Category: health

My Farewell to Planet Fitness and Your Remote Control (8/2/18)

MY WORLD:

The past few weeks have included a lot of introspection for me.  Quiet times and deep exhales and staring off into distances while silently wrapped up in my brain.  What has caused this?  God, I can’t believe I’m going to admit this, but this blog is nothing if it’s not honest; the cause of this introspection has been Planet Fitness.  (I knew it.)  When I was at a red light and an old woman wearing a cape was crossing the street, I was thinking “is she on her way to my Planet Fitness?”  When in a dirty gas station bathroom while out on the road, I was thinking “does this Shell station outsource their bathroom cleaning jobs to Planet Fitness?”    When dreaming about running into Anna Kendrick on a quiet street, working up the courage to ask her out and as she’s about to say “I’d love to” she spots the Planet Fitness tag on my keychain and starts vomitting violently while screaming “I NEVER TOOK YOU FOR ONE OF THEM!!!”  Well Anna, your sweet baby Jimmy has some news for ya: I am no longer a Planet Fitness man.  That’s right, I told the judgment free zone to kick rocks and maybe LEARN HOW TO USE A FUCKING MOP! 

Between “the people” and “the smells” and “the facilities” and “the employees”, I feel like I’ve been withstanding a slow waterboarding at the hands of Planet Fitness since I joined.  “ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE OKAY WORKING OUT NEXT TO A MAN WEARING JEANS AND A COWBOY HAT WHILE ON A PURPLE TREADMILL?!?!”-Said the Planet Fitness manager as he slowly dripped water into the towel covering my squirming face.  For all of you out there who are thinking that $10 per month is too good of a deal to pass up, take heed: you get what you pay for, and 10 dollars gets you a gym that smells like a 2 day old Chipotle burrito bowl.

With Green Day’s “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” playing in the background, I’d like to take a trip down my Planet Fitness memory lane.  I promise you, all of the following mini-stories, while maybe slightly exaggerated, are true.–TAKE IT, BILLIE JOE! “It’s something unpredictable, but in the end it’s right, I hope you had the time of your life.”  (*I did not.)

SO TAKE THE PHOTOGRAPHS AND STILL FRAMES IN YOUR MIND

Now that I’ve escaped the purple hellscape that is Planet Fitness, there are certain images, still frames if you will, that come to mind when I think of my time there.  Some of these include:

–The walls on the inside of the changing room:  After a while, I realized that changing into my gym clothes in the locker room was a daily test of whether or not I suffer from claustrophobia.  The locker room was small and overcrowded and dusty.  However, this being a “judgement free zone”, I discovered that there were private changing rooms that nobody seemed to notice or use.  I could go in there, change at my leisure and not accidentally brush up against 8 dudes who live a “showering is optional”-lifestyle.  For a while, my private changing room time was nice and vital to my sanity in this gym.  I’d escape the crush of the locker room, change in peace and prepare myself to power through the workout I was about to embark on.  It was therapeutic, really.  Then one day, I walked into MY private changing room, closed the door, and…”holy fucking shit, there are black hair shavings all over the white wall.”  It was as if Planet Fitness had caught on to my changing room bliss and called a meeting to address the situation. “This fuggin’ guy is only paying $10 a month, we can’t let him enjoy the cleanly solitude of that changing room.  Who has any ideas?”  That’s when a close relative of Sasquatch himself, must have walked into the meeting room with an electric razor and a smirk.  I’m not kidding, it looked like they shaved a gorilla and then came in with a fan to make sure all the shavings stuck to the white walls.  So my private changing room time was ruined forever because all I could think of when I went in there after that was that there HAD to be little hairs still all over that place.

–The unfinished woodworking station that sat in the corner of the “stretching area”.  Nothing says “take a deep breath!” than a pile of uncut wood and stacked cans of paint!  Don’t believe me? Here’s a screenshot from an insta post I made about this corner months ago.

pfit

–The handicap bathroom stall door on the ground.  For as big as this Planet Fitness is, they only one men’s room that had only 3 bathroom stalls.  Now listen, public pooping isn’t fun for anyone, but it’s a necessary evil that all adults must come to terms with; ESPECIALLY, at the gym.  When solo rooms with locks and one toilet don’t exist, then we have to rely on stalls and…lets be honest, we’re all hoping to sneak into the handicap stall when no one is looking.  Yeah, that’s me slithering in and out of the handicap stall when I don’t hear any footsteps in my immediate surroundings.  So, obviously, I would try to do this here as well.  BUT, yet again, the Planet Fitness Fairies must have caught on to my sneaky sneaky plan because basically every week the door to the handicap stall was somehow broken and just left on the ground.  Seriously, just laying on the ground.  After about 4 straight days of seeing this door on the ground, I asked an employee if they were going to fix it and the employee said “yeah, like, I think we have the door on order.”  Who knew Planet Fitness imported their bathroom stall doors from Egypt?!?!?  Then, whenever it would arrive, via crawling camel from Egypt, the door would be up about 14 minutes before some neanderthal asshole would break it again and put it on the floor.

IT’S NOT A QUESTION BUT A LESSON LEARNED IN TIME

–When you walk into most gyms, the front desk people will grab your keycard, swipe and give you a “thank you!” or a hearty “have a good workout!”  It’s nice.  At Planet Fitness? You walk up to the front desk, hold up your keycard and are met with mouth-open, eye rolls from staff members eating pizza while reclining on computer chairs.  After an awkward few seconds, one of these very hungry staff members will flay open their hand towards the scanner.  This, in lazy person speak, translates to “scan your card yourself.”  After a while, I knew that reactions like this were coming, but I’d still try to force my card towards them as my form of protest (when’s the march?)  I DON’T WANT TO SCAN MY FUCKING CARD!  YOU DO IT!  Seriously, why are they there?  They’re not cleaning the private changing rooms, fixing the handicap bathroom doors OR scanning membership cards.  Are they actually getting paid to wear a purple sweatshirt and eat Little Caesar’s near a bunch of smelly people sweating?

–As the calendar turned to summer months, I started noticing that my Planet Fitness was doing its best surface of the sun impression.  A box with a wall of windows facing west is an issue when those windows have no issues and, you know, THE SUN SETS IN THE WEST.  This means that every day during sunset, also known as the most popular time in the day to go to the gym, this PFit was SCORCHING hot and you were staring at the sun while on your dumb purple fucking treadmill.  Okay, they may not have shades, but they have AC, right Jimmy?  THANK YOU FOR SEEKING CLARIFICATION!  That’s what I thought because I saw thermostats and big AC looking units on their roof when I’d drive by.  Then, one day I went for a normal run at a normal pace on one of those purple treadys.  About two miles in I felt like I was sweating like Patrick Ewing in his prime (look that reference up.  It’s funny, I swear.)  Being the stubborn bitch that I am, I forced myself to finish the run; bypassing all of the warning signs of heat stroke along the way.  Tough boys like me don’t have heat strokes so…I was in the clear.  When I got off the treadmill, I checked the thermostat and it read 86.  So I went to the front desk, asked for the GM and asked if there was an issue with the AC or if this is just how it is in Planet Fitness.  His response? “Hmmm, I don’t know.”  And that was it.  He smiled like “I gave your question thought, gave you an answer, and I am now completely satisfied with how this interaction went.”  As all of the muscles in my body tensed (so many muscles guys…so many!) I ran some mental math: hairy walls + broken bathrooms + rude employees + no air-conditioning = $10.  Essentially, I was paying to be EXTRA miserable while working out.  You know why most people at Planet Fitness aren’t in good shape?  Because it’s already hard enough to go to a nice gym and force yourself through a workout.  Imagine trying to get through a productive workout in your Uncle Larry’s “secret woodshed”.

That day, I decided that not only was I done at Planet Fitness, but that I was going to DEDICATE THE REST OF MY LIFE TO EDUCATING POTENTIAL CUSTOMERS OF THE HELLHOLE THEY ARE ABOUT TO SIGN UP FOR.  If I can spare one young soul the horror of those purple fucking machines, my plight will have been worth it.

FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH, IT WAS WORTH ALL THE WHILE

It most certainly was not.

OUR WORLD:

Football is back and so is negotiating for television time with your wife.  If you, like me, had kind of forgotten that football was right around the corner, you still have time to ensure that football is on your main television ALL SATURDAY AND ALL SUNDAY starting at the end of the month, when the real games begin.  It will take sacrifice and strength and CHUCKLING AT THINGS YOU MAY NOT FIND FUNNY.  Here are the steps fellas:

  1.  For the next 3 weeks, whenever you are home, give the remote to your wife and say “I don’t care what we watch.”
  2. She will be caught off-guard and start suggesting shows.  This is a test.  Don’t say “yes” to every show.  Instead, wait until about the 4th show she suggests and act SUPER EXCITED about that show (whether you are or not).
  3. Project genuine interest in this show that she has picked for every episode you watch.  Ask questions, laugh at her insights, point out plot holes.  THIS MUST SEEM LEGIT GUYS!  THERE’S NOT ENOUGH TIME TO PLAY AROUND!!!
  4. In 3 weeks, when college and pro football start, grab the remote first thing Saturday morning to put on Gameday.  When your spouse says something that The VP would say, like, “how long are we going to watch this?” You need to respond by gently reminding her that you have watched HER SHOW for the past 3 weeks.  After like two weekends of 48 straight hours of football on television, she’ll give up and probably go to her friends or maybe cheat on you and end your relationship BUT AT LEAST YOU’LL GET TO SEE IF MITCH TRUBISKY HAS TURNED THE CORNER!!!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

FOOTBALL HYPE VIDEO SEASON!!!!

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Dear Planet Fitness,

 

JIMMY GAMBLES

Am I betting on the Bears in the Hall of Fame game tonight? YOU BET YOUR ASS I AM!!!

k bye.

Reality Shows That Should Happen and Are We Going To Move? (7/31/18)

OUR WORLD:

“The Men Tell All” episode of “The Bachelorette” was on last night and, I’ll admit, Jordan was an electric factory.  He got me laughing a few times and did make me ask The VP “is he in on the joke?” I kinda’ think that he is, which makes it funnier when he’s bragging about how he owns billboards in everyone’s head and should’ve been wearing a work vest to this episode.  Bravo, Jordan, bravo (I’m making that aristocratic face rn while nodding and giving a very pompous round of applause.)  But then the episode kept going and going and I remembered that I don’t give a shit about “The Bachelorette” this year.  IS BECCA GONNA PICK THE LOW-KEY RACIST OR THAT SMILEY DUDE WHO HAS ZERO PERSONALITY?!?!  I hate when my guy friends make fun of all of the shitty reality TV that I like, and I hate even more that I’m now one of those guys with this season of “The Bachelorette”.  However, there is a silver lining!  With the part of my brain normally devoted to this show now FREE, I have dedicated it to thinking of some reality shows that NEED to happen.  Here are the first 3 that I’ve come up with:

“Serving Patricia: The Story of Michael Kelcourse”

I’m officially all caught up on “Southern Charm” and I’d like to thank all my supporters for sticking by me while I caught up.  Took a lot of courage on your part to stand by a “reality fan” who had yet to watch the crown jewel of the south.  (Are you crying?  I am too!!! WE DID IT!!!)  I’m sure there will be spin-offs from this show most likely revolving around Shep or Craig or Naomie or the T-Rav rape trial (yikes…) BUT there is only ONE spin-off of “Southern Charm” that is absolutely necessary: the story of Patricia’s old-man butler Michael.  I’d like to call it “Serving Patricia: The Story of Michael Kelcourse”.  (Wow, creative Jimmy.)

WARNING: this will not be your typical lite Bravo fare.  I want this show on AMC or HBO or some other network that specializes in shaky, handheld camera documentary-style reality shows.

I want one cameraman following Michael Kelcourse (the fact that I spent time googling “Patricia Southern Charm Butler” is not something I’ll tell my grandkids about).  I want this one cameraman to, essentially, become Michael’s only real friend in the world; allowing him to open up about all the things that Patricia makes him do that we DON’T see on “Southern Charm”.  Patricia has “Michael, there is a body in the freezer outside that I’d like you take care of”-written ALL OVER HER.  She’s been married like 19 times, you don’t think ONE of those former husbands “disappeared mysteriously”?  GET YOUR DUMB HEAD OUT OF YOUR FAT BUTT!  MICHAEL KNOWS WHERE THE BODIES ARE!

Maybe one night after returning to his chambers (does he have “chambers”? does he live in a cage in Patricia’s basement?) Michael pours a glass of bourbon for himself and his new best friend Cameraman Jack.  About halfway through their first glass, but not yet talking, Michael lets out a deep exhale and brings his fingers to his tear-filled eyes.  “I’ve done bad things, Jack.  I’ve done bad things.”  Jack would lean forward, pour a little more bourbon in Michael’s glass and say “we all have.”  Michael would start gently shaking his head, though, and when he lifted it up we’d see his eyes were full-blown red from crying: “I was just following orders.”  That’s when the camera would be set down, but not off, and we’d hear Michael cry and reveal where all of the holes are that he had to dig for Patricia’s ex-husbands.

OR…Is there a dark side to this seemingly permanently-chipper old man butler?  I bet there is guys…I REALLY, REALLY BET THERE IS!!!  There is no way that you can bring dirty martinis to some stuck up lady with a face doesn’t move all day, every day without retreating to some secret drug dungeon that allows you to put up with a life you can’t believe you’re living.  I don’t actually think that Butler Michael is a closet opium addict, but look at the eyes, there’s something…something dark beneath….and, if there’s not, maybe he could teach all of us how to be happy living a life other than the one you dreamt of when you were 19.

michael kelcourse

 

“Backstage Pass” 

I want to know what the backstage scene looks like for old bands that USED to be known for RAGING party scenes before and after shows.  Think along the lines of: The Rolling Stones, The Who, and Aerosmith.  Listen, I don’t actually know if these bands were known for being fucking party animals, but I just assume that older rock bands all did cool drugs and were skinny alcoholics during their heydays SO JUST GO WITH IT!

They’re probably a bunch of recovering addicts now, but doesn’t being backstage after a show trigger some “man, I’d love a fucking beer right now”-urges for these guys?  How do they overcome that?  If I’ve had a weekend of hard drinking, I’ll tell myself on Monday that I’m not going to drink for a few days.  Then, I’ll go for a run, get home, open the fridge and think to myself “Sweet Baby Jesus a beer sounds AMAZING.”  3 beers later, I’m talking to The VP about how “I deserve these.”  And that’s from the rush of running on a treadmill!  Give me the rush of having 30 plus thousand people treating me like the coolest cult leader of all-time and I’d be doing keg stands on the hood of a convertible weaving down a congested highway!

Or maybe they’re not able to overcome those urges and the code of being backstage just shields them from having to publicly admit that they’re actually not sober.  Like, maybe you have to sign a non-disclosure agreement that says “when you see Keith Richards drain his 6 pack of wine bottles, you are not allowed to text your high school friends that Keith’s new biography ‘Sober & Feeling Great!’ is a book of lies”?  And if they’re not drinking or doing drugs or COOL STUFF LIKE THAT, what are these aging bands doing backstage?  Are Keith and Mick sitting at opposite ends of a big open room just flicking each other off in between telling their young girlfriends why The Beatles are overrated?  WE NEED TO KNOW THESE THINGS!

“Overnight Pharmacist”

There are 24-hour pharmacies (right? Googling….yep! There are!  Continue!) which means that there are pharmacists who have to work the 11PM to 7AM shift.  And you know what that means?!?!?! Guys with panicked looks on their faces asking for “uh, the, uh, ya’ know that pill that…the no baby pill?” and people TWEAKING out on god knows what handing over “scripts” written in crayon that say: “Just whatever he asks for. Yours Truly, Doctor”.  If I were a pharmacist asked to work the overnight shift, I would insist on wearing a full suit of armor and having a current Navy Seal Sniper Badass Killerguy as my personal bodyguard.

If you’re looking for a magic combination of elements to create drool-worthy reality television, mixing drugs, threats of violence, and darkness with a “person just trying to do their job” seems like a safe bet to me.  As for the production costs, you really wouldn’t have any.  All you’d have to do is outfit the CVS in rural Arkansas with higher grade security cameras and install some microphones and BOOM, get out of the way and let the night do nighttime things!

I will throw a bit of caution in here that this show does have the potential to be insanely sad and depressing and “this is making me feel horrible about everything.”  How do we get around this?  Simple, EDITING.  The editor of this show will play a VITAL role in dumping the inevitably heartbreakingly sad moments that must occur in pharmacies overnight.  Nobody in the world needs to see the stuff that I don’t even want to write about happening because i know that it does and I know that it would make me cry.  So…you know what, let’s just make it easy: let’s just have it be the scenes of people being nervous trying to get Plan B pills or unsuccessfully trying to get other sexual-related drugs.  An old guy coming in with a fake script for Viagra is comedy gold.  GOLD!   In fact, let’s just rename the show “Overnight Pharmacist: Only The Funny Sex Stuff and Not The Sad Other Drug Stuff”.  THAT SHOW DEFINITELY DOESN’T SOUND DEPRESSING!

MY WORLD:

The VP and I went to Nashville this past weekend, and it made me think about whether or not I could move again.  And if I can’t, what does that say about the rest of my life?

When I went to Los Angeles for grad school and student lo-(nobody wants to hear about your debt) I was VERY single and poor at an age where it was socially acceptable to be unable to afford clothes from somewhere other than Old Navy.  When I moved back to Chicago it was for legitimate family and personal reasons and I was still VERY single (The VP is beginning to question all of the “ex-girlfriend” stories…”Was I your first girlfriend?”-VP to me tonight.)  But now at the seasoned age of 33, with a WIFE!, stable job that pays some to most of our bills, and on the verge of maybe trying to become a parent (Am I having a seizure?) do I have the courage to move again?

While out with our BEST FRIENDS who moved to Nashville a couple years ago, and some other super awesome friends of ours, I was flattered to have been asked multiple times “so when are you guys moving down here?”  My answers ranged from “oh, ha ha, we’ll see” to “when you find me a job where the pay is good and the uniform is a t-shirt and minimal effort.”  The real answer is that I may be too scared to bet on being able to restart my life again at 33 when I’m not the only one that matters to me anymore.  The idea of tossing our stuff in a truck and driving off to a new southern adventure is tantalizing, I won’t lie.  But that means finding a new place to live and a new job and dealing with a new boss and what if I have to work for a mean lady?!?! WHAT IF SHE YELLS AT ME AND CALLS ME FARTFACE?!?!

Lately, thoughts of blinking and living the same life 10 years from now have been consistent and consistently terrifying.  When you drive around alone all day, your mind can only stay focused on reality show butlers for so long.  Wading into the murky “what just touched my leg?!?!”-waters of figuring out exactly what I want the VP and my future to be is fun and scary and constant.  Is settling into the rest of our lives right now, not only safe, but the financially responsible thing to do?  We have both have 401k’s!  Or is swinging for something bigger and better than slightly above average, sooner rather than later a risk that we won’t be able to even think about in a few years?  The clock is ticking!  What type of life necessitates shaking it up with a move?  Something worse than ours, right?  There are no answers to these questions, I know.

Courage is what it comes down to.  I mean, planning would be a major part of a potential move too, but it’s courage first and foremost.  Instead of waiting to get suddenly brave or find some big, cool blanket that makes me feel secure enough to stay here, I’ve decided to start something VERY cheesy with The VP.  Starting tomorrow, we are committing a half hour, each night to “Dream Time”: where we will put our phones down, put some music on and start writing down about things or places or (hopefully not people) we want to see and do.  It’s cringeworthy and I’m sure that The VP will not fully appreciate me outing our lameness on an INTERNATIONALLY READ BLOG.  While I may not yet have the courage to pull the trigger on a move or toss an immovable anchor where we currently are, I do have the courage to be honest.  When will we move? Maybe sometime.  Maybe never.  I don’t know, but we are going to start dreaming with our eyes open.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

It’s an emo-Jimmy you’re getting today, so I’m going to lean into it and put up a song that reflects how where I’m at.  The lyrics are insightful and if you don’t sway in your chair while listening to this then you’re dead.

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Putting on a pair of pants that you’re sure are tight because they’re a 33 waist but then you take them off to look at the size tag and they’re a 34.  Can someone please invent cookie-flavored diet pills?  Tysm.

JIMMY GAMBLES

No lie, I’ve been taking big-time baths lately on baseball because betting baseball, apparently, IS FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE.  Football is coming soon and with it will come the return of this section.

(My account currently at $4.71)

K bye.

The VP and I Go Canoeing-PART TWO-(7/19/18)

MY WORLD:

*Quick recap of Part One for those of you who are too fucking lazy to read it:  The VP of Ops and I went canoeing last weekend.  Part one was about the 3 hour drive up to Bumfuck, Wisconsin.  I left off when I got out of the car and was massacred by mosquitoes.  Want more details? GO READ IT!

By the time the VP actually got out of the car, I was but a shell of myself.  Weary from the beating my body had taken in the 47 seconds I had been outside, the thought of shielding myself with The VP’s body not only crossed my mind, it consumed me.  If I draped her over my shoulders like a fashionable shawl, and began to spin, the helicopter motion of her limbs would SURELY fend off these hungry fuckhead squitoes.  The VP had a solid defense mechanism, however, which consisted of her giving me the “I can’t believe you made me come here”-stare.  Imagine two razorblades made of un-meltable ice; that’s what The VP’s eyes looked like.  I may have let out an audible “yikes” after being caught with that frigid glare.  Back to the squitoes, everything is going great!

We had to load our stuff on the back of a school bus before it drove us to the launch off point.  The VP carried like a friggin’ pillow and left the cooler, firewood, tent, chairs, and backpacks for me; this is the definition of not-fair and if my Mom was there I def would’ve squealed a “Mom! This is unfair!”  Unfortch, my Mom was too busy not sacrificing her body to the Squitoe Squad, so I was left to exhale audibly and then just carry everything because WE’RE NOT GETTING IN A FIGHT!  By the time I loaded our entire life into the back of this dumb bus, most of the seats were taken.  When I got to the VP’s seat, I felt like young Forrest Gump.  While not exactly Jenny-ish, the VP did scoot over and make room for my swollen ass.  Want a perfect remedy for a tense situation with your significant other?  Just make a fart noise.  I’m not sure if I did that or I just said something along the lines of “thanks for letting me carry everything!” but it did lighten the mood.  The Squitoes, like most cool people, wouldn’t be caught dead in a big yellow school bus, so we were safe for the time being.  As the bus took off and our itchies began to subside, I felt The VP begin to soften.  Beers and sun and NATURE were on the docket.  We were about to live that H.O.C. life (Hot Outdoorsy Couple).

We got to the launch point and after a minor altercation with the canoe organizer lady, we loaded our canoe and set off into the great wide open!  Oh, the minor altercation?  You know that thing when someone acts like you don’t have a reservation when you really do, so you respond with a brief, albeit passionate, fury?  Did the words “well that’s something that YOU need to figure out” come out of my mouth?  Yes.  But listen, The VP and I didn’t drive 3 hours, and get in a few almost-fights before donating our bodies to the Squitoe Squad to be turned away by some idiot woman holding a clipboard and wearing a life vest ON LAND.  Hey Lady, hard to drown in grass, dontchathink?!?!  Thankfully, my very brief, very minor outburst didn’t result in any sort of incarceration.  Before we knew it, we were on the water, paddling towards enshrinement in the H.O.C. Hall of Fame.

The weather was perfect out on the water and the Squitoes weren’t too bad out there either.  The VP and I basically took deet showers before we got on the canoe, and that seemed to work.  Lite beers began to flow and cheesy country music blared from our friend Bonesaw’s cool waterproof speaker.  (Am I the only one still using the speakers I bought for my dorm room in 2004?  Yes? Oh.)  When you’re out on the water, cheesy country music or Dave Matthews is all that you can listen to.  If someone had put on like Two Chainz or N’Sync, I would’ve swam over to their canoe to strangle the life out of them.  (Aggressive).  Give me Florida Georgia Line or give me death on the open waters.  The VP and I were having a ball, guys.  No joke.  Was I doing most of the paddling? Yes, of course.  However, if I wanted to earn my H.O.G. badge, I was going to have to blast my delts and traps until they begged for mercy.  When they did beg for mercy after roughly 4.1 minutes of paddling, though, I was forced to yell at The VP to “feel free to paddle ANYTIME!”  Flinging guilt trips your wife’s way is part of the H.O.G. lifestyle, correct?

We (mostly me, but whatever) paddled for a while and then hooked up with a few other canoes for a solid, hang ‘n float sesh.  My jokes were not landing the way I was hoping they would, however, and The VP seemed to revel in that.  After a few “I think we forgot to pack our motor”-jokes didn’t connect, she looked back and said “you’re really on fire today!”  I can’t lie, it stung and I’m still kinda’ pissed about it.  Don’t wedding vows also encompass supporting your husband’s desperate attempts at canoe humor?  If they don’t, they should, and if they do, then The VP owes me a heartfelt apology.  (VP?  Care to comment?)  Eventually, the hang ‘n float group loosened up and sent some (courtesy?) laughs my way.  WAS THAT SO HARD?!?!  We ate sandwiches and drank some beehs and bagged many many rays.  Excuse the following brag, but I tan like a Greek God; going from translucent white to burnt gold in a matter of minutes.  I skip the lobster red phase altogether; it’s a gift.

After a little more paddling (yes, still mostly by me, thanks for inquiring) we set up camp at a little sandy beach.  Are these called dunes?  I don’t know and I don’t want to look it up, but it was like our group’s own private beach.  It was sweet.  Everyone went off to set up their tents while it was still light out.  I guess I missed the memo that good friend Bonesaw wasn’t going to do everything for me, as he did last year, though.  I pretended that this wasn’t a MAJOR problem, but my brain was beginning to swell with anxiety.  I had no fucking idea how to put this tent together.  We borrowed it from other friends, and now was the time that we were supposed to act like a real H.O.C.  The instruction packet was stuck together because it got wet, so we had to go into “we can figure this out”-mode.  Wanna hear a secret? Both of us knew we weren’t going to be able to figure it out.

After scrambling for a solid 37 minutes of minor fights and little progress, our tent resembled a deflated bouncy castle.  It was sad, and looked even more sad because it was surrounded by fully erect, gorgeous tent houses.  I swear to god some of these other tents looked bigger and nicer than the apartment we pay almost two grand a month to live in.  The rest of the group was hanging and drinking in the water for a long enough time that I’m sure they had to be talking about and laughing about our tent issues.  The case for me becoming a H.O.G. had hit QUITE the speed bump.  Some would say, the point where I snapped “well, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing” at The VP is where my H.O.G. case was forever lost.  (Members of the H.O.G. jury all nod.)  We awkwardly gave up after we got the tent erect enough to sleep in, and shuffled our way to the water.  Our body language must’ve SCREAMED “everything is fine! Please don’t ask us about our tent!”

Vodka with strawberry lemonade was the drink of choice as the day progressed and, lemme tellya, they were going down SMOOTH.  I’m also pretty sure that I told everyone around us just how smooth they were going down no less than 87 times.  (We get it Jimmy, you’re drinking a lot of vodka in the sun!)  Nobody said anything about our shitty tent, which was nice.  Instead, the group was more focused on laughing and smiling AND LAUGHING.  Hey! I like to laugh!  The water felt great and the weather was perfect as The Golden Hour approached.

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When the sun went down, an actual H.O.G. in the group put together a gorgeous fire.  Honestly, if the H.O.G. jury had asked me to build a fire, I probably would’ve just rubbed some sticks together until my hands bled before running off to my deflated tent while yelling “everything is impossible out here!”  I was good at sitting near the fire, though, and eating a hot dog that someone else cooked.  (God you’re impressive, Jimmy.)  But when the sun finally went into hiding, the mosquitoes came back out.  And they were angry, guys.  Very, very angry.  The VP and I looked at each other one last time.  The itchies were back.  The rest of the night consisted of people trying to laugh in between slapping the back of their necks and saying stuff like “these mosquitoes!”  Fun fact, it’s hard to function as a human being when mosquitoes are building apartment complexes on your face.

Everyone went to bed relatively early as a result.  Our bed did consist of, uh, the sand because our blow-up mattress refused to blow up even after I yelled at it to “just work!”  I know, I couldn’t believe it either.  So The VP and I slept on the ground, using our damp backpacks as pillows.  How come nobody ever puts those camping pictures on Instagram?  No videos of you telling your wife to “stop sighing, there’s nothing we can do” on their stories?  I would’ve recorded some of this for you but my phone was already dead because I went canoeing with my battery at 16%.  Planning, it appears, is not my strong suit.

The VP and I awoke covered in a thin film of sweat and sand.  Guys, it gets hot outside in the summer.  Did you know that?  I made a bunch of the same sounds your dad makes when he gets up from his seat at Thanksgiving dinner.  A lot of “urghs” and “wugffs” and “jesus christ, my back”s.  Needless to say, I will not be perusing the “Wisconsin Sand”-section next time I go to Mattress World.  The VP refused to get up because she knew that meant packing up the tent and cleaning and getting back on the canoe for more paddling.  The VP was going into full-on “But I don’t wanna”-mode.  Good thing that I can be INCREDIBLY annoying when I want to be.  She snapped out of her fake slumber after a few Jimmy fingers went up her nose.  (Surprisingly few boogs in there FYI.)  

Nobody talked much in the morning because we were all tired and covered in mosquito bites.  One guy in the group just looked like a human mosquito bite; I’m pretty sure King Squitoe swallowed him whole at some point in the night.  It’s not fun doing your best impression of an air traffic controller while trying to take your morning pee, either.  Hey mosquitoes, what don’t you get?  Pee is gross, back off for a minute.  By the time everyone loaded up their canoes again, we were all ready to have a magic current take us to the finish line.

That magic current never came, though, so we were forced to paddle much further than any of us anticipated.  Whoever said “we just have to get to the second bridge” can rot in hell.  Seriously, I don’t remember who that person was, but if you’re reading this, you better pray I don’t run into you in a dark alley.  We passed like a hundred bridges and  I don’t know if the magic current was actually working against us, but it did feel like you had to have the strength of Dwayne The Rock Johnson to get your canoe moving.  Did it help that The VP wasn’t helping at all because she felt “nauseous or something”?  No, that did not help.  At this point, I didn’t give a fuck about ever being labeled a H.O.G.  In fact, I began to think that H.O.G.s are really just tired, sweaty, miserable guys who are able to trick us by smiling for the one picture they put up on Instagram.  I looked around at the group on the water that morning, and there were no smiles.  ZERO. SMILES.  There were grimaces and bug bites and The VP with her head between her knees saying “I am not okay.”  THE OUTDOORS!

Now, because I really am a super nice and super strong guy, I didn’t make The VP feel bad about not paddling much on the way back.  But now that we’re alone here guys, holy shit was that hard.  Like, “am I going to have a heart attack and die in a canoe on the Wisconsin River?”-hard.  Every day since, I’ve checked out my arms and shoulders in the mirror expecting them to look more chiseled than your neighborhood bodybuilder’s.  Spoiler alert: they don’t look chiseled, and it’s fucking bullshit.  After, no joke, like 3 hours of paddling, we finally got back to where I had parked my car.  The VP scurried up to my Chevy’s air conditioning, while I dragged back every damp, smelly belonging we had.  Remember those times when you would be moving into a new apartment and you just started dragging stuff because you were tired and didn’t give a fuck anymore?  That was me here.  If some strong man would have offered to carry me back to my car, I would have divorced The VP on the spot and married my new burly hero.  I may have even tried looking helpless for a little while hoping that some strongman stranger was waiting to play hero.  Hey, can someone play a sad song while I have my “please help me” face on?  There was no strongman stranger, just a sandy hill and a wife bolted to the inside of my car.  I loaded all our shit in the trunk, didn’t say goodbye to anyone in the group and said “holy shit” 14 times before I pulled out of our parking space.

I’m never going to be hot outdoorsy guy.  I’m a chair man, through and through.

THAT WAS A LOT OF WORDS AND NOW I’M DONE.

K bye.

 

 

The VP and I Go Canoeing-PART ONE- (7/17/18)

MY WORLD:

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.

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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.

K bye.

 

The 4th of July Stinks and My Dog is Making Me Feel Fat (7/3/18)

OUR WORLD:

One of the best things about this big, smelly country is a little thang called “freedom of speech,” mmmkay?  So check me out exercising this freedom when I say the following: the 4th of July stinks.  STINKS, FOLKS!  (Dear ICE, you know that Jimmyschair guy?  Can you chop his head off please?…Why not?)  A day during the hottest month of the year that we HAVE to spend outside in front of grills that are making the cheapest of grilled meats all leading up to sitting in long grass and getting mauled by Zika-ridden Mosquitoes to watch 8 minutes of fireworks.  Oh, and the best part?  It’s on a Wednesday this year, so you have the option of blowing a vacation day on Thursday or showing up to work in your best hangover disguise, holstered with the “my allergies are horrible!”-excuse as you try to stop dry-heaving in front of your boss.  You know why people call this holiday simply “the 4th”?  Because it’s the 4th best summer holiday (That’s not true, Jimmy.  SHUT UP MOM!)  Give me Memorial Day, Labor Day, and MY FRIGGIN’ BIRTHDAY AKA FLAG DAY, a trillion times out of a trillion over “the 4th”.  (Point Jimmyschair.)

Now, does the 4th stink compared to a typical day?  Do I look like a stupid idiot?  Of course it’s great compared to your typical July workday.  We’re talking compared to other holidays here, try to keep up JERKS!  (I didn’t mean that and feel bad about lashing out).  Lets go through why, compared to other holidays, the 4th STINKS:

Fireworks are overrated:  I can’t believe this is that hot of a take, but I’ve never been a big fireworks guy.  Even as a kid, I remember wondering when the whole “show” would end so I could go back home and play video games.  Before television, I’m sure I would’ve thought fireworks were cool, but now I’m supposed to bypass getting to watch 2-3 episodes of “Southern Charm” (The VP and I have been binging this and DADDY LIKEY!)  Colorful explosions in the sky < Did Craig take the bar yet?  (TeamCraig stand up!)  Even if you’re not in the midst of a “Southern Charm” binge, please do not even try to tell me that watching fireworks is preferable to watching a TV show of your choice while on a recliner in an air conditioned room.  Firework shows last 18 minutes tops?  And how long did it take you to get to your friends backyard or rooftop or local…uh…field?  Probably AT LEAST 20 minutes each way, but it’s not like you can just show up for the fireworks and toss up deuces (PEACE!) the second after the finale.  NO WAY JOSE!  You’re getting there early, bringing some mayo “salad” and you’re staying after for at least one “I’m too tired to drink this and then drive home”-beer.

*Quick breather:  I’m aware I sound like the ultimate Debbie Downer.  To play my own Devil’s Advocate for a second, it is ALWAYS fun to hang out with your best friends and get drunk.  However, with the 4th landing on a school night this year, this will be like the first NFL Sunday of the year where you get drunk with your friends and then silently freak out at night about how hungover you’re going to be at work the next day.  Whenever you’re playing the “I’m going to be hungover at work tomorrow”-game, you’re playing with fire and DEFINITELY worrying about it every time you open a new beer.  

BACK TO HATE-CITY!  I touched on this last week, but when you live in a big city, for the week leading up to and the week after the 4th, there are CONSTANT random fireworks going off throughout the night.  When you live with a wife who has been mugged and a dog who gets stressed at the sound of a sneeze, these sounds are not exactly comforting.  I took Numba One Pretty Gurrrrllll Belle out for a walk last night and felt like I was an extra on the set of “Saving Private Ryan 2: Escape from Chicago”.  This is why when I’m never sad when I hear stories about people blowing off their fingers setting off fireworks.  THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR SCARING ME AND MY PRETTY PRINCESS BABY BELLE!!!

It’s too hot to be in front of a grill or hanging outside all day:  The 4th is the number one day for making people feel guilty for wanting to stay inside.  As someone extremely sensitive to guilt-trips (are you mad at me?) this is my nightmare.  Why do we have to feel guilty for not wanting to spend the entire day in stifling heat and humidity?  Hard to get a beer buzz when you’re sweating through your friggin’ eyeballs!  If you told your friends or spouse, that you were planning to spend the 4th under a blanket in your air-conditioned coldbox of an apartment watching reality television all day, you’d immediately be slapped with the “it’s too nice to spend the day inside”-guilt trip.  Fuck. That.  I’m all for spending nice days outside, but the majority of my Independence Day memories include sticking to my chair and slapping at the mosquitoes treating my legs the way I treat corn on the cob.  (Not coming up for air until that corncob is raw!) 

How many times can I get excited about hot dogs and hamburgers?  I like grilling as much as the next Joe Blow (I don’t even know ONE Joe Blow, Jimmy!) but how many times can I get excited about cheap meats that are, most likely, poorly cooked by a half-drunk “grill master”?  If you’re blessed enough to go to a spot that’s cooking up steaks or fancy chicken then you win; but most of us are stuck with Uncle Larry and his technique of smashing burgers on the grate until they’re hockey puck tough.  “Have you seen my ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron, guys?” Is this dinner or a hack-job comedy routine where everyone pretends their dinner doesn’t SUCK?!?! (Can you drown in ketchup?)  

*Related, I can’t wait to buy a “Kiss the Cook” apron.  I plan to wear it every single night of the year just to make that joke to The VP so many times that she goes into therapy.  “The thing is, I don’t want to kiss the cook.  Matta’ o fack, I’ve developed a deep seeded hatred for the cook and his stupid fucking apron!”

Having to be around people who don’t work the next day when you do:  Every year there’s the group of your friends at the party who love reminding everyone that they don’t work the next day.  You’ll say stuff like “wow, I’m jealous” and then play it off like it’s not that big of a deal.  In reality, though, you want to go to the bathroom and cry while looking at yourself in the mirror.  (My life isn’t as good as their life!)  The impromptu “whose job has the most relaxed vacation day policy?”-competition is never fun for the losers.  So you’re left either sipping on a lukewarm Coors Light while your besties get blackout without a care in the world, or you throw caution to the wind and sign up to be MISERABLE at your desk the next morning.  What an option!  I love watching the person who does work the next day get progressively drunker and sadder as the night goes on.  The whole “I’m going to get drunk and not even think about the consequences” act is impossible after the age of 30.  It’s a game of chicken that, even after 30 beers, you know you’re losing.  (This person is usually me btw).

Can’t wait.

MY WORLD:

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My dog Belle got a real short haircut on Sunday because she had mats and it’s super hot outside for a big FLOOF dog.  She looks so much thinner!  I was calling her “Chubba Bubba” before this cut, but now she looks like the Nicole Kidman of dogs so I’ve re-nicknamed her “Nicole Belleman”  (not my best, but The VP chuckled).  Anyway, this haircut and the effect it has had on her looks has got me thinking…do I need to get a buzzcut?  It feels like Belle has a newfound skinny-dog confidence, and is kinda’ judging ME for not being as skinny as her.  I think that she thinks that she’s better than me!

I’m currently mired in the phase of hair-length where I wear a hat every single day because I’m too lazy to properly style it in the morning.  And maybe this length/lack of styling is making me appear fatter than I am?  (That’s what I’m going to tell myself, at least.  The fact that all my shorts feel outrageously tight MUST be tied to my hair and not my recent diet of cookies and craft beer!)  Like, I’d love to show up with a new haircut and have people think “wow! I had no idea Jimmy was that skinny!”  That could happen!  It happened for Belle!  In High School I got a buzz cut and looked a little nazi-ish, but that was like forever ago which means it wouldn’t be the same, right?  If I do get a buzzcut I would have to worry about my hair growing back AND if it would highlight me getting thin on top.  Plus, if I get a buzzcut, I can’t cover it up with a hat because bald guys with hats make EVERYONE uncomfortable.  (Seriously, I’d feel more comfortable next to a drooling tiger than a bald guy with a big loose hat sitting on his dumb head.)  As you can tell, I’m in a real pickle here folks.  I want to shock people with how thin I can suddenly appear, but do I risk being the Nazi-lookin’ bald guy who’s making everyone uncomfortable with his ill-fitting hat?  You’re never in a good place body-image-wise when you’re jealous of how skinny your dog looks.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Bet you didn’t think I’d like this song…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Getting into your car when it’s super hot outside and feeling the life get sucked out of you  while waiting for your AC to actually get cold.  It’s a race against time that I’m convinced will be the death of me.

GAMBLING UPDATES ARE STILL ON HOLD.  I AM CURRENTLY WORKING ON A STRATEGY THAT WILL ALLOW ME TO NEVER LOSE AND ONLY WIN BETS.  BLUEPRINTS, REPORTS AND STACKS OF PROPOSALS ARE INVOLVED…

K bye.

 

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Help).

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’m just going to lean into this one…

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

K bye.

 

Worse Jobs Than Yours and Jeans in Critical Condition (6/25/18)

OUR WORLD:

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.

K bye.

THIS BACHELORETTE STINKS LIKE POOP-AND-WHY I’M NOW A CLUB GUY (6/12/18)

OUR WORLD:

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.

K bye.

 

 

 

Rules When Sitting Alone At The Bar and Jimmy Fashion (6/8/18)

OUR WORLD:

Since sitting alone in bars is part of my job (professional Sad?) I’ve developed proven methods to give off “no, it’s okay, I’m not a sad person”-vibes.  It’s tricky, really, toeing the line between self-assured, creepy and sad while sitting alone at a bar, but when done properly, can make you feel like one of the cool movie guys who make you want to get into cigarettes again.  (Then you’ll probably go overboard and try rolling the pack in your short sleeve like James Dean until you catch your profile in a mirror and realize that your jawline is NOT chiseled.)  I’m planning for “The Rules of Being Alone At A Bar” to be recurring posts.  Let’s try these out first:

NEVER SIT DIRECTLY NEXT TO SOMEONE WHEN THERE ARE OTHER SPOTS OPEN:  What’s worse than sitting at a bar with a bunch of open seats, and some chode picks the seat right next to you?  Everyone knows that there should be one seat in between each party at the bar and if I owned a bar, I would actually mandate this by allowing my customers to place sharp metal spikes on the seats flanking their party at the bar.  Would there be some bloody butts? If it keeps the creeps fromma’ creepin’, then it’s well worth it.  Girls, wouldn’t you be much more likely to go to the Spikey Seat bar than risk having Hairy Jerry and his double vodkas sitting next to you and your friends on a Friday night?

If you are reading this and thinking “I like to sit next to strangers at the bar because I’m open to meeting new people!” just stop fibbing yourself.  The whole “meeting new people”-catchphrase was started by some hippy who wrote a book or something that confused affability with harassment.  What, you can’t talk to someone if your love-handle isn’t resting on their thigh?  (Side note: ever look at people seating at the bar from behind? NOBODY looks good.  It’s like a row of ziplock bags stuffed full of melting gelato with heads on top.  Oh, and the heads? Most have bald spots.)  

MAKE FRIENDS WITH THE BARTENDER WITHOUT A FULL-BLOWN CONVERSATION:  Not every bartender is an amateur psychiatrist thrilled to diagnose all the problems you’re dumping on their doorstep.  Remember especially if they’re over the age of 35, they’re doing a job that requires an explanation of “what went wrong” every time they speak to their grandfather.  When I bartended, I did not whistle while I worked.  Instead, I felt trapped between sads and their unprescribed medicines; I got to play the unlicensed doctor setting my patients up for a blip of relief before waking up with a stinging headache.  (I just don’t understand why Jimmy wasn’t a good bartender?!?!)  I was cordial with the alone-people at the bar, but I was overly cautious with them due to the fear of getting caught by a talkative one.  Ever wonder why the bartender acts super busy in a slow bar? He’s probably trying to avoid getting cornered by an alone-person sitting at his bar.  It must be a BILLION-TRILLION-GAJILLION times worse for female bartenders.  Give ’em all purple hearts and lifetime passes to every panic room ever constructed.

As an alone-person at the bar, simply play hard to get with the bartender.  You want to make friends with him because maybe he’ll give you a free drink and most bartenders have cool stories.  So order your bev, thank him or her without really looking at them, and go back to watching the television.  Play it cool, guys.  Keep an eye on what’s going on around the bar and, after a while, you’ll pick up on some of the politics surrounding your seat.  Maybe you’ll see a pouty server or a bitchy customer or an angry boss.  Once you spot this, wait for the bartender to come near you and flip a “I’m with you, brother”-comment the bartender’s way.  For instance, lets say you see a customer send back a drink more than once.  When the bartender nears you, say something like “they seem like fun.”  BOOM, you’re on the bartender’s side.  All most bartenders want to do is complain about their job, so once you open that possibility for them, they’re puddy in your hand.  And guess what?  Alone-you has just made friends with the most popular person in the place.  Congratulations.

DON’T TALK TO THE TELEVISIONS:  You’re not fooling anyone.  The entire bar knows that your running commentary on the muted news program is a signal: YOU’RE DYING FOR SOMEONE TO REACT TO YOU!  I’m not talking about the meatballs who yell at their teams during important sports games (how else would the players know they were fucking up?)  No, I’m talking about the nights at the bar where there aren’t sports on, but they left the TVs on, like, the news.  There’s no sound, but a picture of Trump will come on the screen and the alone-guy DYING FOR A REACTION will blurt out something like “You believe this guy?”  First off, no, I can’t fucking believe that guy.  But more importantly, I don’t want to be goaded into a political conversation with the alone-guy stranger at the bar.  Nobody does EXCEPT for maybe some of the other alone-guys at the bar.  This creates an absolute nightmare scenario where alone-guys are shouting conversation to each other from across the bar.  If you find yourself in one of these shouted convos, stop it right now.  You don’t want to be one of these people for even ONE SECOND of your life.

Now what if you hear one of these alone-people barking at the TV, but you didn’t know that was the situation?  You turned to your left and, all of a sudden, you’re making direct eye-contact with said alone-person right as they’re reaching the climax of their political monologue.  “Shit, alone-guy is gonna take this as a sign I want to engage in this” is what every sane person immediately thinks.  And guess what? Alone-guy DOES take that eye-contact as a sign that you’re in.  As you see television talker alone-guy misread your accidental eye-contact, he’ll shift slightly towards you covered in “let’s have a chat”-body language.  Before he completely turns in his chair, you need to get up and go to the bathroom.  That’s your only way out; straight bail move.  Act like you really need to go and you turning that way was just part of your exit-move.  Hop off your barstool and do a trot-waddle to the bathroom to really drive home the point.  We don’t want to make the alone-guys sad, but it’s every man and woman for themselves whenever the television talker starts acting up.

 

MY WORLD:

I’m in the midst of a sock crisis, and I’m close to just throwing in the towel.  The VP and I have gotten caught WAY behind with our laundry, so we’ve been employing the “lets rummage through the over-stuffed dryer every morning for our outfit”-plan of attack.  Unfortunately, the fruits of these dryer searches are limited to shirts only.  At this point, finding matching socks is about as likely as The VP becoming an ultra-marathoner (I think I’ve seen her run once…in an Ikea parking lot when she thought for a second she was gonna get hit by a car.)  Now, a normal, responsible adult would gather all the hamper socks and devote however long it takes to match socks.  Lest you forget, I am special and have chosen an alternative solution: embracing mismatched socks as “my new look”.  I, Jimmyschair, hereby announce that I am no longer a sheep in the matched sock flock.  Remember, fortune favors the bold.

socks

For those of you who thought Jimmy Fashion was dead: catch me on my yacht.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Dave Matthews Band came out with a new album and I think this is my favorite song on it.  I THINK!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Rainy Fridays in the summer.

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.

But real quick, I’m putting the balance of my Bovada account on the Warriors tonight. 

K bye.

Car People and Tight Shorts (6/6/18)

MY WORLD:

 

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

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

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

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

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

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

K bye.