You know those couples that both have long hair that looks good when it’s dirty and greasy? They both wear headbands and cheap sunglasses that look cooler than your expensive ones and talk about all of their outdoor activities. Their instagram feeds are just nature pictures taken from the tops of places they had to climb and camp out on. In a t-shirt, you’d describe them as “wiry strong”, but they’re not too snotty to avoid cheeseburgers and hot dogs. They can’t talk to you about “Southern Charm” because they don’t own a television, but if you want to chat about some author that wrote some book about minimalism, they’re ready and willing. Sometimes, I get real jealous of those couples and try to force myself into thinking that I could pull off the “hot outdoorsy guy” thing. Unfortunately, after this weekend’s canoe trip that I forced the VP to join me on, it is now official that I can never be “hot outdoorsy guy”.
This is the second year that the VP and I joined a group of more outdoorsy people than we are (basically, everyone in the world) for a canoe trip along the Wisconsin River. I talked The VP into it last year by making the “let’s try something different!”-case, while secretly plotting it as my “hot outdoorsy guy” (H.O.G.) coming out party. A good friend of ours-let’s call him Bonesaw because that’s his actual nickname-who is taller and more outdoorsy than me (but, is he hotter?) was leading the trip and offered to lend us all the camping gear we would need. Not only that, knowing that we were relative nature rubes, Bonesaw took the lead in really setting EVERYTHING up for us. We were blessed with PERFECT weather, no bugs and Bonesaw setting up our tent, starting the fire and cooking the food. All I had to do was paddle our canoe, which was great because it left me more time to try to look HOT and OUTDOORSY. The VP and I did have to sleep on the ground because we didn’t bring any sort of mattress pad, but that was okay–it just gave H.O.G. Jimmy a little more street cred…or should I say, trail cred? We finished last year’s trip proud of ourselves and, yeah, probably a lot happy that it was over with.
Then a year passed, and Bonesaw sent out the “let’s do it again” e-mail. (Wait, but I thought I already proved that I was a H.O.G.?) When I brought it up to The VP, I could feel her waiting for me to give her an out. She had the “please don’t make me do this again”-face, but I wan’t budging. People, it seems, had yet to think of me as a true H.O.G. even after my one canoe trip where I didn’t really do anything. (The nerve!) Not to mention, over the past year, my Instagram feed has been seemingly taken over by H.O.G.’s who have yet to invite me into a private instagram group to talk about all the cool, outdoorsy things we’ve all been doing. (Seriously? Not one person asked you about the paddling in the 4 foot deep river you did a year ago? I know, I’m shocked too.) So I signed us up for Canoe Trip Round Two, and exaggerated how great of a time we had the year before to The VP. She didn’t want to go, but she never gave me an ultimatum, so I kinda’ played dumb and just made her do it. I recruited some other friends of mine pretty hard to join, but most of them had well-rehearsed excuses that left little room for follow-up questions. IT WAS AS IF THEY ALL KNEW I WAS GOING TO TEXT THEM! How did so many of my friends have weddings to go to that I wasn’t also invited to?!?! SOMETHING WAS UP!!! Fine! As long as we had Bonesaw doing everything for us, I’d be able to prove my H.O.G. worth through a barrage of social media posts when I returned. GET READY FOR SOME PICS OF RIVERS AND CANOES AND TREES AND ME LOOKING REALLY FUCKING HOT WHILE OUTDOORS!!!
We got up at 4:45 A.M. on Saturday so I could take a shower and make sure our cooler was stocked with sandwiches and pineapple because eating fruit is a BIG part of being an outdoorsman. Everybody knows this. The VP put a brave face on and told me she was “actually excited” a few times because she’s nice and supports my dreams, but also because she knew that if this trip was a disaster, she could hold it against me for a LONG time. The VP was playing chess when I was playing checkers, and I couldn’t respect that move any more. One time I went shopping with The VP and her cousin ALL DAY in downtown Chicago and remember thinking the whole time that she was going to owe me for this. I was going to owe The VP for this canoe trip. We got in the car for about a 3 hour drive, and The VP leaned back, put her hat on her face and immediately went back to sleep.
SO EXCITED TO TALK ABOUT OUR HOPES AND DREAMS AND FUTURE ON THE RIDE TO—Oh, you’re hat is on your face and you’re snoring. Okay, talk later.
As you can tell from this picture, the excitement in the car was palpable. I listened to some music and Howard Stern while The VP snored for the majority of the trip. She did wake up about halfway through because she smelled something…”Is that Chic-Fil-A?” she bellowed, as fumes from a nearby eatery slithered their way through her straw hat and into her nostrils. If you want to see The VP at her best, get a load of her approaching a Chic-Fil-A drive-thru. I’m pretty sure I could tell her I bought us a mansion on the water, and her face wouldn’t light up the way it does for chicken biscuit aromas. We got Chic-Fil-A and she went back to sleep. It was a wild ride.
We got to the car drop-off area early because H.O.G.’s are punctual. Yeah, you could say I was well on my way to reclaiming my status. Little did we know, however, that it had rained HARD for the past week in Wisconsin. And! I’m guessing you too didn’t know this, but mixing rain with woods and a river is nature’s way of attracting EVERY SINGLE MOSQUITO IN THE UNIVERSE. I stepped out of the car and into a mosquito soiree that I was NOT invited to. Sensing a stranger in their midst, the mosquitoes deployed their security detail on me; chewing up my legs and arms and face until I shrieked “I JUST WANNA BE A HOT OUTDOORSY GUY!!!” The VP watched in horror from inside the car. I held my hand up against the window, as if to say “I didn’t know it’d be like this, but I want you to know that I love you.” She touched my hand through the glass, but remained still. The deet was in the trunk, and the only way to get to the trunk was to join me in the ambush; a kamikaze mission, no doubt. As The VP contemplated, my arms began to tire from all the flailing, my legs began to shiver with itchies, and my mind began to wander….”is being a H.O.G. really worth it?”
-PART TWO COMING TOMORROW-
*TAKING A BREAK FROM THE OTHER SECTIONS TODAY. WHY? BECAUSE I CAN DO WHAT I WANT.
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?!?!
I didn’t drink yesterday! I’m planning to not drink today too!!! (Planning is an interesting word, Jimmy). Sobriety is one slippery serpent around summer holidays (and stressful workweeks, and Fridays, and Saturdays, and winter holidays, and football Sundays, and…people I work with/for may be reading this so GIVE IT A REST, PAL!) but that mutant Wednesday holiday was a real jolt to my drinking equilibrium. Is anyone REALLY mad if we just start celebrating Independence Day on the first Friday in July? Lets give everyone a 3 day weekend and cool it with the midweek hangover. Am I the only one who felt like last Wednesday was a test? Paranoid-Jimmy sensed judgmental bitches out in FORCE on Thursday, taking stock of everyone wearing sunglasses and eating McDonald’s out of paper bags in their cars while parked outside suburban dialysis centers (you just got too specific there, Jimmy. They know it’s you now). I could almost hear these people saying “I guess SOMEBODY couldn’t control themselves on a midweek holiday. REVOKE HIS ADULTHOOD CARD!” Before I go off into a real tangent, I would like to propose that all McDonald’s drive-thru attendants begin each order by telling the person in the car that “everything is going to be okay. Now, what can I get you?” The amount of anxiety those simple words would help ease in the world could lead to the end of anti-depressants ALL TOGETHER. Exaggeration? Well duh, but how many people going through the McDonald’s drive thru are really just searching for someone to tell them that “everything is going to be okay”? My educated guess would be 100%.
Now, to the issue at hand. Over the past week-ish, through observing and participating in some alcohol-fueled escapades, I’ve begun assembling a list of mistakes that all of us drinking folk make time after time after time. We’ll tell ourselves that we’re going to make sure we do this or make sure we don’t do that, and then we have beers and shots and FUN and start thinking “EVERYONE LOVES EVERYTHING I DO!” They don’t. My initial goal of this piece was to help us to learn and better ourselves, but I’m no fool. For the vast majority of us, this may simply be a therapeutic exercise in communal immaturity. Here are the drunk-person mistakes that all us drinkers make and will continue to make because drinking impairs our decision-making abilities. Or, as I like to call it, the first edition of the “Oh, I’m not the only who gets drunk and”-list of missteps.
Makes extravagant plans with friends about “finally putting a group trip together!” only to never talk about that trip until the next time you’re all very drunk.
I’ve agreed no less than 28 times to start planning a group trip to Michigan or Wisconsin or some other moderately priced, drive-able location while out drinking with friends. It always happens when someone in the group just got back from a trip. They have a tan and are happier/less stressed than normal because they just returned from “a relaxing few days.” Everyone around them is jealous and saying things like “but I wanna!” to their significant others. Natural progression includes the person who just returned from vacay proposing that the whole group goes to where they just were. “Yay!” is usually what I think and ALWAYS what the VP actually says out loud. Aside from the two friends at the bar thinking they’re taking “secret” shots even though everyone can see them, everyone agrees that this trip is something that MUST happen.
This is when trouble begins to arise. Who is going to take the lead on planning this? NOBODY in the entire universe wants that responsibility. Hey Friendo, when you’re done with work and walking your dog and paying your bills and cooking your dinner and doing your laundry and parking on the street in the city and going to the gym and apologizing to your wife for losing the iPhone charger, would you mind corralling a group of functioning alcoholics to all agree on which weekend they should all spend more than really want to, to go to some place in Wisconsin they haven’t been since they were children? TYSM!!!
So what ends up happening is…uh….nothing. And most of the time, honestly, I’m relieved. I have heard of people going on their phones while IN the bar and making reservations THAT NIGHT. While I applaud the immediate follow-through, I’ve gotta admit that if I were part of that group I would IMMEDIATELY start thinking of potential excuses to drop a week before the actual trip. Yes, friend trips are fun, but agreeing to spend a bunch of money while you’re already drunk and already spending a bunch of money at the bar? Folks, that right there is the origin story of most panic attacks for 30 year olds (surprised you didn’t know that. Also, if you’re over 30, like me, referring to yourself as a “30 year old” is a nice cheat-code to feel younger.)
Orders shots for all the people you’re with and immediately regrets having to pay $48 for 6 Fireball shots and a sure-fire hangover.
I love thinking about how shots must’ve been invented. You know some drunk guy named Terry was out one night thinking “I love drinking beer, but I want to get drunk faster. Liquor? Yeah, but I hate the taste. What if…someone could like shoot something into my mouth REAL quick to get me drunk and I could go back to drinking beer? SHOTS!” Once Terry’s friend, Lorenzo, heard of this idea he joined in the fray and asked the bartender to just add a bunch of sugar to his “shot” to also help mask the taste. Said bartender then, one late night, tired of feeling like candy dealer, put on a bowtie, grew a mustache and invented simple syrup. “It’s actually not sugar, it’s a cocktail ingredient known as simple syrup,” said the first ever douchey Mixologist. Boom, I just gave you the evolution of alcohol. (I have done no research into that, but I don’t want to know if it’s wrong. I don’t care what anyone says. No chance someone other than a dude named Terry invented shots. NOW GET BACK TO THE FUCKING POINT, JIMMY!)
The point is that now, age thirty tuoeiwe, shots are but an illicit daydream while out at the bar with friends. No one is really going to ask the crew if they WANT shots because nobody wants to be met with the “you have a problem, don’t you?”-looks. The way around this, however, is to just show up to the table with a tray of shots. It’s a risky move because the majority of the table is going to be pseudo-pissed at you, but that’ll fade. The people that are excited, though, will think of you as their Dark Knight of fireball for allowing them to use the “it would be rude NOT to take this”-excuse. In the words of Chief Gordon, the Dark Knight of Fireball endures the ridicule “Because he can take it, because he’s not a hero. He’s a silent guardian, a watchful protector, a Dark Knight.”
Are you, like me, one of these Dark Knights of Fireball? Let’s talk. Like me, I bet you told yourself before going out “no shots tonight.” I bet once you got to the bar and had a few POPS you started laughing and having an absolute ball. You’re doing some dance moves by yourself to the faint Top 40 songs playing on the speakers (excuse me DJ, can you please play some Steve Winwood? Yeah, I’ll settle for Katy Perry.) Next thing you know, you’re in the bathroom thinking to yourself “I’ve got my lady here, my friends here and just pulled off a killer flossing routine in the middle of the bar, how could this night get better?!?!” That’s when you slowly look up from washing your hands and catch yourself in the mirror…”Shots.” It’s exciting in the same way that the idea of smoking a cigarette is. (Look cool and get a little extra buzz in the process!)
You’re in full-on “ignoring consequences”-mode until directly after you put down the empty shot glass. Fireball isn’t cheap, but you can’t close out your tab right this second because…uh…I STILL WANNA HAVE FUN! So now you’re panicking as you run through all the times you bought fireball shots in the past trying to figure out how much it’s going to cost. The “oh no”-face begins to take hold of you, but you have to play it off when your wife asks if everything is okay because NOBODY likes the “can we split that tray of shots?”-guy. (Honestly, I’ve never seen one of the Dark Knights of Fireball ask to split the cost afterwards, but I’m POSITIVE they all think about asking.) So you’re now stuck in the bar trying to do math (legally impossible after beer #7) while pretending that you’re still having a good time. On top of that, you broke your “no shots” rule and you’re thinking about it now because panic spares no potential suitor. When it begins, the panic zombie-goblins come back to life and begin feeding on any potential fear-inducing topic. 2 hours later, when you finally do close out your tab and sign your check, you nearly hyperventilate while thinking about your bank account, tomorrow’s hangover, and how your pants are going to feel after you DEMOLISH late-night pizza. Everything is, most certainly, not okay.
Thinks that no matter where you are, walking home is a good idea.
I don’t care if I’m at a bar in the middle of the goddamn ocean, the second close out my tab I’m thinking “walkin’ time!” There are so many reasons for this, but the top one has to be that walking home allows for the possibility of stopping at a late-night eatery for some delicious delicious treats. (I’ve gotta do a list of “Best Late Night Eats” at some point.) Asking an Uber to go through a drive-thru includes feeling ashamed for involving a stranger in your excess (this is our little secret!) AND ALSO risks the driver messing up your order when he asks what he should say into the drive-thru speaker. If you’re walking, you get to play the “well, I mean, McDonald’s is right there” game of chicken with your spouse. Saying ‘no’ to McDonald’s after midnight is the type of self-control that is written about in books that smarter people than me read. Whenever I’m late-night walking with The VP and toss out the “McDonald’s?” she shrugs in an effort to mask how OVERWHELMINGLY EXCITED she is that I was the one to suggest it. (The Dark Knight strikes again).
Unfortunately, when you live in a city like Chicago, with tons of stories about drunk idiots (me? are you talking about me?) getting mugged, walking home is NOT. SAFE. When I’m going out without The VP, she actually makes me promise her that I won’t walk home. Little does The VP of Ops know that my toes are crossed when I make this promise and YOU CAN’T GET MAD ABOUT CROSSIES!!! YOU CAN’T! If I simply plan to speed-walk home while zig-zagging down the sidewalk, “tough to hit a moving target”-style, I should be fine (I’m legit V nervous that I just jinxed myself.) When I’m descending into panic-mode following my OUTRAGEOUS bar spend, skipping the $13 Uber ride is going to make me feel just a little bit better. And at that point of the night, every little bit counts!
Finally, I don’t care what kind of shape you’re in, everyone loves breaking into the “I just want to be home right this second”-drunksprint and we’re ALL convinced that our drunksprint is faster than any car ever put on this earth. The next “Fast & The Furious” movie should really be about dueling drunksprinters.
MY WORLD:
I’ve taken the last week off from working out because during my last run I felt some crazy pulling on my hamstrings. I told myself that I needed the rest, which I probably did, but I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t A BILLION PERCENT THRILLED to have a legitimate excuse to not go to the gym for a little while. The downside of this MANDATORY vacation, however, is the guilt associated following every meal. Some of the things I’ve considered to combat this fat-guilt I’ve been experiencing, include:
-Shaving my beard: Shaving makes your face look thinner. I’ve had a “beard” (stop laughing Dad!) for a few months now, so if I shaved it, I think people would be like “whoa, have you been losing weight?” Tricked ya!
-Cutting my hair: I need a haircut and have been wearing a hat for about 5 weeks straight now to hide this fact. Along the same lines as the beard thing, if I get a haircut, it could distract people from my widening torso. If I got a SUPER new haircut, like a buzz or one of those cool hipster/hitler-youth haircuts, people would def not notice that I’m wearing my “the diet is not going well”-jeans.
-Embracing being bigger: I just don’t think I’m tall enough to pull off “big guy”. It stinks because I feel like there are taller guys who are overweight, but they wear it well so they can just be “the big guy.” I wanna be “the big guy”! When I gain weight, I’m stocky and NOBODY wants to be “the stocky guy”. Is there any other way I can embrace the inevitability of getting bigger? I’m open to suggestions here.
LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
My Dad sent me the link to this song last week. I remember when I told people that I hated country music. I do not feel that way anymore. This song is fabulous.
LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
When you bring your car in for an inspection and the body shop guy comes into the waiting room because he “needs to talk to you about something.” GREAT!
JIMMY GAMBLES:
Been really up and down lately. Hit big on some World Cup bets last week but also learned the hard lesson that betting the moneyline in soccer means your team has to win by the end of regulation. I realized this while celebrating my Croatia “win” and assuring my gambling partners that Bovada must be malfunctioning because it hadn’t paid us out yet. After about 19 page refreshes, The VP googled “soccer gambling” for me and broke my heart while reading the moneyline regulation rules. If I would’ve known gambling involved reading and learning, I never would’ve gotten into it. Today I’ve got Belgium because I bet on them before the tournament started and don’t want to start rooting against them now even though I’m TERRIFIED of that fast French dude MBappe.
Was I the only one to mutter “fuck this world with my whole heart” this morning? My Monday morning routine has come to include vile self-talk followed by a sad march to make coffee before sitting on the couch and hugging my dog until she gives me the “are you actually about to start crying?” pull-away. (Are we sure that hugging your dog can’t turn back the clock until it’s Sunday morning again? BUT ARE WE SURE?!?!) It’s quite the scene in the Pomerantz household. (Household? You live in an apartment, pal. Quit fibbin!”) Now that I’ve finished shaking my head at nothing in particular, I’m ready to put my energy into finding perspective. This section is somewhat twisted. I’m aware that making myself feel better by thinking about the misfortune of others isn’t exactly the most noble of pursuits. GOOD THING I’M NOT NOBLE! Faithful readers, lets take a trip back to…the “At Least I Don’t Have To Do That”-Job list.
Biker Gang Organizer:
I was in the burgeoning metropolis of Rockford, Illinois for a work event at a big sports bar this Saturday. Unbeknownst to me, Rockford is home to large biker organizations (I don’t know if it’s a gang and if they read this and saw “gang” would they get mad and come find me? Oh who am I kidding? Bikers can’t read!) GANG! In the middle of my event, a biker GANG (still kinda’ scared…) pulled into the parking lot of the bar. This gang consisted of about 60ish large humans wearing leather vests and bandanas while sitting on OBNOXIOUSLY loud motor vehicles. The bar hosting my event was also the second stop on a Biker Bar Crawl. I felt so lucky! (Lucky? Or that feeling when you’re terrified and sad and annoyed at the same time but you act excited because the people around you think bikers are cool? Yeah, the second one.)
Once all of the “I’m tough because I bought a leather vest”-people had parked their bikes, however, a leader emerged. A fleshy fellow walked to the middle of the lot, did that super loud whistle thing where you put fingers in your mouth, and yelled to the crew “WHAT DOES SINGLE-FILE MEAN?!” I confidently raised my hand, but I guess I didn’t count. (Fucking bullshit.) If we’re being honest, he didn’t seem to genuinely care if people did know because he continued with his loathsome rant pretty quickly, “IT MEANS SINGLE FUCKING FILE!” Ohhhhhhhhh! But I thought, it meant…double….file. The gang looked to each other with knowing nods, shared some chuckles and said things like “I’m glad that Larry is so willing to share what he knows with the rest of us!” Seeing education live is inspiring.
But then I watched Screamy Larry head over to his clique for a few aggressive fist bumps and backpats. It was clear he was not the leader of the Biker Gang. Instead, he must’ve been the organizer guy; which makes sense because a Biker Gang leader doesn’t have to do stuff like look behind him while riding to make sure everyone is in single file. Jax Teller never looked back, only ahead (Sons of Anarchy reference. If you don’t get it, watch the show NOW.) So I started thinking how much it must SUCK to be the guy in the biker gang in charge of making sure they stay in single file while riding around towns. Further, there’s no way that the single-file thing is all Screamy Larry is responsible for, he must be like the Head of Organizing for the biker gang. So the screaming made sense. Can you imagine how frustrating it must be to have to organize a biker gang?!
Aside from the whole single-file fiasco, he’s probably in charge of: figuring out how much each biker owes when they go out for a big group lunch; making sure everyone has the right patch on their leather vest; scheduling the chores at the biker gang clubhouse; AND, Screamy Larry also probably has to keep track of all of the members’ birthdays, ensuring they don’t forget to sing “Happy Birthday” and have cake in the break room. Remember the time they forgot Knuckles’ birthday? Knuckles and Screamy Larry do. Simply can’t have that.
Today, when you’re staring at your computer screen while telling yourself not to say what you really want to say to your boss, be grateful that your job doesn’t entail having to send Venmo reminders to bikers who still owe from yesterday’s team lunch at Longhorn Steakhouse. Screamy Larry knows that half the gang doesn’t even have Venmo, but asking a biker, in person, for money is something he’s just not up for on a Monday.
Money People:
This is broad and general because the whole “money management” universe is foreign and supremely intimidating. I have friends and a brother who work in this world and I cannot imagine the stress of it. Heading to the office on a Monday in charge of managing someone’s retirement or life savings or couch change would fill me with the type of anxiety that necessitates a 3rd martini on a Sunday night (NEVER a good idea).
What do their voicemails sound like? “Hey Jimmy, Mr. Perrywinkle here, I saw a report on the news that the market is taking a dive. Is that the same market you just passionately convinced me to put my life savings into? Just checking, let me know!” There have to be calls like that, right? And then you’d have to call back to remind the person whose bank account you just decimated that the market is, ultimately, unpredictable. I’m sure they understand…
(I always feel impossibly ignorant when talking about money stuff….BUT LETS KEEP GOING!) When I see reports about the stock market doing well or not doing well or doing the same, I think to myself “that should probably interest me more than it does.” In reality, I’m just annoyed that the news put the ‘Market Report’ ahead of the story about ‘Chicago’s Best Mozzarella Stick.’ (The answer is “Roots Pizza” FYI. You’re welcome.) The money guys, though, probably feel their phones seizing during any report about THE MARKET. I can imagine a money guy or gal taking their dog for a walk on a nice day when, out of nowhere, their phone begins vibrating so much that it starts a mini friction-fire in their pants pocket. “Uh oh, THE MARKET!”
Aside from having to be the face of market fluctuations, Money people have to make a lot of spreadsheets and graphs and presentations to really smart people in suits about spreadsheets and graphs. Decimals and percentages and JESUS H. CHRIST it’s hard to breathe while wearing a tie in the summer. If I were a money guy, all of my presentations would just be titled “We Should Invest in ______ Because My Rich Grandpa Said We Should.” That would be the entire presentation, actually.
Rich Person’s Assistant
Most of us work in jobs where we’re surrounded by co-workers who earn about the same amount. Today, when you’re having a mild panic attack re: the $74 you spent on brunch yesterday, you can look to either side and see co-workers also nervously typing in their online banking passwords. The Monday money check is a trying time, but we’re all in it together. That is, of course, unless you work as a personal assistant for a super rich person. While you’re scrolling through the 14 separate charges from “Louie’s Pub” on your Chase Mobile App, your boss is tasking you with picking out a new Monday watch for him. “Something that’s not too flashy, but enough to where people will know that I use the word ‘summer’ as a verb.” That means the assistant gets to go into the jewelry store with a security guard!
Who do these assistants relate to at their job? Who is the friend they can pull aside for the “you know, I hate to complain, but…”-chats? The housekeeper’s are not on your side because they know that you get to ride in the fancy cars. You can’t whine to the spouse because YOU KNOW they’re just going to tattle on you the next time they feel like having a “you can trust me”-convo with your boss. The kids just think of you as the person who gets them the things they want. So you’re left to text your friends who are too busy pretending to not look at their phones on Monday morning. YOU ARE ALONE AND POOR IN A BIG, EXPENSIVE HOUSE! If I was a rich person’s assistant, I would have a designated time every Monday morning where I would just stare at a mirror while crying. I’d also probably steal little things like toilet paper and the little dog poop bags.
MY WORLD:
I’m a one-pair-of-jeans-for-6-to-8-months kind of guy, and it appears I am nearing the end of the road for my current pair of jeans. This always happens and it’s never not sad. The crotchal region of my jeans, having been stretched for months on end, begins to wear…and then a hole appears. This hole gets large quickly and I am forced to retire the jeans. My current jeans are hanging on by mere threads. Upon close inspection this morning, we’re looking at another 3.6 days tops. This means that for the next two weeks I have to wear pants that I don’t really want to be wearing. It also means that I will be a little depressed because as hard as I try, there’s no way around thinking that the jeans died because my thighs got fatter. If you happen to catch me staring down at my thighs over the next two weeks, do me a favor and feel free to mention that my legs don’t look chubbier than they did 6 months ago. A simple “it’s gonna be okay” would suffice too.
And you think you’re having a tough Monday.
LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
I’m seeing Dave Matthews Band this weekend and I am so excited I’m going to talk about it to strangers this week!
LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
When you get up at 4 A.M. on Monday morning and think “is it even worth it to try to go back to sleep?” Next time this happens to me, I may just buy a ticket to Yugoslavia and start a new life.
GAMBLING WENT HORRIBLY THIS WEEKEND, THANKS FOR ASKING! TURNS OUT, BLINDLY BETTING ON A SPORT YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT (SOCCER) IS NOT A RECIPE FOR SUCCESS. LIVE AND LEARN.
I’m close to being out on this season of The Bachelorette, guys. When the episode started last night, I was having too much fun cooking shrimp tacos and drinking a beer by myself in the kitchen that I just told The VP to let me know if anything crazy happened. The tacos were actually done and I just kept stirring the shrimps while sipping my DEEEELISH beer and making “AHHHH!” sounds after ever sip. After a few, “Oh my god”s coming from the living room, though, I felt it was my duty to soldier on through this episode (salute my sacrifice!) Unfortunately, after toughing my way through that 2 hours of GUCK, I felt even closer to being out. Let’s go over some reasons why:
1) Becca is the definition of “Meh”: The VP does not think she’s hot at all and I go back and forth on it. She dresses like a dickhead, and when Jimmy Fashion is calling out your outfit choices, you KNOW there’s an issue. We get it, you have a flat stomach. Now, how ’bout you act like the near-30 year old you are and wear a full shirt. (Grandpa Jimmy’s getting his gun! RUN!!!) Aside from debating about her looks (Which I didn’t even want to do because that’s superficial and stuff. The VP goes into mean-girl mode and drags me down with her. SHE MAKES ME DO IT!) She’s not interesting or funny or villainous or….ANYTHING EXCEPT “MEH”, though. Has she said anything that has made you close to laughing? She had the perfect opportunity to dunk on Jordan with a joke about his tinder stuff and, instead, she gave a super awkward, passive-aggressive high-five. Look, Jordan is a tool (I actually don’t totally hate him FWIW) but maybe Becca could break out something better than her best ABC Family joke? When she did that and then tried to calm Jordan down by saying “I was just trying to lighten the mood with a joke” I almost drove to the bazooka store to buy a bazooka5000 JUST to shoot my 11 year-old Vizio flat-screen to FUCKING BITS! Next time you’re trying to lighten the mood, make one person in the entire world at least chuckle.
I also think that Becca took acting classes taught by a former construction worker recovering from the “look out for that huge steel beam!”-moment. Are producers telling her to ham up every minor difficulty? Sure, but that’s where anyone who ISN’T an AWFUL actress, just bites their lip and shakes their head while saying “I just don’t know…” Becca, on the other hand, tries to force tears any chance she gets while saying things like “I have nothing left.” She actually said “I have nothing left” when Clay told her he had to leave the show. Really Becca? Clay, while a nice enough dude, was about as charismatic as a used paper towel and had ZERO chance of actually winning this show. Walgreens not having your favorite flavor of KIND Bars is more emotionally devastating than Clay leaving the show. Meanwhile, Becca is clawing near her eyes to wipe away her nonexistent tears. I’m no eye-makeup expert (please do not bring up my college emo phase thx!) but if a woman who wears GOBS of eye-makeup, like Becca, started crying, wouldn’t SOMETHING run down her cheek? IT’S LIKE SHE TAKES US FOR FOOLS!
2) Who are we supposed to be rooting for? I think the answer to this question is Colton, but how hard can you root for a virgin football player? (Jesus, Jimmy’s banging on the virgin again….YOU BET I FUCKIN’ AM!) Seriously, you’re one WHOPPER of a DOOF if you can’t parlay being in the N-F-FRIGGIN-L into one. sexual. encounter. Lying about playing HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL got me laid; this dude has NFL YouTube highlights and can’t get past first base with Tia. I’m sorry, but when you’re a guy who’s just a little too sweet and nice and cute…you enter into Creepsville. Colton seems to be on a mission to Creepsville, USA.
So who else? Garrett? Oh, you mean the douche who supports the theory about David Hogg and the Parkland students being crisis actors? Yeah, I’m gonna pass on this Alex Jones fanboy. If you haven’t read up on the tweets and instagram posts that Garrett liked, do yourself a favor and google it. The VP had tried telling me about it throughout the first few episodes but I wanted to ignore it because trashy TV isn’t supposed to be political! But…uh….this dude is just an asshole. In a sick way, I’m hoping he wins and Becca has to spend the entire reunion show explaining how she doesn’t support making fun of the trans community, tossing immigrant children over a wall, and bullying high school kids who had their friends murdered in front of them. Because Garrett, that fun-loving, gun-toting outdoorsman who just wants to show Becca a good time, enjoys all of those things. Who else would love getting to see Chris Harrison squirm as he asks Becca what she thinks of Trump’s barbaric immigration policies? (Here’s a link to the tweets/instagram posts that Garrett liked: https://twitter.com/AshleySpivey/status/999755526257954816/photo/1)
The one guy who is worthy of rooting for is the stuntman Leo (SWOON ALERT!). The dude with the preposterous hair who makes me laugh in his 48 seconds of weekly screen time, however, has about the same chance of winning as my great great grandfather which is funny because HE’S DEAD! (Yikes, that was dark.) Barring another “he fell off the top bunk”-situation, the final 3 look to be Garrett, Colton, and Blake. A triumvirate better known as “Who gives a shit?”
3) The villains aren’t “villain-y” enough: The VP does seem to genuinely hate Jordan, but how seriously can you hate a guy who talks the way he does? His whole “my professionality is my personality” diatribe was just plain silly. The guys around him were kinda laughing and that’s not what villains engender. You remember Chad? Guys were peeing their pants around him because he was so scary. If one of them would’ve made the “I’m trying not to laugh”-face that all the dudes were making during Jordan’s spat, Chad would’ve torn their heads off their necks and snacked on their brains. LITERALLY, GUYS! And Jordan’s nemesis is weasel-faced David who isn’t coordinated enough to SLEEP without sending himself to the ICU. Also, real quick real quick, in the history of “The Bachelor” and “The Bachelorette” has a tattle-tail ever won? When David ran to tell Mom, I mean Becca, about Jordan’s tinder stuff he might as well have just left the house. Is Jordan a tool? Of course. But, David is a rich kid with that permanent “You obviously don’t know who my father is”-smirk. Did you see any of the SNL skits this year where they’d have Don Jr. and Eric Trump acting like petulant, idiot babies? DAVID IS THE SNL-EXAGGERATED VERSION OF ERIC TRUMP:
If you want me to hate a character, as ABC obviously does with Jordan, you’ve gotta give me a better adversary than the “where are the railings on the top bunk?”-guy.
MY WORLD:
I went to kind of a club place a couple weekends ago, and I think I’m a club-guy now! (Jimmy NOOOOO!!!!!) Let me know explain. The VP had some super cool Southern friends in town (Southern girls > Northern girls. FACTS ONLY IN THIS BLOG!) and they wanted me to meet up with them after a work thing I had. It wasn’t just me and the gals as there were some boyfriends there too (don’t hate the juicy goss I get to hear when it is just me and the gals TBH) but they were at some place in downtown Chicago I had never heard of. Place I haven’t heard of PLUS downtown Chicago definitely means it was clubby. Knowing this, I decided NOT to change my outfit following my work thang. This meant that I showed up to a club in dirty shorts that are no less than 7 years old, high-socks, gym shoes, and a backwards hat. The VP was mortified. My entrance was a success.
Being the worst dressed male on the disastrously douchey rooftop, and making The VP incredibly uncomfortable in the process, turned into the most fun I’ve had in a club maybe ever? Looking like a high school gym teacher in a sea of hair gel and vodka sodas wasn’t enough for me, though. I would only be drinking canned beers and would NOT be shy about throwing out some painfully uncoordinated “sway-like” dance moves while standing next to The VP. Whenever I’d feel her getting some separation from Coach Me, I’d throw my chin up in the air and belch out a thick Chicago-accented “hey babe, where you going?!?!” I never call her “babe” and I never talk in a thick Chicago accent. I was on a mission to be THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE of every other guy on that rooftop.
While some may say this whole charade was simply a weak attempt to mask my insecurities, I would say…yeah, that’s probably right. In all likelihood, I was in the bottom 11% of guys on that rooftop in terms of looks and bank accounts. If I’m being completely SUPREMELY honest, there were some guys up there who I’m pretty sure were male models. They were tools, but one of them danced with a friend of The VP and all I could think was “thank God, Captain Delicious didn’t ask The VP for a dance” because he was way bigger and better looking than me. If, after a few “hey, I’m just casual”-canned beers, Captain Delicious would have hit on The VP, I would’ve said something like say “Hey…can you not do that?” while simultaneously praying that this dude didn’t feel like showing The VP how far he could throw me. Thankfully, the adonis I referred to in my head as “Captain Delicious” danced with The VPs friend a few yards away from me; allowing me to whisper cutting remarks about his DUMB HAT in the VPs ear. Yeah, I’m one tough hombre.
Following this near-death experience, though, I went back to making The VP uncomfortable while earning a beer buzz in a place known for low-cal libations. The music was silly and thumpy, but different enough that me yelling “how about some Incubus?!?!” at the DJ earned a few chuckles. (Real talk: who wants to open an Incubus-only bar with me? Incubus on the speakers, and a menu that only consists of nachos and cheap whiskey shots. GET READY FOR FUN!) Clubs are supremely uncomfortable for non-douchebags when they’re single. However, 6 years later, when these non-douchebags are now married, clubs are a bastion of inadvertent comedy. Now that I’m married and in my 30s, I’m a club guy. CATCH ME ON THE DANCE FLOOR!
LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
Getting a chocolate chip cookie from Potbelly at lunch because it’s your birthday week and calories don’t count that week.
LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
Getting sleepy at work 2 hours after you ate a massive sandwich and chocolate chip cookie from Potbelly during your birthday week.
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.
Can we cool it with the crying, guys? Last night’s episode of “The Bachelorette” was embarrassing for men everywhere. EVERYWHERE. From Lincoln crying about his picture with Becca being tossed into the pool, to that Southern NOBODY making an ALL-TIME cry-face after he got booted, last night may go down in history as the night millennial’s ruined manhood in America. This episode, though, was about one thing and one thing only: Lincoln taking the crown of “Biggest Wuss in America”
I’m all for a sensitive moment, here or there, but how come every goddamn moment in this show has to be the guy proving to Becca that he’s capable of embarrassing his grandfather? Let’s try to go through this as best as I can remember, because I am NOT going to rematch that atrocity to make sure I get the sequencing right (I HAVE WORN A TIE 4 TIMES IN THE PAST YEAR FOR CHRISSAKE!!!)
The Lincoln Crying Part
First off, Linocln’s accent really does sound like he’s a community theater actor trying WAY too hard. Now when the episode started and you saw guys acting excited about “being pampered” by getting to put on tuxedos, we all should’ve known that this was the start of something epically embarrassing. What guy gets his rocks off by drinking champagne and trying on tuxedos? That’s a fun date for a guy? Guess I’m more of a loose cargo shorts and chicken fingers kinda’ guy (SWOON ALERT! Also, I don’t really wear cargo shorts anymore, but I miss the times when I did.) Here’s an idea: let’s drink something that no man ACTUALLY likes while wearing clothes that make you feel like your entire body is choking. WAIT, DO WE GET TO DRINK CHAMPAGNE IN TUXEDOS?!?! AND THESE DUDES WERE ACTING LIKE IT WAS CHRISTMAS MORNING. Once I saw this, I turned to the VP with a “something is afoot”-look. She knew too.
Following this misplaced excitement, Chris Harrison and the GENIUS producers threw a twist in: obstacle course time. Guess what, Champagne Papi’s? TIME TO GET MESSY! YOU’RE GONNA HAVE TO CRAWL THROUGH MUD! They should’ve made the obstacle course ACTUALLY difficult and had them run up to a family member who fought in a war and then have to explain how much they enjoyed the champagne and fashion show. “Hey Grandpa Bill, remember that time you told me about you hunting Nazis in the middle of the night when you were 19? Well, I don’t mean to show you up, but I’m 26 and just cried because I got to try on a tuxedo.” COOL!
Lincoln “won” this obstacle course because he cheated. Two questions: 1) What in the LIVING FUCK was Chris Harrison doing? Was he too busy preparing to remind all the guys that one rose left on the table means that “this is the final rose” to, I don’t know, POINT OUT BLATANT CHEATING? This should’ve been Chris “The Captain of I-Have-Done-Nothing-Meaningful-With-My-Life Mountain” Harrison’s shining moment as he swooped in with a hand in Lincoln’s cheating-ass chest to push him back to the ice tub. But no. Yet again, Chris Harrison’s inactivity reminds us that he’s television’s most useless human being. The person who refill’s Hoda Kotb’s backstage wine during “The Today Show” contributes more to the success of that show than Chris Harrison does to this.
SECOND QUESTION: None of the guys throw a John McEnroe type fit about this cheating? They just take it like the losers they are. This was the perfect set up for a star-making comedy turn if one of these guys would’ve lost their mind. Maybe they get kicked off the show, but at least they’re known as the funny guy who stands up for FAIRNESS! If it were me, I would’ve taken my shirt off, lit it on fire and whipped it around my head while screaming “WE LIVE IN A SOCIETY BASED ON RULES!!!!”
Later that night, Lincoln and his mood ring of an accent got all emotional when Becca gave him a picture of him with her after the obstacle course “victory.” Him pretending that this was meaningful almost caused me to punch myself IN THE FUCKING FACE. “Oh, a picture from earlier today…sweeeeeet….” Nope, this dumbass picture was enough for Lincoln to declare this as “the best first date” of his life. OUCH, BRO. VERY OUCH. How do you think the “second best first date” of Lincoln’s life went? The girl kick him in the nuts and staple a “I have no real friends” sign to his forehead? (“Yes, that girl did fire a staple into my forehead, but my Aunt bought me this ice cream cone so, all in all, it was a pretty good night.”-Lincoln re: the second best first date of his life, as blood pours from his forehead onto his vanilla ice cream.)
The episode really kicked into overdrive, though, once Fitness Coach Connor (I said I’m not a trainer!) tossed the framed photo of Lincoln and Becca into the pool. I actually respected the move at the time. This group of dudes was WAY overdue for a meathead moment, and this was kinda’ close to that. I was in. But then Lincoln tattled to Becca which eventually led to Connor giving a HEARTFELT APOLOGY. WHAT?!?!?!!? Once Connor found out that Lincoln ran to Becca to cry about that dumb picture taking a dive, he should’ve gone to the nearest gun store to buy a sawed-off JUST so he could put it to Lincoln’s head. “Now Lincoln, you’re gonna be a good boy and go back to Becca to tell her that you dropped the picture in the pool and that your good friend Connor dove in to pick it up for you.” I’ve decided that firearms need to be introduced to this season of “The Bachelorette”.
Instead, though, Connor forced up some “that’s not me”-type apology re: the picture in the pool. If you weren’t yelling “oh give me a fucking break!” at your television by this point, we may be different species. Not only that, but that apology WASN’T ENOUGH FOR BECCA. She still had to throw the “I just need some time” at Connor. Some time for what? To remember that grown man Lincoln ran to you like a teacher at recess? Hey Becca, is that the kind of guy you want to BE THE FATHER TO YOUR CHILDREN?!?!?!
Lincoln wasn’t done, though. Nope. No way. The next morning, while recounting this picture in the pool situation, he started crying in front of a group of guys that weren’t there. This was the most unbelievable crying situation I’ve ever seen. UN. BE. LIEV. ABLE. A 26 year-old man who is built like a friggin’ adonis just cried in front of a group of guys about a picture of him with a girl he had spoken MAYBE 4 sentences to in his entire life. You know the Starbucks barista you’ve seen a few times? Now imagine being surrounded by a bunch of strangers, all guys, and crying about a picture of you and that Starbucks barista that was tossed into a pool. “She always put just the right amount of foam on top of my latte!” During this whole scene, I was DYING for one of these guys to go into straight-bully mode: point at Lincoln, laugh like any movie villain EVER, and try to stuff him in a closet somewhere in that big, dumb house. If you showed a video of this scene during an Anti-Bully rally, you’d see the entire crowd shrug like “are we sure we don’t want ANY bullies?”
If you still think that guys with muscles can’t be ALL-TIME-WIMPS, I would like to introduce you to Bachelorette Lincoln, “The Biggest Wuss in America”.
A QUICK JIMMYSCHAIR SUGGESTION IN LIEU OF A “MY WORLD”:
The pilot episode for “Succession” on HBO was one of the best pilot episodes I have seen in a while. Terrific acting plus solid writing equals ME LIKEY. If you’re looking for a new show to get into, “Succession” has “You’re going to talk to your friends about this”-written all over it. Supposedly, other reviews said the episode was “boring.” Too bad those other reviews are stupid and should be IMMEDIATELY redacted because that is PATENTLY WRONG. It’s funny and smart, and if you don’t think Brian Cox is the best “angry old-guy” actor going, you need to get your head out of the sand, pal!
LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
I like this remix because I’m YOUNG!
LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
Supposedly, this guy saw this kid messing with a bunch of cars in the parking lot, and tried to put a stop to it. Aside from hating this kid, the reason I hate this video is that there wasn’t some other kid to act like a hero by jumping in with a tire iron to WHOMP this little brat. If we’re being totally honest, I would’ve been fine if this adult threw this kid into an active volcano, but I don’t think I can totally advocate for that in a public forum such as this. If, however, someone the same age as this kid, showed up with a home-run swing and a rusty tire iron, we’d all be happy, right?
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.
If you are looking for a way to guarantee waking up in an AWFUL mood, I would suggest breaking your air conditioning unit on the first hot day of the year and trying to sleep when it’s 80 degrees in your apartment. Thankfully, I, personally, don’t have to break my air conditioning unit because The VP and I are lucky enough to rent an apartment that SUPPLIES malfunctioning units without us even having to ask for it! It’s almost as if the landlord read our minds when we signed our lease “I bet these two LOVE when the AC doesn’t work and they get to break a sweat while lying in a bed…oh, have I got a surprise for them!” Well done on keeping that surprise a secret for 8 months!
Honestly, it’s hard to overcome a shitty night of tossing and turning in your own sweat. I got up at like 3AM just to stand in front of my open refrigerator. And you know what makes me feel even softer, is that it wasn’t THAT hot outside. Unfortunately, we cooked last night (resourceful adults, whatever) and used our oven. It was only after dinner when we realized that the AC wasn’t working. So we basically hotboxed ourselves/turned our apartment into a makeshift sauna (hotbox is a weed smoking term that I have never done but it sounds SCARY!) Let me be the first to warn you guys, cranking your oven up on a hot night and turning your 1 bedroom apartment into a homemade sauna is NOT going to relax your muscles.
Then, as if it wasn’t bad enough on us, our numba one pretty gurrrrllll was panting because she’s overdue for a summer cut because we’ve been lazy dog parents lately; so I felt hot AND guilty. If Belle could read this, I feel like she’d roll her eyes and say something along the lines of “YOU were hot? Try wearing a full-body fur suit and only getting to cool of with room temperature water in a dirty bowl. Pussy.” (She would be correct.) I will say that last night, I put some ice cubes in her water bowl and felt like the hero she deserved; she took sips and huffed out a very sarcastic sounding “woof.” So now my dog and I are in a fight.
Then comes the part where I let my building know (are you bored with this yet? Yeah? I don’t care, this is somewhat cathartic for me so just leave. You wanna leave?!?! WHO’S STOPPING YOU?!?!? GOD I’M IN A MOOD!) Where was I? (Thanks for interrupting!) Right, so then comes the part where I let my building know and I get to hear back from like 7 different guys who must ALL have degrees in “Trying To Hide The Fact That I Have No Idea When The HVAC Guy Is Coming.” Then. THEN! When they do actually get here, I have to lock Belle in our bedroom and convince the HVAC repair people that she’s not able to bulldoze through the door to maul them because she sounds like a PSYCHOKILLER LUNATIC! I’ll make some “doesn’t she sound sweet?” jokes, but they won’t really laugh because hearing what sounds like your maker on the other side of a thin bedroom door does not create a fun-loving atmosphere. And you know they’re not going to be able to fix it the first time they’re hear, so The VP and I are looking at 2 more nights MINIMUM of trying to sleep in our own sweat. Isn’t that just GREAT?!?!
Knowing me, I’m going to convince myself that this awful night sleep that I got is a valid excuse to eat something really shitty for lunch; an effort to make myself feel better in the short term. This will, undoubtedly, lead to me feeling extra tight in my new J.Crew jeans and hating myself for the rest of the afternoon. Optimism is at an all-time low in the Pomerantz household right now. (If you can’t tell, one of my strong suits is staying composed in adverse situations.)
OUR WORLD:
Today’s Part II of “The Life of a Chicago Renter” may have a slight edge to it based on my current mental state (re: My World). I just wanted to put that on the record because…nobody cares about the record and whenever anyone says that it’s basically an excuse to act however you want. Right? It’s the same as saying “That being said…” and along the same lines as “No offense, but…”
Wicker Park/Bucktown/Logan Square: (Age 28-32)
I like to refer to this as the “I’m not a hipster, but if I live near them I may get hit with some of their street-cred shrapnel”-phase. You start to become more interested in drinking things other than beer and vodka sodas, and you’re DONE living in places with window-units and no dishwasher. These west-side HOT SPOTS have exploded in popularity over the past decade, which means what? GRANITE COUNTERTOPS Y’ALL!!! And in-unit washer/dryers, dishwashers and fancy modern sinks. A big bowl sink feels like luxury when you’re used to decades worth of Heineken stains in your old-timey sink with the faucet that pops off.
There are more dog parks, so now is the PERFECT time to get a doogenstein and join the “I’m sorry, she was adopted”-crew. Side note: whether you actually adopted your dog or not, the perfect excuse for a poorly behaved dog is to drop a “yeah, she was adopted” in there. Immediately, you’re a selfless hero and your doogensteeglestein is a victim of a rough upbringing. Once in Wicker/Buck/Logan, you’re surrounded by young families, dogs and people that aren’t quite done partying, but do it in a way that it’s not SO obviously destructive. They’re professionals by this point, which is why brunch becomes SUCH deal. Nothing like hiding binge drinking with eggs and toast; it’s not destructive or a “problem” if it’s done in the light at a breakfast table. Remember that.
Then there’s the hipster versus bro civil war that has been simmering for the past 5 years as the bros have infiltrated hipster-land. What’ll probably happen with you, is what happened with me; you’ll claim allegiance to the bro side of the war when you’re around your bro-ier friends, and then you’ll claim allegiance to the hipster side of the war when you’re around your hipster-ier friends. No shame in playing both sides here because both sides kinda stink equally. It’s also fun to sit in restaurants and bars and see the two sides glaring at each other from across the bar. The hipsters say things like “wow, sweet khakis bro” and the bros say things like “wow, sweet fingerless gloves pal”. It’s a duel totally devoid of actual wit, that’s easy to identify and fun to watch.
I’m 32 now and I live in Ukrainian Village. That’s really all the experience I have so…I assume I’ll just stay here till I die, right?
Good section, Jimmy!
LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
I need some good-times music to help make me feel better about the whole AC sitch. SING TO ME STEVE!
LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
Being in a bad mood for a reason so slight that anyone going through anything that’s ACTUALLY difficult would hate you.
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 talked my gambling crew out of taking the Pelicans last night because I was POSITIVE the Warriors would blow them out with Steph Curry returning. It seems, in the face of all the evidence I had, I have yet to crack the NBA code. Back to the drawing board, but I’m like that little kid in the deep end who’s about to panic that they’re drowning. Give me some fucking waterwings or something here! The Jazz are 11 point underdogs tonight and, they have more pride than that. Right? So much pride to take them on the moneyline? YUP!
A lot of people are moving. Okay, end of blog! (Sorry, but someday I’m just going to write a one sentence blog and that sentence is going to be general and bland. I will do it for the sole purpose of making myself laugh. I look forward to that day.) But I am seeing a lot of people in my apartment building and on Facebook who are moving, and it got me to thinking that the life of a Northside Chicago renter, is somewhat universal. Obviously, these are gross generalizations, but there seems to be a neighborhood progression with age that most of my friends have gone through. The Life of a Northside Chicago Renter, goes like this:
Wrigleyville: (Age 22-24)
This is the “I’m out of college but not done acting like I’m still in college”-phase. Wrigleyville is a mess of old apartment buildings with window units and wooden floors that have been ravaged by years of inadvertent beer spills. When you’re in college, Wrigleyville is what you think of as “Chicago city living”, though. Do you remember watching Cubs games growing up and thinking about how jealous you were that people actually got to LIVE by that stadium?!?! You’re basically a Cubs player if you live there, is how young Chicagoans’ brains work.
Then you go to college, learn how to blackout on a regular basis and start telling people that you’re never going to change because you “like to have FUN!” So when you graduate, moving to Wrigleyville is the only place you can continue the random Tuesday night blackout in a crowded bar (if you try to do this in a River North bar, you will be the only one there and the bartender will, most likely, ask “are you sure you want another? It’s Tuesday.”) This coincides with prime serving and bartending ages and, as I can attest, restaurant worker “weekends” happen most every night.
Coming from dorm and college apartment life, these creaky Wrigleyville dungeons don’t seem half bad, and a lot of your friends are going to be close by so…again…you’re basically still in college. As you get into the end of year 1, though, you’ll start to realize that living in Wrigleyville kinda’ stinks. Parking is an ISSUE at all times. The restaurants are equipped to feed an entire drunk baseball stadium spilling into the streets, so quality isn’t their first priority. The heating units/radiators sound like they’re screaming in the winter (literally, imagine a high-pitched cat hiss) and it always gets WAY too hot, but it’s too cold to open a window so you’re just left in temperature no-mans land. Thankfully, you’re probably drunk, so passing out isn’t too big of a problem.
Lakeview: (Age 24-25)
As you start to get a little more established in your job, or actually get your first 9-5 job, there comes a time when you need to prove to your family that you have move past the Wrigleyville phase of your life. Honestly, it’s more symbolic than anything. You’re still going to show up hungover to most weekend family functions, but at least this time you can say something like “I moved to Lakeview because I just couldn’t take the Wrigleyville crush anymore.” What you don’t realize, though, is that your parents are WELL AWARE that Lakeview is basically one block south of Wrigleyville so….you’re basically still there.
The apartments are a hair cheaper and a very thin hair nicer (yeah, like the one’s on the crown of my head…that hurt my feelings). You’ve probably gone from living with 3 people, to living with 1 or 2 people and it’s no longer ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY to have a ping pong table room (don’t worry, you’ll still have a bunch of friends who feel differently). But you’ll start getting back into the gym and eating a little better during the week, and the weekday binge drinking will slow…a teeny tiny bit.
Then, near the end of your lease, you’ll leave a Mexican restaurant that just served you pre-packaged margs and lukewarm tacos and it’ll hit you: “Lakeview is purgatory!” It’s the waiting room with dull art on the walls between college life and adulthood. It’s removed from Wrigley so it’s not as fun as college, but it’s still riddled with dumpy apartment buildings and mediocre restaurants so it’s not a nice as real adulthood can be. (Caviar! Diamonds! Hair Product!) The older friends you have around the city NEVER come to Lakeview to meet up because “nah, just come here”, and your younger siblings think all the bars in Lakeview are bland…because they are.
Lincoln Park: (Age 25-27)
Lincoln Park is cool. There’s a zoo and a college and good restaurants and a park. For the first time since high school, you won’t be surrounded by dumpsters with window units. It’s a lovely mix of UBER ritzy buildings, decent apartments for young professionals and a few dumpster units for the DePaul students who are too cool to stay in the dorms. I think this is when most legitimate dating happens because there are actually decent restaurants in Lincoln Park too. Hard to call chicken fingers and 19 beers at Sluggers a great way to start a long-lasting, trustworthy relationship.
I will warn you, however, that the zoo is a big draw to Lincoln Park, but if you actually go there, be prepared to be depressed. Going to a zoo as an adult is one of the worst realizations of getting older. THEY’RE SO DEPRESSING! Who knew that standing with screaming toddlers and professional nose pickers while watching WILD ANIMALS pace a habitat smaller than your deck was going to make you sad?!?! SHOCKING! Also, somehow, the ice cream that you were thrilled to get as a kid at the zoo is now…like, warm. It’s still congealed, but when you bite into it, amazingly, it’s kinda warm. One of the most off-putting experiences is eating warm ice cream that’s not dripping. HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN!?!?!
Thankfully, the restaurants are good enough to help you forget how sad that gorilla sitting behind plate glass is. (Am I the only one who hopes to hear about a story where a gorilla breaks through the glass, starts body slamming only the annoying little kids and starts an ape uprising? If that happens, I can point to this blog to prove my support and, therefore, be one of the few humans spared. *Dunk sounds*) Real quick, here are my favorite Lincoln Park restaurants:
Cafe Ba Ba Reeba
Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinders
Geja’s
Summer House
The Athenian Room
*STAY TUNED FOR PART II OF “THE LIFE OF A CHICAGO RENTER” TOMORROW*
MY WORLD:
Today, I have a quick story about “A Time I Made Myself Laugh By Making The VP of Ops Mad or Uncomfortable.” Well, it’s actually more an ongoing joke than a story. You see, The VP of Ops went to Mississippi State University and talks about how it took her 5 years to graduate because she was such a good times gal (my kinda gal, na’m sayin’?) She’ll retell stories about her 5th year, I think, in an effort to get ahead of anyone who may make some sort of “you’re an idiot”-joke in her direction. Which I am all for because, guess what idiot, The VP is NOT an idiot and I know this because I have seen her read over 3 books! (Jimmy Fliparooski in the building y’all!)
What I will say, though, is that I have never actually seen a physical copy of her Mississippi State diploma. These two eyes have never even been treated to a picture of said diploma. Does it exist? Probably? But, this game of diploma hide-and-seek has gone on for years now and, in the process, has left open the door for one of my favorite jokes. Whenever the VP talks about graduating college, I’ll drop in a nonchalant “so you say,” or say the word “supposedly” while throwing up exaggerated air quotes, or I’ll just ask the person she’s talking to “have you seen her diploma? I haven’t. I’m just curious if someone in the universe has.” The VP of Ops has a difficult time finding the humor in these little jabs; much the way she has a difficult time finding the copy of her Mississippi State diploma. (If I knew how to type out the emoji of the guy holding his hands up like “what?” I would insert that here.)
LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
Anyone with me and think that the frozen shot idea from Tom Schwartz in last night’s “Vanderpump” finale was actually a really good idea? Is he a legit good bartender? I SAY YES!
LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
How did they not show any of the following in last night’s “Vanderpump Rules” finale:
Scheana getting dumped by Rob. NEED TO SEE THAT.
Video evidence that James DID hook up with Kristen in Mexico. That 100% happened.
ANY VISUAL EVIDENCE OF LALA’S MAN. Seriously, if you’re a producer on the show, how do you not say “if we can’t put him on air, you’re off the show”?
All in all, a lackluster finale.
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 did not bet last night because I’m saving my strength. My bud told me that the Bears over/under win total for next year, though is currently at 6.5. IMMA HAMMER THAT OVER!
A couple days ago I wrote about “Single Jimmy” and posted a blurry picture of myself on Instagram. I would like to tell you the origin story of this picture.
I was working as a 21 year-old MANAGER! at an Italian-ish restaurant in a Northern suburb of Chicago. I had been there for about a year and a half; quickly climbing the mom-and-pop-restaurant ladder going from carry out to server to manager in the blink of an eye! To this day, many people still speak of how quick my ascension to MANAGEMENT was (they don’t? Are we sure? Well, how many people have you asked?) REGARDLESS! Throughout these two years, I would work full time and go to college full time by scheduling all of my classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. On those days, classes would basically go from 9am to 10pm, which would allow me to work the other 5 days of the week at the restaurant.
–QUICK ASIDE, I’m going to call the restaurant “Casa’s House” because that’s an inside joke to the people that have worked there, but NOT the actual name of the restaurant (this Jimmy’s a real huckster, if you ask me.)—
I tell you about this schedule not to brag about my work ethic (even though you MUST be impressed) OR make you feel bad for me, but to illustrate that my ENTIRE social life was also wrapped up in this restaurant. And that was a great thing! It was the first place I felt part of a solid group of friends and it helped me regain some of the confidence that was lost during the “No really, I like eating lunch alone in the library!”-high school years. By the time I became MANAGER! at “Casa’s House” I had even dated a waitress (a relationship that didn’t work out for some reason that I’m sure had nothing to do with my claims that her therapist was “out to get me.”) With confidence now above negative 3 trillion (the High School low water mark), I had developed a crush on another co-worker, lets call her “Larry” so when the VP of Ops asks me about this story, I’ll laugh when she gets jealously scoffs “Who was this LARRY girl?!?!”. LARRY was younger and better looking and more popular than me, BUT I tricked myself into thinking I had a chance with her because I was now a MANAGER! (Did I mention I was a manager?)
As anyone who has worked in restaurants knows, the best time to make a move on a work-crush is at a company get-together because it’s WAY TOO SCARY to just ask them out on a date. So I spent the first few months of Larry’s employment trying to organize group outings after every shift we worked together. “Guys, we are SO OVERDUE for a Tuesday-hang!”-would be something I said around this time. Then, I’d turn to Larry and be like “Oh Larry, I forgot you were even working tonight. Would you like to join us? Not like I care or anything, but like, ya know, whatever.” (You could say, I knew how to play hard to get.) Most of these NOT-OBVIOUS-AT-ALL attempts to hang with Larry ended with me going to a local dive bar with everyone but Larry, but there were a few times she’d come by and we’d flirt. She was about to start college, so I could kinda’ play the cooler older guy role until she spoke to ANYONE who knew me in high school. The idea was to impress her enough during the summer months that we’d become bf/gf and fall in love and everyone would be impressed AND WE’D BE TOGETHER FOREVER!
Unfortunately, Larry began to lose interest in Tuesday night bar hangs as the summer dragged on, before leaving for college in the fall. My plan of impressing her by drinking SoCo and Limes while making restaurant jokes did not work probably because she was a HUMORLESS HEARTLESS WITCH! Either way, I sulked my way through the fall, but I was plotting for ONE LAST DITCH EFFORT to woo Larry…when she returned home for winter break at the restaurant’s Holiday Party.
The owner’s of “Casa’s House” were/are/will-probably-always-be generous enough to throw their weirdo/borderline-alcoholic staff a really nice holiday party. This year, they were taking us to a place called “Whirlyball” in Chicago: think bumper cars meets basketball meets lacrosse. The activity itself is fun and they were also paying for an open bar. That, my friends, is called DOUBLE FUN! Plus, oh and this was my fave part, they invited Larry without me even asking them to.
So we got there and I figured that because I was a MANAGER! and 21 years old, that beginning the night with a Long-Island Iced Tea was a GREAT IDEA! Nothing like carpet-bombing your nerves with 7 different liquors in a tall glass before trying to flirt with your crush (this NEVER backfires). After a few rounds of whirlyball, where you get to drive a bumper car drunk while yelling at your teammates to “hit the net thing!”, Jimmy Good Times (‘member JGT?) was feeling LOOSE! Larry was being flirty with me which was fun, and I was discovering that when the first Long Island goes down smooth, the next two go down EVEN SMOOTHER!
Feeling like French Toasty, the cool-kid group decided to go out front to smoke a cigarette because that’s what cool young adults do (consequences are for SUCKERS!) While outside looking extra bad boy with cig in mouth, I decided that now was the time to THOROUGHLY IMPRESS Larry with a little something I like to call my brute strength and power. And how else do you do that besides picking people up, throwing them over your shoulder and spinning around in the Whirlyball parking lot? To borrow a phrase from my friend “Cash Out”, I’ve looked at it from all angles, and there was no other way to show off my strength.
The thing was, it was going well! I picked up a couple guys and girls and everyone was laughing but also probably like “Damn, I didn’t know Jimmy was so powerful.” Which was really amazing because I wore tight t-shirts all the time. HOW COULD THEY NOT KNOW?!?! (What an unbelievable douchebag I was). After picking up and spinning with just about everyone, it was the moment of truth: time to pick up Larry. In my hazy memory, I think she was actually kinda excited. Everyone else seemed to enjoy it and, while I was in meathead-mode, it’s not like I was FORCING people to take these rides on my shoulders.
Unfortunately, after throwing Larry over my shoulder and beginning the spin part of the ride, JGT was overwhelmed with the dizzies. Could there have been worse timing? NO TIMES A MILLION TRILLION! So I fell down. Although, when I say fall, you know I mean “crashed into the cement wall of the building while kinda-tossing Larry into a parked car,” right? *Cue the theme song from “Gladiator”–ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?!?!
Aside from a bump on her head, Larry was fine. I, on the other hand, needed to have another co-worker bandage my torn ear up while I laughed and profusely apologized and wanted to crawl into the sewer where people like Jimmy Meathead belong. Larry assured me everything was okay and she was fine, but the image of a powerful, restaurant manager, I was going for had been shattered.
In an attempt to prove to everyone that I WAS FINE! EVERYTHING IS FINE! I went back into the Whirlyball bar and ordered tequila shots for myself, my good server friend and the owner of “Casa’s House”. The owner was a big tequila guy, so what, was I NOT supposed to order shots for him and I? That woulda’ been crazy. So we took back to back tequila shots together because that’s what managers trying to impress owners do. (You’re not a manager? Oh, then you just wouldn’t know.)
Larry was back inside and laughing and I was making fun of myself and everyone was back to having a good time. Then, as one does, I had to take a little break for a tinkle…And the next thing I know, I was eye-to-eye with the base of a toilet bowl:
My good dear sweet friend Kyle took this picture and stayed with me as I inspected the base of the toilet with my eyes closed and drool coming out of my mouth (that’s how plumbers do it, guys.) Eventually, I was taken out of Whirlyball by my friends like the dead guy in “Weekend At Bernie’s”. *If you look close, you can see my bandaged up ear. Isn’t that fun!?!?!
2 days later, the next time I saw Larry at work, I gave her a gift card I bought for a super expensive spa in the city and apologized profusely for maybe 48 straight minutes. We never ended up dating. The VP of Ops is so lucky.
OUR WORLD:
The NFL Draft is tonight and it’s one of my favorite days of the year. Here are some quick Jimmy scouting reports on guys the Bears may take:
Roquan Smith: Killer linebacker from Georgia who I know is good because I saw him play in 3 games and he made some big tackles. Also, he was originally committed to go to UCLA, which means he’s basically a Bruin and we were basically classmates and so he’s going to be good.
Final Grade: I want.
Quenton Nelson: Big fat guy who plays a boring position for a school that I HATE. Was he good? Who cares. All guards do is block and if you pay attention to blocking while watching football YOU ARE LYING THAT YOU DO THAT! All the draft people say he’s “can’t miss”, but drafting a big ugly is the quickest way for your team to ruin the excitement of draft night.
Final Grade: I don’t want.
Minkah Fitzpatrick: DB from Alabama so he’s probably good because Nick Saban only recruits studs and then is mean to them so they’re “well coached” by the time they reach the league. I do keep hearing that he doesn’t really have a position, corner or safety, and since I don’t remember him when I watched Alabama last year; THAT’S A PROBLEM! The Bears already have one Alabama safety. That’s enough.
Final Grade: I don’t really want but I don’t totally not want.
Denzel Ward: Fast, little corner from Ohio State. I know nothing about him, but fast little corners sound fun! I’ve heard draft experts describe him as “twitchy” like it’s a good thing. Hope he doesn’t have tourettes and get in trouble for saying bad words in front of his coaches!
Final Grade: I kinda want.
Calvin Ridley: Receiver who caught the game-winning touchdown in Alabama’s National Championship game. This guy was talked about throughout the year as the best receiver in the country and I saw him play well in two games so…HE’S A STUD! Also, receivers are fun to root for and we need a new young one to help us get past the sting of Kevin White flaming out (although…I haven’t totally given up on him…)
Final Grade: I want.
LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
Endless highlights with this guy…
LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:
When your team takes an offensive lineman in the first round and if the Bears do it tonight I’M GONNA BE FURIOUS!
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 went 3 for 5 last night because I threw in the Bruins on the moneyline too. That’s a net positive, folks. Tonight? Not gambling. Too busy watching the NFL Draft. Wait! Can you gamble on the draft? I’ll report back tomorrow.
Jimmy's Chair 