carpet, but the VP of Ops kinda’ ruins it when she refuses to stop showing me Chrissy Teigen Instagram posts that I don’t think are as funny as she does.  Look, she’s funny, but the VP of Ops treats her Instagram like it never misses the mark.  Meh.  It’s fine.  (VPOps will 100% send me an angry text about this).

-Whoever wins Best Actress will slowly walk up to the stage and then, out of nowhere, deliver their speech totally out of breath.  This happens every time and it drives me nuts.  Why are you out of breath when we JUST saw you WALK up to the stage?

-Incubus, unfortunately, will not be invited to perform “Pardon Me” as the rest of the “Best Song” nominees get to perform theirs even though “Pardon Me” should probably always be nominated for “Best Song” at every award show.

-Colin Firth will be shown in the audience and I will remind VP of Ops that I will never see a movie he’s in.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Screen Shot 2018-03-02 at 12.37.59 PM

BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT PROBABLY WON’T WIN:

I did not plan to bottom out as quickly as I did in front of an audience, but that’s exactly what has happened.  Cleveland lost last night, but Lebron smiled throughout the entire game and gave high-fives to EVERY PHILADELPHIA SEVENTY-SIXER WHO HAS EVER PLAYED FOR THE TEAM AND IT MAKES ME SO ANGRY BECAUSE IT’S LIKE HE DIDN’T EVEN CARE THAT I NOW HAVE TO MAKE A DEPOSIT TO GAMBLE AGAIN!  Seriously, this losing streak has gotten more than a little re-goddamn-diculous.  I will make a deposit probably after beer number 4 tonight when I’m itchin’ for a little action.  Tonight? Yeah, no friggin duh.  I am ready to be so fucking back with Golden State (-13) over Atlanta.

(My account is currently at $0.00)

K bye.

Dream Foods and TV Show Resurrections (3/1/2018)

MY WORLD:

When I used to wait tables there was a waitress, Sharon, who would ALWAYS talk to me about how, one day, she was going to reach a point in her life where she’d just eat whatever she wanted all the time.  I used to hope that I would someday reach such guilt-free recklessness with my diet.  Forget financial stability, finding a lifelong companion, or making a positive impact on ANYBODY else.  THIS (being an unapologetic fatso) was an achievable goal!  “DAD!  I’M GONNA BE SOMEBODY!”

This achievement continues to allude me.  Yesterday, I ate a medium-sized bag of peanut butter stuffed pretzels (MAJOR YUMMO ALERT) and had to immediately resort to “it’s okay, Jimmy, you ran yesterday and had to deal with a moderately annoying client today”-self talk.  The path towards happy-chubba-bubba-land is lined with unflattering pictures, “bad angles” and magazines that use something called an airbrush that I, A) do not know what the H it is, and B) DO NOT HAVE FUCKING ACCESS TO.  Brave little soldier that I am, I continue the climb.

I got a little chubby like 2 years ago (not huge, but I’m short so I went from short-normal to sturdy mini-fridge). I had been working a job I hated, and medicated with chips, heavy beers and NOT going to the gym (I reached a point where I had convinced myself that not going to the gym was good for me to do because the successful writers I read would always talk about how out of shape they were.  It was a blissful delusion).  I had run a marathon the year prior and decided that running that far in one day would keep me thin for the rest of my life.

My weight slowly rose according to the buttons on the waist of my pants (“We lost a lot of men that winter”–The story of Jimmy’s Winter 2015 Pants Buttons).  The decision had been made that I was a 31 waist for the rest of my life, so buying bigger pants was out of the question (if you can squeeze into them, they fit).  I remember sitting in my car, looking down at my thighs and thinking they were going to explode through my pants at any second.  It would be like when you rip open that cardboard tube of pillsbury biscuits and you almost hear the dough thank you on it’s way out.  Bending over was out of the question (if I had discovered a solid gold bar on the ground, I would have had to debate whether trying to bend down was worth risking the last pair of 31 pants that had yet to bust).  

Times were so dark that not only did I go pants shopping….not only did I go pants shopping at Old Navy….but I went pants shopping at Old Navy, bought size 34 pants AND got silently mad at the VP of Operations when she referred to Old Navy’s measurements as “vanity sizing”.  If you don’t know what “vanity sizing” means (I did not, and I wish I never had…stop reading if you’re where I was in 2015…this is about to ruin the dark, twisted fantasy that you’re living in) it’s basically a lie.  “Vanity Sizing” means that an Old Navy 34 is a real life, like 36-ish.  Chubbos like 2015 me go in to Old Navy, buy size 34 pants and tell the people around them that “it’s not that bad!”  I don’t understand how companies can lie about MEASURABLE statistics, but I also don’t hate that Old Navy has done so successfully.

My wedding and some VERY unfortunate pictures shamed me back into the gym.

16473131_10201663227679896_4023888885178204911_n
Bad long hair and a striking double chin.

I’ve gotten back into running and size 32/33 pants (acceptable…I was kinda’ lying when I said 31s earlier.  I fit into a pair of 31s for like a week after college.  It was V cool.)  But unhealthy food is SO EFFING GOOD that chubby Jimmy is always lurking in the snack aisles, and he CAME OUT TO PLAY yesterday.

My thing now is that I’ll eat healthy Monday-Thursday.  Friday is a “sure I’ll have a sandwich and chips” day, then Saturday and Sunday I take a heavenly dumpster dive into the world of pizza and fries (if baby Jesus doesn’t hand me a plate of fries on my way into heaven, I’m turning RIGHT BACK AROUND IN HIS FUCKING FACE).  So Monday-Thursday, I eat pretty much the same thing:  Banana and whole wheat english muffin for breakfast (nana and muffy!), a protein bar and small bag of nuts for lunch, workout, then ONE beer with a dinner consisting of a meat and veggie.

Yesterday, though, I went into an account that had a big bag of Salt and Vinegar Kettle chips sitting behind the bar (I sell beer which means I’m in my car, a bar, or a grocery store pretty much all day.  I cannot escape carbs).  I was supposed to be convincing this bar owner that he should carry the beer I sell, and all I could do was stare at this bag of Salt and Vins (Salt and Vinegar Kettle Chips are my KING CHIP.  I recently did a Top Ten Chip List with my friends and these wear the crown).  

When I went into Walgreens to buy my protein bar, almonds and water I lusted for the chip section (it’s a naughty place…and I’m a naughty boy).  I refused to directly pass the chip aisle for fear of not coming out alive.  So I got to the “nutrition” aisle of walgreens and bought my clay-flavored protein slab.  However, Walgreens did a nasty thing and moved peanut butter stuffed pretzels directly next to the nuts section.  I walked by the pretzels and, literally, gasped.  I’m not joking, I sucked air in as if to say “oh my my”.  After shooting a few flirty smirks and eyebrow raises towards these lil’ cuties, I composed myself enough to grab my small bag of plain almonds and continue playing “hard to get” with these nasty babies (peanut butter stuffed pretzels, Jimmy.  They’re peanut. butter. stuffed. pretzels. Jesus). 

38 minutes later I pulled into the next Walgreens I saw, bought a bag of peanut butter stuffed pretzels and ate the entire bag in my car, panting like a malnourished dog the entire time.

As I sat in traffic on the drive home, all I could think about were those fucking Old Navy pants.  Like I would get home and hear them chuckling in my closet.  I bargained that I could make up for those wasted calories by working out harder than I planned and not drinking my ONE beer that night.  TIP: Negotiating calories with yourself is something fun to do when you’re alone in your car during rush hour whilst thinking about opening the door to roll your fat ass under the biggest wheel of the oncoming Ford Astrovan.

If I could eat anything I wanted during the week without any of this psychological shrapnel, I’d probably go:

Breakfast: Breakfast Sandy–bacon, egg and cheese on a poppyseed bagel.

Lunch:  A fried buffalo chicken wrap and fries.

Snack:  Salt & Vinegar Kettle Chips…maybe a York peppermint paddy for that FRESH BREATH!

Dinner: Pepperoni Pizza.  Duh.

Dessert:  Ice-cream cookie (chocolate chip) sandwich.

What do you think of that, Sharon?

P.S. I drank a beer last night.  Fuck it.

OUR WORLD:

“Will & Grace” and “Roseanne” are either back, or about to be back, on tv and it has me a-thinkin’.  I’m not really a fan of either of those two shows because….uh….I don’t know, but I’m not.  I would, however, like to see the following shows make a similar return (also, if you haven’t seen these…uh….stop being a stupid idiot and watch them):

“Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip”:  Not many people remember this show because it came out the same year, on the same channel, directly after “30 Rock”.  A 60-minute drama written by Aaron Sorkin about the world of a show like “Saturday Night Live”.  Young, funny people with drug habits who are given fame and fortune = television gold. This show lasted one season THAT I LOVED.  Sure, the comedy sketches within the show could have been better, but spitting on a show that featured Bradley Whitford reciting Sorkin lines is a DANGEROUS PROPOSITION my friends.  This was like a candied version of “West Wing” and if you don’t like candy you can get the hell out.

“Oz”:  This is a Bill Simmons-take that I couldn’t agree with more.  I used to watch this show when I was in early-high school and it absolutely cemented me ranking “Going to Prison” as my number one fear in life.  (I have had heated conversations with friends about how I would rather be dropped into the middle of the ocean with a bloody leg).  “Oz” had super bad bad guys (J.K. Simmons can never pull off “cuddly, suburban dad” since this show) and V cool kinda bad guys (the All-State commercial guy is cool…but bad…but cool). Prison storylines on HBO are endless, so round up some Milennials to play new bad bad guys and V cool kinda bad guys, and you have a hit on your hands.   If you cannot tell yet, I did have to go to film school to learn these terms of analysis.  I’m working with a big toolbox here, guys.

“Friday Night Lights”:  This show, more than any show in the history of television, just needs to go on forever.  I think I had crushes on every single character at one-point throughout the show’s run.  I grew my hair out to try to look like Tim Riggins (note: simply wishing you had movie-star hair does not give you movie-star hair).  I bought the sunglasses thingy (crokeys?) that Coach Taylor wore around the back of his neck.  I was nicer to my grandparents because Saracen was a so nice to his grammy.  I think the reason I tell people I would move to Texas is because of this show (Austin is like too popular to be cool now, right? So, I have to be into like San Antonio?)  This show makes you a better person.  (Cue somber music…look at yourself in the mirror…you need to be better).   Aside from making you a better person, we can all agree that while Kyle Chandler and Taylor Kitsch should be absolutely THROATING the box office, they are not and most likely (DUE TO NO FAULT OF THEIR OWN) never will.  Therefore, I propose a new Hollywood rule: if a SMASH television show ends, but no one on the cast solidifies him or herself as a bonafide movie star in the 5 years following the show’s end, the entire cast must return to the show that made them stars for the rest of their lives.  Deal?  Good.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

American people who pronounce “Bruschetta”, Broo-sket-ah.

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT PROBABLY WON’T WIN:

Here’s the deal, guys.  I’m having a REAL hard time.  I place bets with two other dudes so that we’re always in the same boat.  Ride or die guys.  Unfortch, my picks have been EPICALLY HORRENDOUS since football season.  Therefore, while I wrote yesterday that I wanted to pick the Celts (-7), I had to cede control of my bet to one of my Ride or Die guys; and he picked Villanova (-6) over Seton Hall.

Villanova won by 1 on OT.  Celtics won by more than 20.  Cool.  V cool.

Needless to say, I am RATTLED.

Tonight, I hope to go with…oh sweet jesus PLEASE GIVE ME A WINNER…Cavs (-3) over Philly.

(My account currently at $3.49…I only make a deposit when I hit $0.00)

K bye.

Walking a Psycho Dog and Oscar Movie Chit Chat (2/28/2017)

MY WORLD:  

I used to think that people who walked aggressive dogs had to be assholes themselves.  The dog wouldn’t be like that if their owner wasn’t like that.  Of course, that was until I adopted (oh you forgot I ADOPTED my dog? Well…don’t) an aggressive dog, Belle, and totally disproved that theory.  I am SO not an asshole.  How can I prove this to you? 1)  I welled up during the last episode of Bravo’s “Summer House” when Carl hugged his crying mom (“welled up” = crying in guy terms but it’s not blubbering, it’s like cool sensitive guy feelings that don’t get out of hand). 2)  I called my Grandpa last week just to “say hey” (and avoid the sure-to-come guilt trip from my Dad for not calling him, but that’s neither here nor there). 3)  I hate clubs.  BOOM.  Not an asshole.  Welcome to FactsOnlyVille, USA.

Now that we have established that I’m not an asshole, my dog, Belle, most certainly is.  We adopted her when she was about 1.5 years old (I bought her to get back on the VP of Ops’ good side after momentarily forgetting her bday…story for another time…)  We adopted her from a family in Southern Indiana who seemed normal because…they had a kid and told us they were normal.  We should’ve known better.  The VP of Ops and I met “The Normals” at a park in Southern Indiana and were met with a growling, ferocious beast ready to prove that she was the top of the food chain.  We could only approach Belle 6 inches at a time while the owners unsuccessfully tried to calm her psycho, growling-ass down.  Hindsight is 20/20, but this may have been a hint…

Belle is a total mush with the VP of Ops and I.  Check out this melt-in-your-chair pic of our PRETTY GURRRRRRR

IMG_3384

However, strangers may as well be Al-Qaeda according to her actions.  Every morning before I take her out, I need to open my door (3rd floor walk-up chosen for the sake of my quads) to make sure that no other people or doggos are in the hallways…or about to enter the hallways.  Seriously, if I hear someone rattling with their door lock, Belle is holding her morning tee tee poo poo (term courtesy of the VP of Operations).

Once we slink out of our building like the natural-born assassins we are, it’s a full-on cardio sesh for my eyeballs: darting to and fro attempting to avoid enemy combatants (enemy combatants = squirrels, doggos, any person, light twigs blowing down the sidewalk in the wind…)  Coast is clear?  It’s walkin’ time.  Finding empty blocks in Chicago is dicey, however, and we are almost ALWAYS faced with some BozoTheClown trying to walk on the same side of the street as us.  FUCK.

My fighter jet pilot-like eyesight will normally catch this BTC in time to cross the street, however, there are times when I convince myself that Belle has matured and now is the time to show off said maturity.  A little self talk along the lines of “please God be nice,” and we’re off to HOPEFULLY walk past another human being without incident.

Normally, she’ll pull slightly on her leash, attached to the scary looking metal-teeth collar (psycho dogs wear psychokiller collars).  As we approach this BozoTheClown, I’ll try to cut into Belle’s narrowing lens with a succession of quick “Hey Belle’s” or “Belle look’s”.  Unfortunately, these enticing requests rarely interrupt her laser-like focus on the approaching BTC.  The closer we get, the more I feel her body tensing, breathing slow, ears pin, and weight shift to her hind legs…lunge in 5, 4, 3, 2…I’ll extend my arms to wrap around her…and this fuggin’ BTC says “Hi Doggy”.  THE NERVE!

Belle will lunge, I’ll grab her so she doesn’t make contact, but BTC normally cowers like the little bitch that he is (it’s easier to criticize bystanders than my dog, so get off my case). I’ll toss out an apology of sorts.  “Sorry, she’s such a scaredy cat!”  But, it’s too late.  Damage is done.  Belle has not matured and BTC probably can’t wait to tell his Uber driver what a bad dog owner I am.  Hopefully, the Uber driver notices BTC’s unwelcoming aura and makes a mental note that dog’s only attack dickheads.

Flipped the script on ya’.  Let’s call that the Jimmy Fliparooski.

OUR WORLD:

The Oscars are this Sunday.  Let’s have a quick chat about some of the movies before I make my predictions in Friday’s blog (tease alert).

Get Out:  I rented this a couple months back and watched it at home because it felt like entire friggin universe couldn’t stop talking about how groundbreaking it was.  I resisted until then because I don’t like scary movies (have never understood enjoying the feelings of fear and dread…seriously, if you like scary movies, why not just make a doctor’s appointment every week so you get to hang out in the waiting room?  Same feeling, right?)  ANYWAY.  Get ready for an unpopular opinion…this movie is supremely overrated.  Sure, I laughed, but never that hard.  Sure, I rooted for the good guy to escape, but never that hard.  Sure, I was nervous that the bad guys were up to no good, but never that nervous.  It was a movie full of me pursing my lips, nodding and going “hmm”.  Like, “that was pretty good.”  Confusing “pretty good” with “groundbreaking” happens when a movie no one was expecting anything from, has some decent moments.  This happened with “Mad Max”, “Birdman”, and “Gravity” too.  YEAH I SAID IT!  Those movies, just like “Get Out”, were fine…that were turned into “groundbreaking” only in hindsight when the try-hards studied the scripts after seeing the movie and uncovered all of the hidden meanings that the unsophisticated rubes missed upon initial viewing.  Guess what?  If you don’t know a movie is GREAT while watching it, it’s not great.  FINAL GRADE: SURE, BUT…

3 Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri:  Yep!  Not only the best movie of the past year, but it’s the best movie I’ve seen in the past FEW years.  People’s reactions to 3 Billboards has been the opposite of Get Out: love it in the theater, then can’t wait to pick it apart a week later after they see a critic who wears cool glasses talk about how pedantic it really was (don’t know what “pedantic” means and will not look it up.  It is a word that thin-mustachioed people I don’t like in my imagination use.)  Here’s the thing with 3 Billboards; my mouth opened at least once every 7 minutes in this movie.  “Wha?!?!”  Movies are meant to consistently surprise you and I cannot tell you how hard that is to do when people have begun to catch on to movies’ rhythms’.  This is why M. Night Shamalammadingdong hasn’t been the same since the “I See Dead People” movie.  We caught on.  Aside from acting performances that shook audiences much the way my portrayal of “Follower Rat #6” did in my elementary school’s rendering of “The Pied Piper”, 3 Billboards induced at least eight “Did you see that?!” moments between the VP of Ops and I.  When you’re in front of a 90 foot screen and you turn to the person next to you to, sincerely, ask if they “saw that?” you know you’re watching something special.  FINAL GRADE: YUH-HUH!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Image result for hipster

BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT PROBABLY WON’T WIN:

Last night was an absolute bloodbath.  Not only did I bet on Oklahoma, but my gambling crew and I decided we should pair that bet with the Bulls (+11) in Charlotte and enter the parlay zone.  Bulls lost by 15.  Oklahoma lost by a trillion.  I then panicked and put the rest of my account, roughly $30 on the late NBA game: Denver (-6) over LAC.  Clippers stormed back from 19 down to win by 2.  Fun news to wake up to.

Thankfully, Bovada is a charitable organization and gave me $13.49 in bonus funds.  Full transparency, I am waiting for one of my gambling partners to make the next pick (my picks need to be quarantined). 

HOWEVER, if I were to go rogue tonight…DADDY LIKES ‘DEM CELTICS (-7.5) OVER CHARLOTTE.

(My account currently at $13.49)

K bye.