Category: cars

I Don’t Know How to Do Many Simple Things (8/21/18)

MY WORLD: 

A few days ago, I got out of the shower, grabbed the towel hanging on the towel hangy thing (hook!) and brought it to my nose.  The classic “as long as this towel doesn’t smell like dinosaur B.O., it’s clean”-check.  I know what you’re thinking, “but Jimmy, did you also look at the towel to see if there were any obvious stains?”  Do I look like an animal?  Of course I did.  So that means it’s clean, right?  As long as there are no obvious stains and it doesn’t stink, a towel is clean no matter how many consecutive days you have used said towel.

When I was a kid, I used to marvel at how my parents just knew stuff.  They knew how to get to the mall.  They knew how to check my toothbrush to see if I had actually brushed my teeth.  They knew how to make sandwiches!  THEY KNEW EVERYTHING!  And while they passed on enough survival skills for me to make it 33 years, they did not pass on some skills that seem relatively meaningless, but have become gaping holes in my progress as an adult.  Oh, and when I say “they did not pass on,” I mean “I pretended to listen when they taught me about _______.”  Aside from not knowing how to tell if a towel is dirty or not, here are some other adult-things that I should know, but definitely do not…and probably never will.

How to hang a picture:

It was much easier to hide this deficiency when I was living alone or with roommates.  There’s always one roommate with a fancy toolbox who can’t wait to show off the ruler-thing with the water bubble in the middle.  (Yes, I know it’s called a leveler, but ruler-thing with water bubble in the middle just felt right.)  Whenever we’d move in and got to the point where it was time to hang all our “sweet sports posters” around the apartment, I’d pretend that I was busy doing something else until THAT roommate broke out the power drill and started asking “how’s this look here?”  Whenever I’d hear that question, my body would finally relax, for my secret was safe another day.  “Looks great! I’ll start putting away the silverware!”  Little did they know that the silverware was already jammed into a drawer that I could no longer open.  No matter, Jimmy NoHang was out of the line of fire.

When I lived alone, and there was no one to inspect or judge what I did to the wall, I would only hang stuff with wires in the back.  My process?  Nail in the wall, wire on the nail.  BOOM! JIMMY HANGS IS IN THE BUILDING!  Did I find the stud? Pretty hard to find the stud when you have no idea what that is so…uh…no, I did not find El Stud.  An anchor?  Those are only for boats!  Was the frame level?  Take five steps back, squint and you tell me if it looks “pretty level.”  Better yet, let me save you those five steps, it’s fine.  Was it centered?  Did you not just hear me re: the picture being level?  I TOOK FIVE STEPS BACK, LOOKED AT IT AND SAID “IT’S PRETTY GOOD.”  WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!?!?

Unfortunately, using the caveman method of hanging stuff on walls (nail, slam, hang!) is a secret not meant to see the light of an apartment shared with a significant other.  The friggin’ VP of Ops sniffed out this deficiency of mine the way a dog smells another dog on your jeans.  When we first moved in together she handed me a super heavy mirror to “just hang over the dresser.”  You got it babe!  That mirror rested on top of our dresser for the 2 years we were in that apartment and was the subject of multiple “wait! don’t hit the mirror!”-warnings.  Mirrors that lean against a wall, instead of being hung on a wall, were very in at the time.

Since then, we have moved to a new place where I actually DID hang said mirror on the wall…by putting a wire on the back of it and slamming multiple nails into a wall.  Quick tip on nails and walls: if you hit the nail with a hammer and it doesn’t go any further, just hit the nail harder.  If the nail still doesn’t budge, then take it out and move it a little to the side and try the exact same process.  The mirror now hides about 8 false starts for me and the nails, but it’s up!  And no, I am not worry-free when I sit directly in front of it.  Have you ever played the “I hope this big, heavy mirror doesn’t fall on me!”game?  It’s a rush!

mirror

How to know when it’s time for a new razor:

When I used the Gillette Mach Whatever that had the moisturizer strip on the top, I would know I needed a new razor when that strip went bare.  But then, I grew up and realized that, that dumb fuckin’ strip was probably just a devious ploy by evil Johnny Gillette to sell more razors.  Not so fast!  I can use this razor until…shit…when?

My dad used to use the disposable razors when I was a kid, which made the whole process easy: use it, toss it.  But I saw commercials about the Mach 3 that looked really cool and my friends were using it so, what? I’m supposed to be the lame kid who uses the cheap bic razors?  NOT ON MY WATCH!  And it’s not like I’m Beardy McThickBeard ova’ here, so I can probably get away with using the same Gillette for….shit….I still have no idea.  Worse yet, the Gillette’s are kinda’ expensive AND the razor refills are locked behind glass at most stores.  This is me every time I’m in a store looking at the razors behind the glass, “I’ve gotta go ALL THE WAY up to the front and ask someone to come unlock these?  Meh, I’m sure I’ll be fine for another week.”  I do that for like a hundred weeks in a row.

The breaking point usually comes  that once or twice a year when I pump myself up about finally, truly becoming a cool adult man.  It’s usually the same time of the year where I’ll go to a decent store, buy 8 of the same shirts in different colors and a new pair of pants because “this is what real men do.”  On the way home from the outlet mall (leave that part out!) I’ll pass a Walgreens and be like “you know what? I’m going to buy a nice razor because that’s what real men do.”  Yeah!  I want the best a man can get!  Then, as I wait for Angry Paulette to come and unlock the razor treasure chest on aisle 4, I’ll stare at my phone and start to panic as I type in the password for my Chase Mobile Account.  By the time Angry Paulette arrives with the tiny key, I 100% do not want to spend $17.99 on this razor anymore, but she’s already here and it would be weird if I didn’t after putting her through the enormous trouble of walking from aisle 4 to the register and back.  So, I smile through all her huffing and puffing as I follow her back to the register with my overpriced Gillette while going over how long I can go without paying my cable bill before they shut it off.  It’s cool guys, you’ve got a whole ‘nother month.

How to change a tire:

Tough day for my masculinity on today’s chair, but these are deeply held secrets that must be brought out into the open because I couldn’t think of anything else to write about today!  The fact that I don’t know how to change a tire is something I really really really did not want to write about because I’m positive that it will lead to me blowing out a tire in the very near future.  It’s called jinxing yourself, and if you don’t believe in that stuff then I’m jealous of your rational thought patterns.

This is an instance where my dad definitely taught me how to change a tire multiple times, but I just pretended like I was listening every time and never actually learned how to do it.  The advent of internet phones has soothed my fears of this deficiency since I can just google “how to change my tire,” if it happens, but still.  If The VP and I are driving to Mississippi and I blow out a tire in the middle of “who the fuck lives in a place without cell service”-Arkansas we are officially screwed.

What would probably happen is I would pretend to be calm about the whole situation while leafing through the car manual held in my glove compartment.  When I’d get to the part about putting the car up on the jack though, my insecurities would get the best of me and I would convince The VP that “shit, I’m missing a tool.”  I’d act all mad about not being able to do it myself, but like “whoever put this tool kit together just forgot the…” I’d have to quickly come up with something that sounds like the name of the tool I’m missing.  Okay okay, “whoever put this tool kit together just left out the tire iron.”  THAT’S DEFINITELY A THING THAT SOUNDS NECESSARY!!!  The VP would buy my book of lies and then we’d either have to wait for a not-scary older man to stop and help OR until the town put up a cell tower so I could google “how to find a not-scary older man who can come out here and change my tire for me, but tell my wife that the reason I couldn’t do it was because I was missing a tire iron.”

OUR WORLD:  

The VMAs were on last night and The VP and I had absolutely zero interest in watching it.  Instead, she went through Instagram and showed me pictures of the artists that were winning awards and we played the “oh my god, we’re so old!”-game.  From afar, I hate this game, when people over 30 but under 45 laugh to each other about how old they feel because they can’t play video games all day or know the top-rated show on MTV anymore.  Hey, lets chat about something super mundane that I did and then laugh because I followed it with a “oh my god, I’m so old” punchline! HAHAHAHAHA! Pass the barf bag.

But when you’re alone in your apartment, and feeling older than you’ve ever felt because that’s the truth, you kinda…laugh to yourself about how old you are.  And guess what I am right now?  I’m alone in my apartment.  DAMNIT!  Let’s go through the Top 10 list of things that make people over 30 feel old even though we’re not and it’s actually kinda’ obnoxious when we say stuff like this:

  1. When we suffer a relatively minor injury.
  2. When we are hungover.
  3. When we scroll through Instagram and mention how many pictures of babies are in our feeds.
  4. When we cook at home.
  5. When we choose to stay in on a Friday night and text apologies to our friends because “we’re so lame lol”
  6. When we talk about buying a Costco. membership.
  7. When we go to any college sporting event at any college.
  8. When we tell everyone with ears how busy we are at work.
  9. When we find the one gray hair on our heads and then proudly talk about how you’re not going to pull it out.
  10. When we get up early.

I hate this shit.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

From time to time, I’ll go on kicks where I get super back into 90s bands.  Currently, I’m in a anything-Chris-Cornell sings on phase.  Enjoy the best rock voice of all-time.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you eat leftovers in the morning and then lunchtime hits and you’re like “well, am I allowed to even eat lunch after smashing through that whole plate of leftovers at 9:07 this morning?”  So you just get a small bag of almonds and look forward to dinner.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I bet on preseason football over the weekend and went 1 for 2.  Overall, I lost $7 this weekend but that’s because of baseball.  By the way, FUCK BETTING ON BASEBALL!  I mean, I’m still gonna do it, but I’ve decided I hate it. HATE.

(My account currently sits at $43.18)

K bye.

 

When Do We Get To Stop Lying? (7/11/18)

MY WORLD:

Last night The VP and I didn’t know what to do for dinner so we walked around the corner to some Mexican joint we’ve walked pass no less than ten hundred trillion times.  It’s on a busy, shitty street and neither of us had ever heard of anyone who had tried it before so it had been easy to overlook.  But whatever, we couldn’t make a decision so we chose the path of least resistance, figuring, how bad could it be?

And then we ate there and it was bad (what a story, Jimmy!!!  Keep up this writing thing! Riveting stuff!)  The server was not good at her job; giving The VP an “I don’t know” when asked whether the enchiladas were spicy.  As a former server myself, I’m allowed to pick on them now, and this lady was awful.  If you went to a doctor and asked what your treatment would entail, and she responded “I don’t know,” you’d find another doctor.  So, off the bat, I was pissed that this woman couldn’t even fake pretending to be competent at her job.  Then the food came.

It wasn’t the kind of bad where you can’t touch it, but more the type where you’re really hungry so you keep eating and saying “it’s fine,” to each other.  If you ever want to feel like a dog willing to eat whatever is put in your bowl, try going to a mediocre Mexican restaurant where the only dinner conversation that’s allowed are the words “it’s fine.”  (Does Belle say “it’s fine” every morning while eating that stale kibble from the giant plastic bag?  Well, that’s because she can’t talk because she is a dog.)  

When we finished, I went up to pay and our server asked how everything was.  And this is what sparked what I wanted to write about this morning (finally!  You sure you don’t want to blather on for another 3 paragraphs?!?!) I told the server that “it was good!”  I even put an emphasis on the word “good” where I made myself sound excited when I said it.  She smiled and I tipped her over 20% because of 33 year-old guilt complexes ONLY.  But it made me feel like a dirty fucking liar.  Why did I owe it to this stranger who couldn’t have been trying less at her job to make her feel like she and her place of employment earned my money?  It’s like letting your dog up on the bed when she whines, or giving a kid a cookie when he starts to cry; simply reinforcing bad behavior.

I think there are a lot of sanctimonious people who love telling anyone with ears that they “never lie.”  Well, I’d like to call that bluff.  If these people “never lie,” then are they telling their 16 year-old waiter at the local Italian restaurant that their meatballs sucked ass?  Because if you tell him they were good, you’re a liar.  I don’t support conflating “being nice” with lying; these are mutually exclusive terms.  The manner in which your honesty reveals itself, is when we can determine whether you’re nice or not.  If I would’ve said “the food sucked. I hated the way you performed your job, and your hair is dumb” it would’ve been honest, but not nice.  However, who is arguing that I’m a dick if I would’ve said “the enchiladas were cold, and the service could’ve been more helpful”?  (Uh, I’m arguing that.)  Isn’t that constructive criticism that could, ultimately, help this restaurant?    (Please support Dickhead Jimmy’s crusade to save the shitty restaurants of the world!!!)

As we walked home, The VP could probably feel me stewing (were you grinding?  Well then how could she feel you?) I definitely said “you know what? That was not good” a few times, as if to atone for my recent LIE.  The VP, sensing that I was on the verge of some rant that she didn’t feel like placating, simply agreed and changed the subject quickly (which explains why you’re dumping it on the readers today.  Thanks Jimmy!)  But, I’m tired of the white lies.  I’M SICK OF EM!  Am I also sick of my cowardice taking over too many times in order to avoid a somewhat awkward, albeit honest, interaction with a stranger? Yeah, that too.  Here are some other “white lie” situations that leave me feeling like a dirty fucking liar afterwards:

Whenever I thank and tip an Uber driver whose car smells like a lumberjack’s armpit and drives like he’s auditioning to be “Car Crash Victim #7” in the next “Mission Impossible” movie.

Is there a worse feeling in the entire universe than getting into an Uber, closing the door and then having your nostrils flare as you realize “oh no, I’m in a smelly car”?  (There are worse feelings, but g’head make your point!)  If your car is your livelihood and you work in a tip-based industry, wouldn’t you want to make sure that your car doesn’t make your customers want to vomit?  I used to chalk it up to a “who gives a fuck?”-attitude on the part of the driver, but now I’m convinced that they just don’t know that their car smells like ass because NOBODY has the stones to tell them.  The driver has simply become immune to the chronic B.O. smell of their car and is none the wiser thanks to cowardly passengers such as myself.

Then there are the drivers who dart in and out of lanes while mixing in the occasional seatbelt check of a slam on the brakes.  Here’s a deal: if I have bruises across my chest from the hard stops of an Uber driver, the ride is free.  Do drivers like this end up saving any meaningful amount of time?  I’m convinced that they simply raise the blood pressure of every driver around them while saving POSSIBLY 9 seconds on total drive time.  Traffic is death: there’s no escaping it. (Wow, deep.)  

Whenever I’m in either of these types of Ubers-or both at the same time!-I end up just grumbling to myself or The VP the entire ride, only to thank the driver on my way out of the car and give him/her the standard “I’m not looking at my phone” Uber tip.  This is why these drivers drive like this, guys!  THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYING!  If I would take the time to tell the Uber driver that the smell of his car reminded me of a high-school mathematician convention (Nerd B.O. is the most pungent), he/she may think “oh, maybe I should get my car cleaned or, at least, make sure I drive with the windows open.”  Even if I left a bad review under the “stanky car, cranky driver” reason, that would surely help.  If we all band together we can put an end to this epidemic!  FOLLOW ME! FOLLOW ME TO FREEDOM!

Whenever I talk about how my life is going to my grandfather.

I’m sure Grandpa Irv doesn’t want to hear about my struggles with staying away from sugar and drinking too much, but telling him everything is “really good” is depriving him the chance to impart some wisdom of his.  (Is that sarcastic?) No, that’s not sarcasm.  I’ve been thinking about how every time I’m around my grandpa, I answer every question he asks about my life by starting with “it’s really good, actually.”  Uh, that’s a lie.  Everything isn’t bad, but isn’t everyone creeped out with the person in their life who ALWAYS says that EVERYTHING is going GREAT?  Does that mean my grandpa is secretly creeped out by me? (Yes!) I’m imagining him going home with his girlfriend-yeah, he has a girlfriend-and being like “isn’t it creepy how Jimmy says that everything in his life is ‘really good’?  He must be doing drugs or just plain stupid.”  I bet his girlfriend nods along in agreement and they go to sleep thinking I’m some sort of simpleton.  THIS IS AN UNMITIGATED DISASTER!

If I were my grandpa, I’d go into these grandkid hang sessions somewhat excited about getting to share some of the knowledge I’d gained from being around for so long.  The way I can try to steer my younger brothers from mistakes I made, he could steer me away from potential adulthood missteps that he took.  But you can’t give advice to someone who only insists that everything is “really good, actually.”  He could press me on it, but what a waste of energy that is.  He’s probably like, “fine, you don’t want my advice, I don’t need to give it.  Have fun in that one bedroom apartment on the west side!”  Maybe if I was honest and told him that I’m worried about providing for a family while trying to pay off some preposterous student loans, he’d enlighten me with some comforting words.  Maybe he was in his 30s when he founded his carpet business that ended up paving the way for the comfortable life he has been able to lead?  Maybe he could light the spark for me to take some risks that I’m too afraid to take now?  But no, I’m content with little white lies about my life so as not to burden him with problems that aren’t his own.

That being said, there is the off-chance that I’m totally honest with him the next time we’re together and it causes him to back away from the table making “yuck” sounds before saying “good luck with all of that!”  It’s a risk I am simply too insecure to take.  But like, hey Grandpa, if you’re reading this and want to send me an inspirational e-mail, that’d be VV chill of you.

Whenever I talk to or about little babies…to anyone. 

I’m just lying the entire time I’m talking about little babies.  I’m talking like when they’re real new babies, I don’t know how to talk about them.  They all look basically the same, aside from some have hair and some don’t, and all they do is cry and poop and move some of their fingers sometimes.  Which parent does he/she look like?  I never have any idea and yet, usually, just lie and make some lame joke about he looks like the local mailman.  (Those jokes are never not funny FYI.)  I’ll “talk” to the baby in a higher pitched voice and talk about how cute it is, but like, can we be real?  They can’t understand me and I don’t know if it’s cute.  It looks like every other baby I’ve ever seen.  I’m sure some parents are reading this and labeling me a dick, but why am I supposed to be excited to interact with a thing that has no discernible look or personality?  It’s like getting mad at someone for not being excited to meet and speak with a new floor.  “Oh wow!  It’s wood and kinda smooth!”

This doesn’t mean that I’m not proud of friends of mine who have had little babies.  (Oh, is this the part where you protect yourself?) When I’m around friends of mine or The VPs who have had kids, I am instantly impressed that they have the maturity and stability to ensure the survival of a helpless creature.  These parent-friends of mine LITERALLY have to save their babies’ lives multiple times a day, and I’m writing a blogpost complaining about mediocre enchiladas.  Yeah, you’re more advanced than me!

However, when these life-saving heroes ask me about their 3 week-old’s personality, I wanna be like “uh, to be honest, your baby reminds me of my fingernail.  Like, I know it’s a living thing, but I’m not getting much in the way of a relationship.  I hope I don’t break it.”  While that may be an instance of being honest without being nice, this is really a no-win situation.  If I were to say “it has no discernible personality and looks like every baby I’ve ever seen,” the parents aren’t going to regale me with praise for my honesty.  So I’m forced to lie and walk away feeling like complicit in society’s rouse to make every kid feel more special than they really are.  (That got dark and kinda’ heavy there, bud.  Maybe tone it down a notch next time?)

OUR WORLD:

It’s Wednesday and today’s “My World” section ran long.  See ya’ out there.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

If you know me well, you know that I can’t handle scary movies because I’m a baby and they give me nightmares and I don’t like being scared.  BUT!  Every once in a blue moon, I kinda’ want to see one.  The trailer for the newest Halloween movie looks prettttayyyyy pretttttayyyyy sweet.  May have to man up and check this out.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The Little League World Series is starting soon and that means that I won’t want to watch ESPN for like 3 weeks.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Cool, guys.  I let you know who I was betting on yesterday for the first time in weeks and you all jinx me.  As if I need another reason to hate France, now they’ve actually taken money out of my pocket by beating Belgium yesterday.  I guess I’m going to bet on England today because…I don’t know where Croatia actually is.  That seems like sound reasoning.  WHAT COULD GO WRONG?!?!

(My account is currently at $31.44)

K bye.

 

Has My Wife Taken Me Prisoner? (6/28/18)

MY WORLD:

The VP and I finished watching “The Staircase” the other night (hold your applause! PLEASE!  Standing ovation? CONTROL YOURSELVES!!!)  During the second to last episode, I started thinking that I just wanted this show to be over.  It’s dark and depressing and sad and scary and why was I watching this?  When your “escape” revolves around stories about murder and the terrors of our legal system, it should not come as a surprise when your daily stresses don’t melt away.  What happened to having a plop on the couch and sharing but a smile?  Perhaps a chuckle or two before bedtime?   Up until I was seduced by an older lady, now known as The VP of Ops, at the vulnerable age of 27, I was into happy, and, potentially, emotionally uplifting television.  “The Office”, “Parks and Rec” and “Friday Night Lights” were more my speed.  Laugh at Andy Dwyer, shed a tear for QB 1 and his decimated spinal chord, and root for Jim to finally tell Pam how he feels. (Sidenote: how many awkward “but I only like you as a friend” confrontations did the Jim/Pam story cause around the country?  You know friend-zone guys everywhere were like “if it worked for Jim, it’ll work for me!”)  But that all came to an end when my Mrs. Robinson came into the picture…

I remember The VP of Ops telling me that she was into murder when we started dating.  It wasn’t concerning in the way of like “Hey Jimmy, I’m into murder because I enjoy murdering people and I’m thinking of murdering you.”  It was more in the vein of “I like sitting on a couch with a devious smile on my face while good looking detectives battle personal demons and sexual tension with their co-workers throughout missions for justice.”  She didn’t exactly spell it out like that, but when a hot chick is on a date with you, there are NO red flags.  ZERO, FOLKS!  Seriously, she could’ve pulled out a rusty knife and told me she was into amateur surgery and I would’ve been like “cool, totally!”

Anyway, long story short, unable to resist her wily seduction techniques, The VP roped me in to her world of heavy cream dips and depressing television.  Somehow, my television viewing habits have gone from sitcoms and serialized dramas to trashy reality television and murder documentaries.  Monday through Thursday over the past few months have consisted of: “The Bachelorette”, “Vanderpump Rules”, “Southern Charm”, “Evil Genius”, “The Staircase”, and “The Keepers”.  We spend our weeknights either cackling at functioning alcoholics with undiagnosed personality disorders or silently watching strangers try to cope with the most horrific event of their lives.  The VP has turned me into your Aunt Paula.  Do you realize I’ve written more about “The Bachelorette” than I have about the Bears?  I’M A MAN FOR CHRISSAKE!  When does the Netflix doc about The VP murdering my masculinity come out?  “Did We Record The Bachelor?”: The true story of a once proud Chicago man’s descent into madness.  

What is happening to me?  I used to think it was a lame joke when I’d hear older guys talk about how their “wives run the show.”  My Dad’s friends would say shit like that and I’d toss a courtesy laugh their way while thinking A) I’m sure that’s not actually true, and B) has anybody actually laughed at that joke?  Thing is, I’m beginning to think it wasn’t a joke!  The VP doesn’t totally run the show (I’M MY OWN MAN!) but…like…maybe she does, actually.  Shit.

Let’s take a look at the last 4 days: I have cooked three of the nights and brought home dinner the third.  I then hand washed the pots and pans used for those meals, unloaded and re-loaded the dishwasher.  I have run two loads of laundry, bought her a heating pad, and taken out the trash.  We have watched episodes “Southern Charm”, “The Bachelorette”, and “The Staircase”.  ESPN has not been on our television for one second.  I broke the sunglasses that she got for me last week, but haven’t worn my back-up pair because The VP says they’re “disgusting”.  So I’ve just been squinting for the past week.  Oh, and I gave her an alarmingly asexual back massage last night.  (Realization hits as a look of panic washes over Jimmy’s face…) WHAT HAVE I BECOME?!?!

If my Dad’s friends knew what they were saying wasn’t a joke, why were they chuckling?!?!  Why weren’t they grabbing me by the shoulders and telling me to save myself before it was too late?!?! “You don’t understand!!!” should’ve been how all of my Dad’s friends greeted me while I was still dating The VP.  Folks, I didn’t plan on writing this blog today.  What you are reading is a real-time discovery that I may not be the person I thought I was.  Stay calm, Jimmy.  Stay calm.  EVERYBODY STAY CALM!!!  Quickly, what are the things I believe I enjoy now that I wasn’t into before The VP plunged her talons into my testosterone supply:

-Oysters:  Never even tried an oyster before The VP came into the picture.  Now, I get excited when I’m at a place with good oysters.  What are in some oysters? Pearls.  Who likes pearls? Girls.  Shit.

-English muffins:  I have a multi-grain english muffin every morning for breakfast now.  I used to eat bagels.  Close your eyes and imagine Clint Eastwood walking into a dusty diner.  When the waitress asks what he’d with his bacon and eggs, what do you think he orders?  Without hesitation, it’s a bagel every single time.  ENGLISH MUFFIN PROBABLY ISN’T EVEN AN OPTION IN CLINT’S DINER!

-Rolling up my jeans:  The VP says it’s “cute”.  My brothers and father make fun of me.

-Puppies:  Not to say that I used to not like puppies, but I remember a time when I wouldn’t stop EVERYTHING I was doing whenever a puppy came into my field of vision.  Now, it’s like a fire drill where I alert everyone around me that there’s a puppy and pray that I’m able to get to it in time to ask for a casual pet.  That’s weird.

-Thinking about crying when I’m alone:  I’m aware this sounds supremely depressing, but this blog is, if nothing else, honest.  Whether it’s job stress or money stress or thinking about murder documentaries or wondering what Belle does all day while I’m gone, I have begun to think about crying when I’m alone.  The strangest thing? I kinda’ like it!  I never actually cry, but I’ll think to myself “should I pull over and have a quick weep sesh in that Office Depot parking lot?”

These trends are concerning and worth revisiting.  (Now Jimmy, anticipate the call you will receive from The VP once she reads this.  You’re playing checkers while she’s playing chess!)  I’m not a prisoner, guys. Ha. Ha. (Blink twice).  To the people who have not seen me in a while, and believe that I am being held captive by my wife, I have a message for you: The VP of Ops is not holding me captive as her prisoner.  (Blink twice). She is a sweet and pretty lady that I love very much who deserves the entire whole wide world. (Blink twice).  And yes, I am listening to “Keeping Score”, the new Dan + Shay single featuring Kelly Clarkson.  It’s a lovely little tune!

(Help).

OUR WORLD:

The reason that city driving is so much more difficult is because everyone who lives in the city, and therefore drive in the city, is so stressed out by EVERYTHING that the slightest ANYTHING can set you off.  I feel like a Velociraptor (that’s one word!  Who knew?!?) while driving around my neighborhood–ready to plunge through the driver’s side window of my Chevy Equinox and go fangs-first into the next car that leaks into my lane of traffic.  Combine the sounds of a constipated toddler with the aggression of a blackout-drunk Crossfit trainer who was just put in the friend zone by his Tinder date; that’s me driving in the city.  That’s all of us driving in the city because Chicago, and I imagine all other large cities, is a garbage can overflowing with annoyances.  What are some of the other PRIME City annoyances?  Let’s take a look:

-The “was that a gunshot?”-sounds:  Whenever I’m near the VP of Ops when one of these sounds happens, I immediately say “fireworks.”  I play it cool and nonchalant so that she doesn’t worry, but (close your eyes VP) it’s probably gunshots sometimes, right?  Who is setting off fireworks on a random Tuesday night in June?  Also, you have to go to Wisconsin or Indiana to get fireworks, so what the hell are these sounds?  That’s part of living in the city that I’ll never get used to.  When I’m walking Belle at night, I say “what was that?” to a not-too-distant sound a minimum of 6 times.  When these walks are immediately following a murder documentary, you better believe I contemplate breaking into a full sprint back towards my apartment.

-Walking up to street-parked car in the morning and seeing shards of glass in the distance:  If you park on the street in the city your car, sooner or later, will be broken into.  There is ZERO chance that it won’t.  Trust me, I’ve run the numbers.  On the day it is, you’ll be walking down the block your car is on when you’ll notice a pile of shattered turquoise pebbles.  Those aren’t exotic city pebbles, though, those are what remains of your passenger-side window.  I’ve had this happen twice which means that now, whenever I’m heading down the block my car is on, I have a near heart attack whenever I see a pile of turquoise in the distance.  That color, btw, STINKS.

-City dogs and the dog-walkers:  Don’t get me wrong, I luh me some doggies (see my puppy love in today’s “My World”).  BUT!  City dogs, including my own, are much more likely to be hairy psychopaths with crippling anxiety disorders.  I don’t blame them, this is what comes with living in the city.  However, when you’re having to zig zag across streets to make sure your dog doesn’t get within 500 feet of another hairy LUNATIC, your nerves begin to fray.  This morning I took Belle on a 4 block walk and crossed the street no less than 18,000 times to avoid other dogs.  Oh, and if you see a “professional” dog walker heading your way, be aware that they think of themselves as the top of the sidewalk food chain and will NEVER cross the street first. Am I just being constantly alpha’d by other dog owners in the game of “who’s going to cross the street first?”  Do I call their bluff and play a game of chicken?  If you knew Belle, you wouldn’t either.

-The smell of weed EVERYWHERE:  I know this makes me sound like a total narc, but it really does smell like weed everywhere in the city.  Like, every. single. place.  When you’re afraid of weed like I am, this smell immediately triggers a response of panicked breath holding.  Remember when you were a kid and your go-to tantrum move was holding your breath until you passed out?  That’s me here.

-People:  There are so many.  Literally, millions and most of them do not abide by my personal code of conduct.  It’s infuriating.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’m just going to lean into this one…

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Cabbies who drive Uber.  I get that they have to adapt, but I feel tricked whenever I get in an Uber and am immediately hit with that “professional cabbie”-smell.

I HAVEN’T GAMBLED YET THIS WEEK.  MANY PEOPLE ARE TALKING ABOUT HOW INSPIRING MY SELF-CONTROL IS.

K bye.

 

I Live Above A Drug Dealer (6-19-18)

MY WORLD:

I think I live above a drug dealer.  In fact, it’s a couple, so I could very well be living above TWO drug dealers who are working in concert to avoid detection while maximizing ILLEGAL PROFITS!!! If you can’t tell yet, this goes deep.  While I’m sure many of you are saying to yourselves “Jimmy, just because a guy has neck tattoos, off-putting facial hair and a pit bull, it doesn’t mean he’s a drug dealer.”  (Time to dig my heels in and go into full-on Jimmy Law Mode…) WELL, THAT DOESN’T MEAN HE’S NOT A DRUG DEALER!  (Nailed it.)  

A couple weeks back (months? years? EVERYTHING IS BLURRING TOGETHER IN THIS FRANTIC WHIRLWIND WE CALL LIFE!!!)  ANYWAY!  A time ago, I was coming home late from work, for I am a “man of the night.”  When I parked my car on the street, I noticed the old, white Chevy Impala that is ALWAYS parked in the exact same spot.  I’m convinced this car was built on this corner and has never actually been driven and  the fact that it takes up the best parking spot near my building DRIVES ME BONKERS.  So I’m passing the car I hate the most on this fateful night when I notice a character in another raggedy car idling next to the Impala.  The senses honed while a Boy Scout for the 5 months before I told my Dad that I hated camping and being outdoors kicked in…SOMETHING WAS UP!

So I hurried up inside my building.  We live on the third floor of a six-unit building; two units per floor.  (Six flat? Three flat? IT’S NOT EVEN FLAT THOUGH SO WHAT THE FUCK?!?)  Once inside, I gave The VP of Ops that sweet baby smooch she’d, no doubt, been DAYDREAMING about all day and got my guard dog, Belly Psychopants, to head back outside for her nighttime dumperoo.  Little did Belle know that maintaining her digestive system wasn’t my main purpose for going outside; Detective Jimmy was ’bout to scope out this Impala situation.

Of course, we scurried across the street once outside.  The idling car was still idling right next to that fuggin’ Impala and this was purely a stake-out situation for me.  Time to hide on the side of the street without any lights!  (You think darkness is your ally?  I WAS BORN IN THE DARK!!!)  Shielded by the night sky, Belly Psychopants sniffed every single blade of grass while I squinted at the wasteful driver (idling in your car is no bueno for your engine FYI.  Read that on a little website called Google. EVER HEARD OF IT?!?!)  After about 4 minutes of Belle’s grass sniffing and my sleuthing, someone got out of the idling car.  He wasn’t a small man, but he wasn’t a big man…HE WAS A NORMAL-SIZED MAN!  (So, not really distinguishable from across the street at night.)  

Once outside the car, I noticed something VERY suspicious: he was on his phone.  Yeah! Yeah! AND! He left his car running with the door open.  I almost alerted him that this area is known for carjackings but his aura screamed “I DON’T GIVE A CARE!”  (You felt his aura?  Or were you just scared?  Answer the question, Jimmy.  We’ll wait…) Belle tugged on her leash either because she had to make a doody or because she was a frightened ‘lil beeyotch.  Unfortunately for Belle, Pomerantz’s never succumb to fear (dubious, at best).  While on the phone, NSM (normal-sized man), went up to the white impala’s gas tank.  He popped open the…uh….latch? You know, the little door-thing you open when putting gas in your car? (Car guy alert!) NSM opened the tiny gas-door thingy, looked like he took something out of there, then got back in his car and took off.

When he got back in his car, it’s not like he peeled off, but, in a way, isn’t that MORE suspicious?  He was probably like “just in case there’s a definitely-not-scared 32 year-old man with his labradoodle watching me from behind a tree across the street, I better not peel off and draw MORE attention to myself.”  I SEE THROUGH YOUR GAMES, PAL!!! I looked down at Belle to mutter “that was something” but she didn’t even care.  How interesting can the smells of grass really be?  Seriously?!?! We weren’t done snooping yet, though.  For, right as we were about to go about our dumpin’ ways, I heard the main door to MY apartment building open.  It’s a loud door because our landlord has never heard of WD-40, BUT THAT’S BESIDE THE POINT.  I heard our door, and went back into squint-mode.  Belle went back to sniffing and, like, totally not helping our cause.

Our well-lit entrance revealed a pale man with dark tattoos slither out the front door, down the steps, and over to…that goddamn Impala.  This guy owns the Impala!  While resisting my overwhelming urge to yell “WHY HAVE A CAR IF YOU’RE NEVER GONNA DRIVE IT?!?!” I noticed that slither-man was ALSO interested in the tiny gas-door thingy (hold on, I’m gonna google this…some are calling it a “fuel door”)  Slither-man opened the fuel door, grabbed something, and then went back to his slithering ways back inside our building.  I watched the windows of our building from outside and noticed that a light came on, on the floor below The VP and I right around the same time he entered the building.  What. Just. Happened.

I’ll tell ya’ what just happened!  That fuel door (car guy!) is the secret exchange place for drugs and money.  One guy drops drugs there, the other guy drops money in exchange for said drugs, then the first guy (drug guy!) gets the money.  That, ladies and gentlemen, is a guilty verdict with A FRIGGIN’ BOW ON IT!  I don’t need a silly hat and magnifying glass to solve the great crimes of the 21st Century.  All I need is my fluffy dog and the COVER OF DARKNESS!

Now, if you’re thinking that I’ve rushed to judgement, don’t worry, I’ve put together more pieces to the puzzle since this dark, scary, yet illuminating night.  Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I present to you, my findings:

-The outside of slither-man’s apartment door, the one facing to the hall, has a black feather wreath hanging on it.  I plan to call on a nationally renowned wreath-expert who will reveal that black feather wreaths signify one thing, and one thing only: drugs.

-Slither-man and his female companion have NEVER been seen during daylight.  While the VP and I have seen all of the other tenants of the building soaking up Vitamin D, we have yet to see Slither-man and Jane Doe bag ANY rays.  I know what you’re thinking: “But Jimmy, a lot of people work at night and sleep during the day!  Maybe they’re just bartenders or factory workers.”  That brings me to my next finding…

-Every single night when I take Belly Psychopants outside, there is a cloud of weed smoke billowing out from under Slither-man’s door and into the hallway.  Last I checked, it’s pretty tough to be at a factory and smoking weed inside your apartment AT THE SAME TIME! (This is the part where I shrug my shoulders and say something like “Not that I’m against weed or nuffin'” to get the jury on my side.  Lemme tellya’ though, as a certified weed-fearing person, walking through clouds of pot smoke, terrified of catching a contact-high and, subsequently, having a paranoia panic attack is NOT an enjoyable experience every time you have to take your dog out.  I feel like a scuba diver without an oxygen tank whenever I pass this apartment while it’s dark outside.)

-Slither-man and Jane Doe have a big, scary looking dog that is very calm.  Must be stoned.  No other possible explanation for it.  (Maybe they just paid attention to training it from a young age, unlike some people…) NOPE!

-And, just in case you weren’t paying attention during my opening argument, Slither-man’s white, Chevy Impala has not moved for a MINIMUM of 15 years.  MINIMUM!

For all you mathematicians out there, here’s the arithmetic:

Fuel door shenanigans + White Impala that has never moved + Black feather wreath + Clouds of pot smoke outside their door + Big, scary stoned dog + Night time sightings ONLY 

EQUALS

Drug Dealers

I rest my case.

Going forward, I may touch on potential best and worst-case scenarios involving The VP and I living about these drug kingpins.  For now, Belle and I will continue to sniff out grass smells of all kinds (see what I did there?  GOD, I’M GOOD!) 

OUR WORLD:

There is no formal review of this week’s “The Bachelorette” because I got home late last night and was so frustrated with everything surrounding my day that I just had to be alone to cook in the kitchen while the show aired (there may also have been a mondo Martini involved here).  Here is what I gathered from The VP yelling to me from the living room and getting to catch the last 11 minutes-ish of the show:

-Jordan did something: I don’t really know what.  The VP yelled some muffled thing about Jordan maybe winning something or doing something or…Look, this guy is the only thing keeping this season afloat.  Although, I’m starting to think he’s just too obvious of a producer-plant.  Like, is really dumb enough to say the things he’s saying? The whole “my face is my professionality” thing, etc.  He’s like an evil-Michael Scott who…may be in on the joke?  Is he?

-Cologne-guy got booted:  Uhhhhhhh, called it.  Dudes who are into cologne and “accoutrements” are BOZOS of the highest degree.  I feel ridiculous even writing the word “accoutrements”.  I can’t imagine bragging to a national television audience about how my self-worth is tied to the “accoutrements” and cologne I wear.  YAMMA MOMMA!

-My fave, stunt-guy Leo, got a rose!  This dude has no chance of winning, but I’m glad he’s still around.  He’s legitimately funny and still has the potential to steal the show by performing a death-defying stunt.  Whether it’s a car or building or…motorcycle?  Leo needs to jump out of something right as it explodes.  His awesome long hair will just miss the ball of flames behind him as he tucks into perfectly executed barrel roll.  Then he should get up, spit out the shards of glass that landed in his mouth from said explosion, and grab Becca like he’s never going to let her go.  If she still picks Garret or Colton after that, then she can go straight to hell.

-Weasel-face David has a bloody eye:  That’s all.  His eye looks gross and I still hate his weasel face.  He def would’ve been kicked off if he hadn’t just fallen off his bunkbed.  Bunkbed fall will buy him 1 more episode TOPS.

Those are my takeaways.  I’ll do my best to not require alone-in-the-kitchen-with-a-huge-martini-time next Monday night.

I did watch “The Proposal” afterwards and, oh baby, that show is DELICIOUSLY TRASHY!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

There’s a new Death Cab for Cutie song!  While not their best of all-time, it’s new and they’re my favorite band so…EVERYTHING THEY DO I LIKE!  Also, VP dunked on the universe with her bday gift to me last week–tickets to these guys next time they’re in town.  Boomshakalaka:

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

It’s exhausting getting worked up about ALL of these horrifying Trump administration performances, isn’t it?  I legitimately think that the stress created by this ghoulish White House is having an impact on everyone’s mood.  Am I the only one a little more on edge than I should be?

WHAT CUTE OR FUNNY THING DID MY DOG DO THAT YOU PROBABLY HAD TO BE THERE FOR, BUT COULD MAYBE PUT US ALL IN A BETTER MOOD?

She sneezed right in The VPs face last night.  Legit drenched her.  I was proud of Belle.

K bye.

 

Car People and Tight Shorts (6/6/18)

MY WORLD:

 

A few years back, The VP of Ops and I got in a big fight about me being wrong and not admitting it and then getting madder at her for pointing that out and it turned into a real THING.  Mind you, our fights usually consist of me being in some sort of mood (Shut up to all the people saying “such a Gemini”-in their head rn) or The VP just absolutely refusing to admit when she may have been wrong.  It’s the same routine most times where we’ll get mad, kinda snap without yelling, make exchange some cutting remarks in the guise of “being funny”, give each other the silent treatment for a few hours and then gently start to make gentler jokes about the fight as we wait for the other one to apologize first (spoiler alert: IT’S ALWAYS ME BECAUSE GAH FUHBIH SHE EVER ADMITS THAT SHE WAS WRONG!) Anyway, this particular fight a few years back, was ratcheted up a few notches because it happened later in the evening after we had entered HAMMEREDVILLE, USA.  You know those drunk fights where halfway through you catch yourself in a sober flash thinking “wait, why am I mad? Uh oh…I have no idea…DOESN’T MATTER, KEEP GOING!”?  It was one of those.  This night, however, my power move wasn’t just a silent treatment, but it was to retreat to the only place I can truly be myself: my car.  (Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to drive anywhere.  The plan was to sleep in my car…then I realized the backseat was supes uncomfy so I waited another 11 minutes before slithering back into our apartment.  Uh….yeah, I think she got the point!) 

We’re different people in our cars, right? Maybe I’m saying that because I’m in mine a lot and I act like a borderline mental patient in mine, but where else are you alone in a soundproof box with windows?  It’s as close as we’ll ever come to being invisible in public (hey inventors, get off your asses and prove me wrong!) and I don’t know about you guys, but I relish this pseudo-invisibility.  WHO’S WITH ME?  Here are some of my classic “I can do this because I’m alone in a soundproof box”-moves:

-Front-seat Dancing:  Singing is obvious and I can be one basic bitch so, yeah, I sing too, but the seated dance moves I’ve developed are nothing short of…well, probably disappointing.  BUT! While I’m doing them, my brain is flooded with “remember this move next time you’re being looked at on a dance floor!”  (Can someone also have a chair ready for me?)  If you’re curious about what these moves are (WE ARE! JIMMY! WE ARE!) close your eyes TIGHT and think rolling shoulders mixed with pointing fingers that SOMETIMES curl back into air drum routines.  Mind you, these moves are more likely to come out on Thursdays and Fridays as JGT (Jimmy Good Times!!!) nears his weekend entrance.  And the bands/musicians that bring these hotsex seated dance moves out? We’re talking CHVRCHES, Steve Winwood (JGT’S FAVORITE), and maybe some cool-guy “I’m a rapper when I’m alone in my car”-moves for Old Kanye.  I will warn you, however, that if you play any of this music while in the car with me, you will not see these moves.  They are strictly for Alone-In-The-Car-Jimmy.  I have made eye contact with random drivers mid-move, and I immediately stop and look up and away kinda’ like how Michael Cera did during the awkward moments in “Superbad”.

-The “I’m Pissed” Arm Toss:  Middle fingers are so 1999, guys.  When I get mad, and I’m either in front of or directly behind the car that made me mad, I toss my arm up like I’m flinging a frisbee through my sunroof.  Here’s the thing though: there is no frisbee, and I have no sunroof.  You just got hit with the Jimmyschair patented “I’m pissed” arm toss.  And if you’re not feeling guilty for what you and your FUCKING car just did to me? Then I hope you rot in hell.  Now I will say that this move is NOT restricted to Alone-In-The-Car-Jimmy (let’s call Alone-In-The-Car-Jimmy; JimE cuz it’s edgy but still sounds like my name!)  The VP was introduced to the “I’m Pissed” Arm Toss early on in our relaish (what hip lingo doesn’t Jimmy know?!?!) after some pisspants cut me off.  I don’t remember her exact reaction, but it was along the lines of a dripping-sarcastic “wow, my hero!”  I always use my right arm because it’s stronger (thus, more intimidating) and there are no less than 4 tosses per day.  JimE’s thinking? Chicago traffic is bad because there are too many guilt-free drivers not realizing the damage they’re causing by SWITCHING LANES WITHOUT A GODDAMN SIGNAL.  The “I’m Pissed” Arm Toss slings guilt from my Chevy Equinox the way a Catholic Priest does during his sermon.  Should we start calling my right arm Father Arm O’Tossahand?

-Talking to myself:  The invention of speakerphone has provided the perfect cover for talking to yourself in the car.  Even if you’re caught by a red-light neighbor, you can shoot the “I’m on the phone”-look (there’s a look for that? YEAH DUMMY!) Whether it’s preparing for an upcoming presentation; or running a “mock argument” that I’m anticipating later that day; or pretending that I’m being interviewed by a late-night talk show host, there is no shortage of my voice in my car.  What’s weird about talking to yourself is that if you do in front of people, you’re obviously a LOON.  BUT! I would also posit (nice word) that if you don’t do it while you’re alone, you are simply a different breed of LOON.  Are there actually people who never talk to themselves?  Is that the origin story of every socially awkward person?  (Jimmy seems to really want to convince us that talking to yourself is not only not crazy, but normal.  Hey Jimmy, PLEASE START TAKING PILLS PRESCRIBED BY A LICENSED PSYCHIATRIST!) This morning, for instance, I have about an hour-long commute, during which I plan to hold an interview where my current-self asks my future-self all about why it took so long for me (us?) to break into Hollywood’s writing scene.  I can’t wait to give humble answers.

OUR WORLD:

Hopefully, you haven’t been like me lately and eating copious amounts of cheese dips.  My summer bod is taking a hiatus that my shorts from last year were NOT prepared for.  Therefore, I am entering a “I’m going to try to eat super healthy during the week, so I can pig out on weekends without having to buy all new summer clothes”-diet.  If, unfortunately, you are like me and are looking to enter a similar shorts-saving campaign, here is what I have eaten and plan to eat for the rest of this week’s dinner.  I give you, some healthy meals that don’t suck:

-Baked Chicken Wings:  As long as you don’t coat them in flour or use butter in your buffalo sauce, I think we’re pretty gucci here. On its own, buffalo sauce ain’t that bad for you according to my brain when it looks at the nutritional info on the back of the Frank’s Buffalo Sauce bottle.

-Turkey Tacos:  Lean turkey meat with taco seasoning is FINE, and I’m pretty sure if you use corn tortillas, it’s basically like eating corn…which is a vegetable and, therefore, GOOD FOR YOU.  Skip the sour cream, but allow a little cheese.  Atkins allows cheese and it’s kinda’ Atkins-y, so the cheese is okay.

-Skirt Steak with Chimichurri and Asparagus:  Chimichurri is like limey pesto and errbody knows I love me some pesto.  Skirt Steak is protein and protein is good because muscle guys talk about it a lot.  The asparagus makes your pee smell weird which is a sign that you’re keeping your body on it’s toes with this new healthy-you.  Watch out bod, things are a changing!

-Grilled Chicken and Broccoli:  I’m not gonna lie, this is a boring-ass meal.  However, you need to throw in one super healthy boring meal a week so you have something to truly brag about to your friends this weekend.  Get ready to drop health-bombs on them like “it’s so nice not having to have another chicken and broccoli dish this week!”  All your friends will get quiet and think to themselves “shit, what did he mean by another?  I didn’t even have ONE chicken and broccoli meal this week!”  That’s cuz you’re not as healthy as us, SUCKER!

And then Friday night comes and everything goes to hell.  GOOD LUCK TO ME AND US AND EVERYONE WITH LAST YEAR’S SHORTS! (Or in my case, shorts I think I bought at least 6 years ago.)

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When your dog starts barking at a sound they hear in your apartment building, but before you can yell at them to be quiet, they run over to “protect” you.  There’s part of me that kinda’ hopes that one day someone bursts through the door and calls Belle’s bluff.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Shaving.  I’m putting it off because it’s never NOT annoying.  I feel bad that girls can’t grow leg beards and, like guys, just be like “it’s a new look I’m trying out.”  Of course they can, but like…maybe don’t.  Please.

WRITING ABOUT GAMBLING ON THE NBA FINALS IS BORING ME SO I’M GOING TO TAKE A BREAK FROM IT FOR A LITTLE BIT.  PLEASE DON’T CRY LIKE “BACHELORETTE” LINCOLN ABOUT THIS.

K bye.

 

 

 

 

 

Inventions That Need To Happen (5/15/18)

MY WORLD:

Remember when you were a kid and you would have invention day at school?  That day was the best.  One year, I remember I painted a big cardboard box and had a couple of slots that you’d drop bread and salami down for a “salami sandwich maker”.  (Big salami on white bread guy here.  If you like to get fancy, throw some Cheetos in there.  GAME. CHANGER.)  While dropping wonder bread and cuts of salami through a cardboard box never took off, I’ve always tried to think of stuff that I couldn’t make, but would love to see.  When I was younger, I’d say stuff like “I can’t tell you my invention ideas because you’ll steal them and get rich off my brain.”  Now, though, as a full-grown adult (but like, my doctor did say I could get over 6 feet tall one day so maybe not…) who knows his limitations (there are a lot!) I’m not afraid to share my genius invention ideas with you all.  Nobody reading this has the bandwidth (business term) to turn these into a reality and get rich off of them.  AND! Even if someone does, I’ll actually find it a little funny about how bad I just jinxed myself there.  Without further ado, here are my “Can someone smarter than me please make these things happen and then give me some money for coming up with the idea?-Inventions”

A hand dryer that makes your hands dry in less than 3 seconds

I don’t know how it is in the women’s room (because I don’t go in there because I’m not allowed) but every time I’m in the men’s room it leads to an awkward exit.  I’ll finish peeing and then wash my hands because there are people there who will judge me if I don’t EVEN THOUGH I TOTALLY DIDN’T PEE ON MY HANDS!  After washing my hands, I’ll try to dry them in those fancy new blower things that every bar has, but it takes longer than it should…and then there’s a line of a couple dudes behind me like “I remember my first hand drier!”  Usually, I get so uncomfortable with holding up the drier (dryer? drier?) line that I just leave with my hands still wet.  AND HAVING WET HANDS STINKS!  You have to dry them on your dirty pants and then, guess what? YOUR HANDS ARE DIRTY AGAIN!

Stop me if I’m asking for too much here, but can’t we have a machine that zaps our hands and they’re immediately dry?  Remember that memory eraser thing in “Men in Black”? Like one of those, but instead of erasing your memory, it just dries your hands.  If you can’t tell, I would very much be in favor of bringing paper towel dispensers back to all of the bathrooms, but I guess that’s gonna make the earth explode.  So that’s out.  Until this flash hand dryer is invented though, can we all agree that standing over someone while they’re trying to dry their hands is unnecessary?  Maybe just pretend you’re still washing your hands for another 38 seconds until my hands are actually dry?

Car slappers

This may be my favorite name for an invention of mine “The Car Slapper”.  Here’s the idea: sometimes honking just isn’t enough.  You ever driving and see a car drift into your lane or right in front of you and all you want to do is give that car a “Hey, I’m drivin’ here!”-slap?  What if, on each side of your car, there was a big inflatable hand–like, the size of a pool noodle but in the shape of a hand–that you could press a button and it would shoot out and SLAP the car next to you?  It wouldn’t damage the bad driver’s car, but it would shock them and be WAY more of a jolt to get out of your way than some lame honking sound.

Also!  I think these inflatable hands should be covered in chalk.  Therefore, if you’re on the road and get “slapped” then other drivers would know to pay extra close attention for the rest of the day because they’d see the chalky handprint on the side of your car.  It would be a scarlet letter of sorts for bad drivers.  Would some people abuse this tool?  I already thought about that, guys!  The only way you can have a car that is equipped with “The Car Slapper” is if you’ve been accident-free for 3 years.  I’m not here to invent things for bad drivers to take advantage of.  I’m here for the rest of us; the cautious drivers who aren’t afraid to stop on a yellow light, or actually pull over at the sound of police sirens.  ALSO! If anything about your car resembles anything from ANY of “The Fast and The Furious” movies, you can’t get “The Car Slapper”.  This includes: loud muffler things, lights under your car, windows that are tinted a little too much, a spoiler, or basically any Honda that has had work done on it.

The get-away-from-me shirt

The name for this one may need work, but the idea is great.  What if you had a shirt that alerted people when they were too close to you?  I don’t want this to be used as a weapon, but what if a shirt was made in a way that if someone got within 3 feet of you, they would get sprayed with a B.O. spray?  Being the guy with B.O. for the rest of the day is MORE than enough of a deterrent to stay 3 feet away from someone.  Here’s how it would work: a FASHIONABLE shirt would be made (not sacrificing fashion here) that would alert people as to what you view as your personal space.  Think, instead of a Nike swoosh on the arm, there’s a “3 FEET!” patch that lets people know that if they get within 3 feet of you, they will be shot with B.O. spray.  If they get within 6 inches of crossing into your personal space, that patch would start flashing like a warning siren that signifies “BACK UP OR SMELL LIKE B.O. FOR THE REST OF THE DAY!”

Imagine the next time you’re walking down the street and you see one of those people with a clipboard and a spiel that you don’t care about.  You see them approaching you and saying something like “Hello sir! Do you care about ending little babies being tortured?”  Of course you do, but you just wanted to get a goddamn sandwich and not talk to anyone!  If you had one of my shirts, you could just point to your “5 Feet!” patch and they’d know not to get any closer.  You wouldn’t have to say anything mean like “No, I don’t care about little babies being tortured.”  All you’d have to do is give a look down to your patch.  They’d hate it, but not as much as they’d hate smelling like “Smelly Richard” from your high school math class.

The fart silencer

Everybody farts, guys.  It’s a funny sound, but it’s also a real thing that way too many people struggle to hide while they’re at work or on a date or in a public place that’s just a little too quiet.  When The VP and I started dating, I hid my farts like a ninja who always had a pained look on his face.  It was about 4 months until she heard my first one, an accidental/laughed-too-hard fart that came out in the middle of a party.  Thankfully, The VP is cool, but it was petrifying.  I half expected her to dump me on the spot.

I’m not advocating for a diaper-like thing or an enema of sorts (too icky, right?!?!)  But maybe just some cool pants that has a muffler like device on the butt?  If I let one out, nobody would hear it because my magic pants silenced it.  I mean, there’s a device to silence a GUN SHOOTING A BULLET–there has to be a pants device to silence a BUTT SHOOTING A FART.  (If you’re not laughing at “a butt shooting a fart” then just stop reading this forever.  That’s as good as I get, folks.)  Every high school kid would immediately buy these and save themselves from confidence-crippling accidental farts.  Remember that time you were doing sit-ups in the gym next to the cute girl and you accidentally let out a RIPPER?  With these magic gym pants, Cute Girl would never know. (Could she smell it? Yes, but that’s always easy to pawn off on someone else.)

*Quick related-story:  I came up with this idea in college.  It was a U.S. History class and we were taking a final.  I was sitting next to a girl I had a crush on, and I was super nervous about that AND taking a final that I was ill-prepared for.  (Don’t worry VP, you’re way hotter than she ever was.)  Anyway, so the classroom was dead silent as everyone worked on the final.  The silence was broken, however, by my stomach growls.  I had to fart, but I couldn’t run out because I didn’t think you could leave the room during a final. So I was holding it in for dear life.  My stomach did not appreciate this, and was letting THE ENTIRE WORLD KNOW.  These growls were angry and scary and…disturbing enough that the girl I had a crush on, literally leaned over and asked if I was okay.  I never asked that girl out.

The Sober-Now Pill

If you’ve been around me much, you’ve probably heard me talk about this a lot.  (In fact, I feel like I may have talked about this in a previous blog…but I don’t want to go through all of them and check, so deal with this.)  How amazing would it be if you got to the end of your night, started to feel that “oh my god, tomorrow is gonna hurt real bad”-feeling, but were able to drop a pill into your last beer and POOF! You’re back to zero.  It would basically eliminate hangovers, drunk driving and you’d save so much on Ubers.  Get bombed, pop a sober pill, drive home.  GREAT NIGHT!

Also, the comedy that could be had would be priceless.  My favorite thing about this invention is thinking about the times I’d sneak this pill into a friend’s beer before they were ready to be sober.  They’d be in the middle of a great night, hitting peak-buzz level and finally unwinding from a stressful week when BOOM! “Did you put a sober pill in my beer, Jimmy?!?!”  GOTCHA JERK!  ENJOY PAYING THAT $90 TAB AND BEING SOBER BEFORE YOU WANTED TO BE!!!  You could never leave your drink unattended around me.  And it’s not like I’d get in trouble for “drugging” you; I’d basically be doing a public-service by ridding the public of your drunken ass.  Cops would thank me!  Please make this happen someone.

OUR WORLD:

Game of Thrones Season 1 Review will be coming possibly as soon as tomorrow!  That was a lot of words I wrote for the “My World” section so you’re gonna have to wait on this one.  BUT! The VP and I finished Season 1 last night and OOOOOOOO DOGGY!!! WE ARE SO IN ON THIS SHOW!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

New song off of Dave Matthews’ new album!  And I found a live video of it!  LOVE!

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you wear a sweater for the first time and you take it off to see that it left a bunch of fuzzies on your white t-shirt.  AND IT’S TOO HOT TO PUT THE SWEATER BACK ON!!! SO YOU HAVE TO WALK AROUND LIKE AN IDIOT COVERED IN FUZZIES!!!

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:

Not to brag, but I hit a Warriors/Vegas parlay last night.  Not to brag not to brag.  I’m getting close to the level where I’ll cash out and dump that money into bitcoin (I’ve decided I want to invest in bitcoin cuz it sounds fun!) Tonight I like Boston (-1) and Tampa Bay (+1.5).  LeBron was way too relaxed after that Game 1 ass-kicking.  He reminded me of that guy who tries to convince himself that he’s not worried when he DEFINITELY IS.  Cleveland stinks, guys.  And the Lightning? I mean, they can’t go down 3-0 without at least putting up a fight.  I say if they lose, it won’t be by more than 1.  GOD MY GAMBLING BRAIN IS FIRING ON ALL CYLINDERS TODAY!!!

(My account currently at $231.76….YEAH, THAT’S RIGHT!)

K bye.

Inside My Dog’s Head and Miserable Live Sports Experiences (4/6/18)

MY WORLD:

Yesterday morning, after I did a little thang called WRITE THIS FUGGIN’ BLOG, I took Belle out for her morning dumperoo (she’s sah kewt).  Unfortunately, even though I did my best to avoid all possible human/dog/natural interaction for her, people ended up crossing our path and Belle went psychokiller nuts.  Nothing like feeling like a failure of a dog owner at 7 in the morning!

Basically, she after she pooped, I zoned out as I picked it up with my bag-hand (if you were a dog, wouldn’t watching your human clean up your shit be the highlight of your day?  Like, “yeah, pick up my shit. That’s what you get for giving me the same bland-ass kibble EVERY FUCKING DAY!”)  While zoned out on poop-bag island, a girl on her way to school and a woman walking her dog, walked behind us.  In the Pomerantz household, this is known as a “WAIT, NO!”-situation.  Belle lunged at the girl, who legit screamed and started running!  (If I saw her again I would apologize, but it was over-the-top and kinda’ hilarious.)  Then Belle saw the woman and a stranger doggo and IT. WAS. ON.  I had to grab Belle by the chest and squeeze her between my legs to keep her from doing Buffalo Bill things to that little stranger dog.  The woman walking the other doggo didn’t say anything, but she was judgey with her eyes, I could tell.

As I held my sweet lil baby psychokiller princess between my legs, though, she started to kinda’ pant/cry and it made me feel super sad.  It wasn’t a “ouch, your fantastically toned and powerful quads are hurting me, Jimmy”-cry, but more of a “god, life is stressful!”-pant.  She was out of breath and, like, just ground down by the stress of it all.  I get it!  Belle!  Dad gets it!  And it got me thinking about how her brain must work, and what she must think as we go outside of her safe space (the one-bedroom apartment that she doesn’t have to pay to live in) for a walk in the morning.  To help myself understand where Belle is coming from, I would like to ask you to indulge me in a little exercise where I will write as if I am Belle about to go out on a morning walk.  Did that sentence make sense? Below this line, Belle is narrating her morning routine (Belle writes in red):

How long do I have to pretend I’m sleeping in this dumpy “bed”?  DAD?!?  Fuck, thought he moved.  Nope, just another mattress-shaking fart from Mom; why Dad is with this sloppy bitch is beyond me.  They act like they’re doing me a favor by locking me with them in their bedroom for the night, but now I’m even more stressed because who’s patrolling the kitchen?  I bet that asshole dog from downstairs is having a garbage party right now!  DAD!?!?!

DAD!  Dad you’re up!  Hey! Hi! Howdy! Hola! Woo! Dad! Dad! Dad! Oh yeah, gimme dat booty scratch!  Oooooooo that’s the spot!  Dad! Dad! Dad!  What’s the plan today?  Breakfast time?!?!  Wait!  Let me check the kitchen real quick to make sure you’re safe (I sprint to kitchen right when the bedroom door is opened every morning because I care about my Dad and his safety!)  COAST IS CLEAR DAD! Oh, you wanna hang in the bathroom?  Oh…closing the door in my face.  Got it.  Makes sense, you need your privacy.  Hey, don’t worry about anyone coming in–I’m gonna lay right here to make sure that doesn’t happen.  You hear that Mom?!?! Don’t even think about barging in on Dad during his private time!  (Mom normally won’t get out of bed for another few hours and that is A-OKAY with me!  Maybe she should think about just moving out?  I don’t know, just a thought.) 

DAD! YOU’RE BACK! How was private time? Bet it was good!  You deserve it big guy!  Alright, let’s talk turkey–when we going on that walk?  It’s not that I have to go that bad, but stuff is happening out there and if I don’t get to bark at it, I’m gonna have a nervous friggin’ breakdown.  Dad!  RARK! RARK! (yeah, that’s how my “barks” sound; more like “rark!”.  I’ve found it’s a more menacing sound than your typical “B-ark” sound.)  Did you hear that?  Dad! A door opened in our building! RARK RARK RARK! There’s another one!  No, I’m not gonna “shush”!  Dad, if I “shush” then no one will be afraid to barge in here and steal you away from me.  I’d basically be inviting the Dadnappers in here!

Hug time?  Yes!  (Guys, every morning, Dad sits on the couch next to me and gives me hugs.  He doesn’t love when I kiss his pretty face, but I do it anyway.)  Yawn? Me too!  Dad, watch me yawn!  Look! YAWWWWWWN!  We have so much in common!  You ever think about that Dad?  Like…what if you were more than my Dad?  Like…what if Mom wasn’t even here?  Never mind, I’m silly.  Sometimes I say crazy things!

Up again?!  Oh, I know that look!  IT’S WALKIN’ TIME!!! Okay okay okay, watch this! Dad! Watch this!  Spin, spin, spin, spin.  Four spins Dad!  Not even dizzy!  (Yeah, I do use a lot of exclamation points.  EXCUSE ME for being excited! NOT! Classic Belle Burn right there)  Oh, you’re gonna put that big scary metal collar on me?  Okay.  Not my fave, but you’re the boss, Dad.  Hey, look!  You like my smile?  Yeah you do!  Putting your coat on? Smart.  Classic Dad, being smart!

Now Dad, you gotta let me go first down the stairs okay?  We don’t know what’s ahead…(am I kinda’ choking my way down the stairs? Yes, but I sacrifice for my Dad.)  Did you hear that?  DAD!  HURRY!  COME ON!  WE GOTTA RUN DOWN THE STAIRS AND GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!  I HEARD A SOUND THING THAT I DON’T KNOW!  COME ON!  HURRRRRYYYYYYY!!!!!!! 

That was a close one, right?  Phew.  Hey, it feels great outside!  I’m gonna pee now (Dad is always super respectful here, he turns away while I make a tee tee.  Dad, the consummate gentleman!)  Was that a squirrel?  What’s that smell?  Who was here?  Dad, you smell that?!?! Dad! Dogs were here!  Let me investigate…no, I don’t want to keep walking…but, Dad if I don’t smell every one of those blades of grass then….DAD!  Ugh, fine.  I’m walking. I’m walking.

Pretty quiet out here this morning, just the way I like it.  Hold up, I’m gonna do a little pee here so they know this is OUR turf.  Dad!  Wait!  I swear, you don’t understand so many things about turf wars.  If it weren’t for me, you’d probably be in a gutter somewhere.  Just kidding Dad.  Obviously, no one could push around my big strong Dad.  

Hey! This is where we cross the street, right? Yep, knew it!  Dad!  I knew it!  Yeah, I’m gonna poop.  Dad, I really don’t need you telling me to “go poop” every morning.  I get it, you want me to poop.  It’s coming, okay?  You know what happens when you force a poop, Dad?  Bad stuff! Real bad stuff!  Speak of the devil, here it comes!

Come on Dad, I gotta be as close to the parked cars as possible.  Come on!  Okay, here I go.  (per usual, Gentleman Dad not looking at me.)  All done!  Hey Dad, I pooped!  Just let me kick up this grass so everyone knows what I did and we’ll be all set.  Oh, you’re picking it up?  Yeah, that’s nice I guess.  Maybe we leave it though?  It’s just, I feel bad that you have to-WAIT!  DAD!  DON’T WORRY I GOT THIS!!!! 

RARK RARK RARK RARK GRRRRRRR SHRARK!!!! STAY AWAY FROM MY DAD YOU BACKPACK BITCH!!!!  THIS IS OUR FUCKING TURF!  OHHHHHH, WHAT?!!?! ANOTHER DOG?!!?  SEE WHAT HAPPENS IF HE LETS ME OFF THIS LEASH!!! OH I FUCKING DARE YOU!!!! MAKE A MOVE!

DAD!  LET ME GET THEM!  DAD, YOU DON’T KNOW THE STREETS LIKE I KNOW THE STREETS!  RARK RARK RARK RARK!  (He always holds me back, but if he could see me fight…I don’t know, maybe he’d look at me differently?  Like, as more than a dog?  I don’t know.  Oh, silly me!)  

Then I walk Belle back through our alley because there is less of a chance of running into  any living things.  She’s panting the entire way back, like she just finished a marathon.  I feel bad and kinda mad and kinda sad that her brain seems to be an absolute stress-bomb of matter.  By the time we get back up to our door, though, she seems to be smiling again, having forgotten the stressful nightmare that just occurred.  At least that’s what I tell myself…

Hey Dad, I bet Mom isn’t even out of bed yet!  You sure she’s “the one”?  Asking for a friend…

OUR WORLD:

Yesterday was the White Sox home opener, and if you voluntarily went to that game you should be start lining your walls with pillows cuz you, my friend, are NUTS.  Sitting out in the cold for April baseball is a billion percent miserable experience, and it got me thinking…what are some of the most miserable live sports experiences:

–Early-season (so the game is essentially meaningless), freezing baseball game.

–The Kentucky Derby.  I have no idea why this appeals to people.  Watching horses run for a minute while you’re dressed like an asshole sounds about as fun as going to a little kid’s birthday party.  HARD PASS.

–Any regular season college basketball game.  Seriously, if it’s not March and you’re not a current student, who cares?

–Any little kids baseball game ever.  Even when I was a kid I felt bad for my parents having to watch that dreck sitting on shitty bleachers.  Parents should be encouraged to stay home.

–Early season NBA game sitting in the 300 level.  You can’t see anything, so you end up watching the jumbotron the whole game.  All you’re thinking about is how the seat you’re in is less comfortable than your recliner at home, and the drinks you’re drinking are WEAK and super expensive.  What a great time!

–Late season NFL game when your team’s season is already over.  When the Bears are 3-9 and people sit outside in a blizzard to watch them play the 4-8 New York Jets, I’m all like “but why?”

That’s all I’ve got for now.  It’s still super cold outside, but at least it’s Friday.  GO FRIDAY!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I know I’m a little late with this posting, but Sean Penn is cool.  I don’t care if he’s messed up on Ambien.  He’s still cool.

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you shake your bottle of hair conditioner for like five minutes in the shower only to have the last .2 ounces spill out onto your shower wall.  NOW MY HAIR’S NOT GONNA BE CONDITIONED!!!

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:

Nobody I bet on for the Masters had an absolute blow up day yesterday, so I’m still feeling good.  Honestly, I am so due to win something big, so I’m pretty sure one of my guys is gonna win.  Like, almost positive.  PRAY FOR ME!

(My account currently at $0.00)

K bye.

Guy Fieri Fandom and Tales of Laziness (4/5/2018)

OUR WORLD:

I want to be friends with Guy Fieri.  He’s Queen meets Limp Bizkit meets the best cheeseburger you had when you were 13.  His bleached blonde spikes and thin goatee WORK, and if you don’t smirk while nodding your head whenever he talks about a dish being “out of bounds”, then maybe you’re the reason you and your father haven’t spoken in years.  I would like to formally welcome you to jimmyschair Reality TV Show Hall of Fame Introduction for Guy Fieri’s “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives”.

It’s really fun to fall in love with someone who is easily made fun of, but has enough self-confidence to turn the joke around; like putting the sun in front of a mirror.  How can a guy wearing pant-shorts, sunglasses with flames on the sides and gaudy bracelets make an old lady in a Nebraska diner blush?  My favorite grandmother (we all have one, right?) would have been play-dough in Guy’s hand.  I can almost hear her denying that she thought he was cute…when she TOTALLY did.  What hipster can do that?  I’ll wait…(I’m seriously trying to think of a counterpoint, and all I’ve got is Jeff Goldblum? Maybe? Nah.)  No hipster can do that because Guy is the good-times party boy we all secretly want to be friends with.

Not everything is as ironic as we’d like to make it out to be in hindsight.  Sometimes, a greasy cheeseburger at a place with torn booths just tastes fucking good.  Much the way that sometimes a bowling shirt featuring bedazzled skulls is just fucking badass. Ignoring the cool-kid crowd and talking about the unimpressive things we love is what this show is about, and Guy is the embodiment of an unimpressive thing we love.  What’s revolutionary about some dude in a muscle car throwing up the “rock on” sign?  NOTHING! But you like it because how do you hate a guy who just wants to show you a ROCKIN’ good time?

How much do you love trying to decipher Guy’s facial expressions?  Like, he’s never going to come out and said to a chef “Bro, that sandwich sucked!”  But, when he doesn’t shoot the camera one of those “you cannot be serious with how good this is”-stares, you know he kinda’ doesn’t like it that much.  He’s too nice of a dude to spit something out, so he’ll normally kinda nod his head while darting his eyes in a panic of trying to invent something nice to say about the shitty bite in his mouth.  Normally, he’ll bail and go with the all-too-obvious “that’s very interesting” copout.  (In Guy-talk, “that’s very interesting” means that you should shut your dump down because that bite was GARB!)  

On the other hand, when he REALLY likes a bite, he is so expressive that you feel like you’re getting to enjoy it through your TV.   This face, the “you cannot be serious how good this is”-stare, is what makes the show:

guy fieri

Full disclosure, I have absolutely stolen this face in my life.  Whenever I take a bite of something awesome, I make this face now.  Restaurant owners should keep an eye on their customers, and if they’re not seeing any of these faces being made, then maybe it’s time to find a new chef.

How excited do you get when you see him take a bite and drop this face, though?  MOM!  HE REALLY LIKES THIS PLACE THAT WE’VE NEVER BEEN TO AND PROBABLY NEVER WILL GO TO BUT IF WE DO WE’RE PROBABLY GONNA LIKE IT CUZ HE MADE THE FACE! If you run a restaurant that Guy has been to and made this face in, you need to immediately change the name of your place to “Guy Made This Face Here” with that picture next to it.  Tell me you’re driving past that restaurant without stopping and I’ll tell you that you’re a goddamn stupid idiot who makes poor decisions in every aspect of your goddamn stupid idiot life!  DAMNIT!

I bet he does cocaine too and, earmuffs kids, but that makes me think he’s even cooler.  Like, you know those episodes when he’s really vibing with the chef?  They’re fist-bumping, and throwing food puns back and forth, and Guy keeps slapping him on the back and saying how everything is “out of bounds”?  You know that when the film crew takes five, Guy is nudging that chef to look down at his open palm featuring a tiny bag of white.  Guy’s producers know what’s about to happen, but they pretend like they don’t see Guy direct his new best friend to the bathroom.  Cut to 3 minutes later and all EVERYONE in the entire restaurant can hear is Guy and the chef alternating between giggling, snorting and high-fiving.  The best part has to be when they emerge from the bathroom, a little too close to one another, sniffling and asking everyone around them “What?!”

After he parties with the chef in back, comes the part of the show where Guy turns into a journalist and interviews actual customers.  ALL of the customers say pretty much the same thing “it’s just so fresh!” but it’s okay because it allows you to focus on your fantasy about what a Guy Fieri cologne would smell like.  There’s always some foodie trying too hard to sound like an impressed critic, and you can feel Guy having to restrain himself from stuffing him in a locker.  Then there’s the fat dude at the bar that Guy is super excited to watch eat and exchange face-stuffing tips with.  Hey!  He loves all shapes except skinny and that makes me feel great about myself!  Take notice: they never show a super hot customer in these restaurants.  It’s only the Betty-Ann’s and Larry’s of the world.  Guts and bad haircuts.

By the time “Triple D” is over you have no idea what you just watched, but you’re super hungry and contemplating whether you could pull off flame sunglasses (not as a joke!)  “Triple D” is a half-hour of Guy getting to be himself; takin’ big boy bites, throwin’ bones with his bros, not being snarky, and doing cocaine with new friends in rooms without cameras.  There are no bad-guys in Guy’s world, just people he hasn’t met yet.

Loyal readers, please welcome the second show to the jimmyschair Reality TV Show Hall of Fame: “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives”.

MY WORLD:

I caught myself doing something extraordinarily lazy last night, and it got me thinking about the little lazy “cheat-codes” that I employ on a regular basis.  Here’s what I’ve got:

-Leaving the fork I just used for my dinner on top of the leftovers I put in the fridge.  This is the move I did last night.  It’s an effort to put off washing said fork, but how ridiculous is that move when you have a dishwasher in your place?!?!  I have a dishwasher in my place!  Not only that, but we also have like a gajillion forks between all the silverware we got for wedding gifts (how about just a lifetime supply of plasticware next time?)  But I still persist in trying to save myself the 3.6 seconds it would take for me to open the dishwasher, and put the dirty fork in the silverware compartment.

-Not throwing out socks or underwear with holes in them.  No joke, over 30% of the underwear and socks I own, have a hole in them.  I remember Jerry Seinfeld talking about how men don’t throw out underwear until they completely disintegrate and HE WAS ABSOLUTELY RIGHT!  Why?  Because if I throw them out, then that means I’ll have to DO SOMETHING…as in, I’ll have to go shopping for underwear and socks.  Could you think of anything more boring than that?  I actually did go underwear shopping at Target (the place you can’t not spend $100) a few weeks back.  But I went alone, and just stared at the 97 different brands of underwear hoping that The VP would magically show up to tell me what to buy.  It’s a minor miracle I didn’t just end up buying a hammer and calling it a day.

-Wearing the same pants for months at a time.  I legitimately don’t know how often, if ever, I’m supposed to wash my jeans.  I used to do it like once every two weeks when I’d do laundry, but then a friend told me that you’re not supposed to wash your jeans.  (Ever get so happy over a seemingly-innocuous comment that you get kinda flush?  That was me when I heard this.  I needed a tissue.)  Top 5 adult revelations definitely includes the time my friend told me you’re not supposed to wash your jeans.  That means, I’m not being lazy, I’m just preserving the integrity of my denim.  SCORE!  Right?

-Turning my driver’s side car-door storage compartment into a garbage can that only gets emptied when I open my door on a windy day.  Do I need to explain that?  If you smash wrappers on top of wrappers, you can fit at least 10 thousand in that compartment.

-Leaving junk mail in my mailbox instead of taking it upstairs and throwing it in the garbage.  I repeat this routine until that day I open my mailbox and the letters are so smashed that they’re getting stuck in the neighboring box.  I’ll get annoyed in my head with the mailman, like “hey dude, take a hint, I’m not taking the loan-consolidation letters upstairs.”  Don’t tell me that you’ve never opened your mailbox, looked through a bunch of lame credit card offers and bills you have on autopay, and then just closed your mailbox hoping those would…just go away on their own.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Even the spoof-version of Guy is a dude I wanna be friends with.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

This is Jeff “The Sandwich King” Mauro.  Another Food Network star who doesn’t belong on the same planet as Guy Fieri.  This dude makes me angry with how big of a DOOF he is.  Go away forever and never come back.

Mauro

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:

Well, the Celtics got pounded so I’m going to need to make another fucking deposit.  Here’s the thing: I was feeling really sorry for myself watching that Celtics debacle.  BUT! If I had won that, then I definitely wouldn’t have won any of my Masters bets because the gambling gods would’ve been like “well, you just won.”  Now, since I’ve been a massive LOSER since football season ended, the gambling gods have got to be thinking about rewarding my patience.  Hey, Gambling Gods, time to throw me a frickin’ bone here.  My Masters picks (for now):  Tiger Woods, Justin Rose, Alex Noren, Thomas Pieters, Charl Schwartzel.

(My account currently at $1.02)

K bye.

At Least You Don’t Have That Job and Bad Purchases (4-2-18)

 

OUR WORLD:

Boy am I excited that it’s Monday AND it’s absolutely freezing outside!  This is the best!  LIFE IS MEANT TO BE LIVED!!!!  If you happen to see me before 9AM this morning, do yourself and walk the other way because NOT TODAY!  On days when I catch myself being extra bitchy and pouty (oh, so everyday Jimmy?) I’ll try to come up with people that have it worse than me.  In all honesty, my job is like 87% good stuff and the rest isn’t stuff that is worth bitching about the way the rest of the working world gets to (but I wanna pout too!!!!  Also, maybe I said that so co-workers don’t give me a side-eye, like “so…if working here is so bad maybe you should just quit!”  jk guys lol omg ttyl!)  REGARDLESS!  Some Mondays I find myself running through what jobs have it way worse than I ever had and, hopefully, ever will have.  If you’re having an especially rough Monday, roll through this list and I think you’ll begin to feel thankful.  Let’s call these the “At Least I Don’t Have To Do That”-Job List…(if you happen to work one of the following jobs then may God have mercy on your soul.)  

–Anything having to do with outdoor construction:  Aside from the 6 days of the year that are in the perfect temperature range, construction workers have to either be freezing or hotter than hell.  Aside from that, they have to wear the big heavy boots FOR SAFETY!  They have to wear hardhats that would def mess with your hairline, and the bending and lifting and digging and hammering and what if you slip?  If you’re a full-time construction person, you definitely have a story about slipping and “that’s why my hand doesn’t really work anymore.”  Aside from the actual work itself, keep in mind that the general public is FUCKING annoyed with construction sites because they’re loud, hold up traffic and “like, is it EVER gonna be done?!”  How many angry drivers do you think these people have to deal with per day?  If you’re working road construction, there have to be at least 8 times a day where some douche in a foreign car lays on his horn because construction has created a traffic jam.  Does the horn help ease the jam?  Of course not, but Mr. Audi Douche would like everyone to know that he HAS A FUCKING MEETING!

The combo of backbreaking work and a generally ungrateful audience is a ROUGH work environment.  The only upside is getting to eat whatever you want because you just worked so hard.  Like, if I’m jackhammering a sidewalk for five hours (that’s a thing they do, right) you better believe I’m not gonna worry about how many carbs are in the BIG sandwich from Potbelly.  You’re getting that big cuz you earned the ever loving shit out of that big.  So that’s nice…but then it’s back to the heat and hard manual labor and, you know what guys? I quit.  I just can’t.

-Starbucks Barista:  You are immediately SLAMMED busy earlier than the entire world on Monday morning dealing with Monday people who have yet to have their coffee.  Seriously, how have their not been more Monday morning Starbucks shootings?  Having worked in a restaurant that had a cappuccino machine (whatever, yeah…it’s, not even a big deal) I know first hand that making those foofy coffee drinks is a BITCH.  Thankfully, I only had to make like one per 6 hour shift.  These Starbucks people have to make like a bajillion all the while an angry pre-coffee mob is waiting off to the side wondering why the fuck their mocha gabba jabba is taking more than one second to make!  You think your job has pressure?!?! GET REAL BROTHA!

Also, how many times have you been behind that person at Starbucks who seems to be trying to invent their own personal drink?  Like, there’s no way Starbucks has a “virgin, half caf, pseudo-mocha, almond butter infused cafe ole easy foam heavy bubbles”…AND THEN THEY DO HAVE THAT THING!  But, the person who ordered it isn’t even impressed!  Instead, they just go back to their fucking bluetooth phone convo and you just wanna be like “aren’t you AMAZED with that barista?!?!”  But they’re not.  Nope, the barista will carry on like the Van Gogh of coffee drink makers and Barry Bluetooth won’t even think about dropping a buck in the tip jar.  If I were the barista?  I’d just make everyone a black coffee and then shrug my shoulders and say NOTHING when they’d complain.

-Meter Maids:  I always always always think about what a meter maid says to his/her spouse when they get back home and are asked how their day was.  Is there ever a good day to be a meter maid?  Hand up, I am SUPER mean to these people and I don’t even feel that bad about it cuz I’ve become a master of justifying it (I have effectively convinced myself that the only people that could work this job are people that legitimately enjoy ruining people’s days.)  When I have a little distance from it though, they are definitely working that job because it pays the bills and they’re just doing their best.  Talk about a thankless job.  A Meter Maid has never heard someone say “good job!”  I bet even their bosses are just pissed they didn’t assign more tickets.

I would love to be at a table next to a bunch of meter maids at a happy hour.  Can you imagine the “this is why my job sucks”-stories that they get to share with each other?  All day, everyday they are dealing with people who just missed moving their car by 4 minutes.  Oh! And, they have to be outside all day in a uniform which mucho stinks.  Please, don’t tell me about how it would be “nice to be outside” in the summer.  Why do you think air conditioning was invented?  Because being outside is nice for a minute and then “it’s actually kinda’ hot.”  PASS!

As I’ve written this, my big huge beautiful brain has been flooded with other jobs that would be mucho stinko so….guess what guys?!?! I’m gonna make this a jimmyschair Monday staple.  From here on out, FOR THE REST OF TIME! The Monday edition of jimmyschair will include a list of “At Least I Don’t Have To Do That”-jobs.  I’m excited.

MY WORLD:

I spent too much money at the bar on Saturday night.  I opened up a tab, turned into JimmyGoodTimes and, quickly, morphed into JimmyIGotThis for the proceeding 4 hours. Closing my tab included the “it’ll be okay” self-talk followed by hating myself all day yesterday, with a few “it’s just money, Jimmy” mixed in to try to calm myself.  It wasn’t THAT bad (I’m a pouty baby, remember?) but, like, DAMNIT JIMMY!  Much the way I do with other jobs on Monday mornings, I tried to remember back to a worse purchase that I have made, in an effort to make myself feel better.  That’s when I remembered…I bought a recliner from Costco when I was in high school.

I worked at a golf course in the summers during high school, and since I was too scared to make any actual friends, I turned my bedroom in an ultimate hang-zone (you talkin’ ’bout a Hangzone 5000?  Yeah guys, I am.)  I bought a mini-fridge, a big tv, XBox and…all I needed was a big comfy chair.  My bedroom was small and my parents definitely had caught on to my blossoming loner-den, but I lied to them about all the friends I had so, I SAID I’M FINE MOM!

Anyway, Costco had a put-it-together-yourself massaging recliner for like $400.  I told my dad that I was going to get it and he rolled his eyes so hard he def saw his brain.  Look, I was a stressed out lil baby and NEED MASSAGES DAD!  GAH!  My bedroom was 1,000,000,000,000% too small for this chair, but I was determined to be comfy at all times instead those four walls.  So I saved up for weeks and bought the friggin chair.  It took me FOREVER to put together and would slam into my dresser every time I leaned back.  The “massaging” felt and sounded more like loose pebbles being thrown at my back a little too hard, and the plug sparked whenever I put it in the wall outlet.  Did someone order a fire hazard?

Whenever my dad would walk past my room, I would sit in the chair and make purring noises because I was very weird and thought that would make him jealous that he didn’t have such a chair.  He was never jealous.  Disappointed? Absolutely.  Jealous? That’s gonna be a “no”.  After a few weeks of pretending to be comfortable in a not-comfortable-at-all-massaging-recliner, I dug the box out of the garage, dismantled the chair, and returned it to Costco.  They gave me all my money back and….WAIT!

That didn’t work at all.  Now I don’t feel better about my weekend bar spend because I can’t throw the 19 Tecates I had in a box and return them to the bar.   Great.  Well, I hope you enjoyed my exercise in not-making-myself-feel-better.  GODDAMNIT!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

This scene came up at our Easter dinner and we all laughed like maniacs.  Enjoy:

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you open up your refrigerator on Monday morning and see all the Easter candy you stole from your parents house is sitting right in front of your dumb, fat face but you can’t have any cuz it’s Monday morning and you were gonna get back to eating healthy this week.  Thissss isssss jusssssssst GREAT!

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 not gonna lie to you guys.  I know that I bet on Kansas and Michigan this weekend.  I also know that JimmyGoodTimes made quick friends with JimmyGambles and, next thing I know, I had like a billion little bets going on the two final four games this weekend.  What were they? I absolutely do not remember and, no, I will not check my betting history to see what they were.  All’s I know is that I only lost like $9 which is less than $10, so I’m basically even.  I’LL TAKE IT!  Tonight? I’m probably gonna bet on Michigan because my friend went there, but my brain thinks Villanova is gonna chop Michigan’s head off.

(My account currently at $64.82)

K bye.

Road Trips Are The Best

MY WORLD:

Yesterday, I went to Rockford, Illinois on a work trip and got super excited about getting to stay in a hotel.  The Rockford Holiday Inn may not do it for you, but something about not having to clean up after myself and watching cable that I don’t have to pay for, turns me into little-kid excited. (When I walked into my room I joked to myself that I should jump on the bed.  I didn’t because I was worried I’d break it and then feel fat and sad.)  This little trip paired with seeing a bunch social media pics of people I know on their spring break trips has gotten me (REALLY GODDAMN JEALOUS) thinking about what makes a road trip is AWESOME.  Holiday Inn + Vacay Pics = Me thinking about road trips.

Lets call this a two-day road trip, where I’d have to drive like 10ish hours and stay at a hotel (Holiday Inn?!?!) before finishing the drive the next day.  Here’s how that day progresses for me and why I think I’ve discovered that I kinda love road trips…

-Waking up super early to get going on something fun, and not work, feels great.

I’m kind of a pain in the ass the morning we leave.  I will have packed the night before, and The VP will still be finishing her seemingly endless packing the morning of.  I’ll get out of bed super early, brew coffee, walk the dog, and then act like an excited puppy myself–wagging my tail while waiting for The VP of Ops to join me outside!  She is normally not as thrilled and, for some reason, doesn’t enjoy the 14 times I ask her “can we go already?”  We need to get on the road so we can get fast food because THAT is when vacation mode really begins…

-Going through the McDonald’s drive-thru for breakfast.

I genuinely think I enjoy the road-trip kickoff sausage biscuit with egg and hash brown from McDonald’s, eaten while driving and cussing at idiot drivers who don’t realize I’M TRYING TO ENJOY MY FUCKING BREAKFAST, more than I enjoy a fancy steak dinner at a fancy steak restaurant.  I’m not exaggerating.  Aside from how perfect McDonald’s biscuits and hash brows taste (it’s a culinary masterpiece), I don’t have to sweat the beating it put on my bank account AND I get to eat it on my way to MORE. FUN. STUFF.  Fancy steak dinners always include me looking at the prices, telling the VP of Ops to not worry about the prices, and then me silently panicking in my head about how many serving shifts I’m going to have to pick up to pay for this fucking steak.  Now, I will say that The VP of Ops has talked me into Burger King breakfast before and it was pretty pretty go—nope, don’t want to hear it? Yeah, I’ll leave that alone.  McDonald’s breakfast for life.  Should we start a hashtag? #McDsBFast4Lyfe (that has legs).

-Listening to Howard Stern interview a celebrity for a couple hours.

Normally, when I have Howard on in my car (satellite radio, yeah I have it, calm down) I’m kinda’ listening to him and kinda’ trying not to freak out about how behind I feel at work.  But on road trips?  I am full-on focused listening and, breaking news, Howard Stern is hilarious.  There are times I get so into his interviews that I’ll look around after like 45 minutes of driving and have the “Oh my god, how did we get here?” momentary-freak-out.  I’m thankful there isn’t a law against driving while zoned out (DWZO) because I’m sure traffic cops can see the blank look on my dumb face when I’m listening to Howard.

-Talking about what fast food place we’re going to get lunch at for at least 37 minutes.

You’re gonna need lunch on the early side because you need strength to drive (“strength” to sit and gently push a pedal ONE foot? Uh…yeah!)  The VP of Ops is an absolute connoisseur of fast-food restaurants, and gets excited anytime we’re around one we can’t get in Chicago.  On our first few road trips together, I’d buy into her excitement and go along with her plan of getting ketchup from “Whattaburger” and mozza sticks from “Sonic” and chicken from “Zaxby’s” and…by our third road trip I realized that The VP’s ADHD is triggered by those big fast-food signs you see on the highway.  Now, we discuss our available options the way I imagine CEOs discuss the merits of different healthcare plans for their employees.  These reasoned discussions will come to an abrupt end when I get frustrated that The VP is not a natural-born decision-maker, and MY DRIVING STRENGTH IS DEPLETING!!!  So we’ll probably get in a kinda-real quick fight as I jerk the car off the exit towards Chic-Fil-A or “whatever, I’m staving now, Erin.”

-Eating IN the fast food restaurant for lunch.

Eating inside a fast food restaurant kinda feels like a treat because you’re used to eating in your car.  Actually getting to not fear for your life (LOOK AT THE ROAD!) while enjoying these high-caloric treats adds another dimension to them.  The VP and I will try to chuckle off the mini-fight we just had, but we’ll both still be kinda annoyed with the other until one of us comes upon a V funny Instagram video to cut the tension.  Boom!  Back to enjoying junk food and thinking about how much fun this trip is gonna be.  Go through your Chic-Fil-A chicken nugget sauce too fast? Don’t even worry, we’re HERE!  YOU CAN JUST GO TO THE COUNTER AND GET MORE SAUCE!

-The After-Lunch Drive 

This can be a real slog.  Kinda’ shleepy cuz you got up super early and have proceeded to MASH carbs all day, so now you’re crashing.  You also don’t have another fun meal in your immediate future, so food-excitement-adrenaline ain’t coming to your rescue now.  This is the perfect time for good-times music.  I actually prefer to listen to Top 40 stations around this time because the music is usually upbeat, and I wanna know what young people are listening to so I can talk to them and sound cool.  (That SZA lady has some really jazzy tunes, am I right broskis?!?!)  The VP will probably try to put on The Beatles or some other very respected music that I know I’m supposed to love, but like…I just wanna listen to the rap guy who’s kinda scary (21 Savage).  

As we transition into the later afternoon, it’s podcast time.  This is when we’re going to listen to something that will make us feel smart, and we’ll probably text some friends IMMEDIATELY to let them know that we like to listen to culture-y stuff.  (Is texting and driving dangerous? Yes.  But, it’s also dangerous not to remind your friends that you’re smart.)  As we near dusk, it’s time to stop at a gas station for snacks.  SNACKS!  GUYS! SNACKS!

-Snack and Gas Stop

You probably don’t really need gas, and you’re not that hungry, but that gas station candy isn’t gonna eat itself.  Wanna know my trick? I’ll buy a water cuz hydration is healthy and I’m saving my tummy room for peanut M&Ms and Pringles.  Driving strength, guys.  Why Pringles? Because A) once you pop you can’t stop, and B) the pop can is perfect for between your legs while driving–like, the Pringles can engineers had to be thinking of drivers when coming up with that design.  The peanut M&Ms are a treat because it’s vacation and vacation is about TREATS!

The VP goes full-on trash mode at this point.  She’ll tell me she’s “not really that hungry” because she knows that I’ll tell her just to “get something in case”….like, in case we’re stranded in a ditch later and nearing starvation (it could happen!)  The VP knew she wanted a Slim Jim all along, but she just needed me to give her that little “what if we never see food again?”-nudge.  I got you babe.  She’ll probably get a tastier drink than me, like a blue Gatorade, that I’ll drink more of it than her because water is lame-o and the Gatorade cals don’t count for me cuz I didn’t buy it!

-Darkness falls and my eyes stink.

Once, after driving all day into night, The VP asked if I was okay when she saw me squinting and leaning forward over the steering wheel.  “I’m not kidding, but it looks like there is a dinosaur chomping down on the road up ahead.”  Evidently, I am NOT a good nighttime driver.  In an effort to avoid the common bridge/tyrannosaurus rex mix-up, we plan ahead now.  Once it turns dark out, I’ve got like an hour left TOPS before we’re pulling into that Holiday Inn.  Why doesn’t The VP take over driving at this point? Because I’m insecure in my masculinity sometimes and don’t want to be shown up by my wittle wife who is definitely a better road trip driver than me but…NO! IT’S HOTEL TIME!

-Hotel and Dinner Time

We pull into a random Holiday Inn and they’re serving nighttime cookies! We like to drop our bags and take a quick breather from all the…uh, sitting…that we’ve done all day.  I’ll probably look at some hotel brochure and get excited about the continental breakfast tomorrow morning.  OR!  If they have a pool, I’ll tell Erin that we should go swimming even though we definitely won’t.  We’ll probably sit in silence to text and go through our phones for about 24 minutes.  The room fills with the occasional chuckle, “what?”, “ah nothing,” as we properly decompress.   Then we’ll explore our surroundings in search of classier dinner fare.  (Chili’s? Yeah, Chili’s.)  The VP will ask me if she should change before we go out, and I’ll give her the “Uh, we’re going to Chili’s and will never see anyone we see tonight ever again”-look.  She’ll give a sly, yet thankful, smile (she knew that answer was coming) and we’re off.

This road trip is off to a great start.

OUR WORLD:

The Top Ten Best Things About a Hotel:

  1.  The pool.  (Even if you don’t swim in it, having to option to swim is invigorating.)
  2.  Not having to clean up after yourself.
  3.  The mini-fridge.
  4.  Hotel-workers treating you like royalty.
  5.  The free continental breakfast (it’s not that good, but I appreciate the effort and I convince myself EVERY TIME that it’ll be good.)
  6. The little coffee machine in your room.  (It looks new!)
  7. Free soap.
  8. Getting excited about watching cable shows that you haven’t watched in a while because they don’t have Netflix.  (Catching the random “Friends” episode on TBS is a RUSH!)
  9. The business center.  (I’m not going to use it, but I like knowing that I could take care of some business like a real adult if I wanted to.)
  10. Leaving and not telling anyone.  (I don’t check out. I just leave and feel like I’m on the lamb.)

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Indoor hotel pools are the best.

hotel pool.jpg

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Uh, Red Roof Inn? Get the fuck outta here.

red roof

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:

Listen guys, when you’re alone at a Holiday Inn in Rockford, you NEED to gamble on the Celtics-Jazz game.  Am I happy that I bet on the first half over of a regular season NBA game? Not especially, but I’m in this for the long haul.  Took about $30 in losses and it would’ve been worse if I didn’t BANG that second half over bet, so kinda’ feels like a win?  Yep, feels like a win.

(My account currently at $73.12)

K bye.