Category: money

My Christmas List

MY WORLD:

I remember as a kid how excited I would get around Christmas.  As Thanksgiving would pass and all attention would turn to Christmas, my imagination would turn me into one greedy sonofabitch.  It was like all I could see were things possible for me to get at Christmas, and the only thing holding back my expectations were…nothing.  NOTHING HELD BACK MY EXPECTATIONS.  Throw in the two week vacation from school, and all I had was time to dream up what items, my parents surely couldn’t afford, I should receive on Jesus’ bday.  (Jimmy the Kid sounds like a bit off a pee-hole…)  

Then!  THEN!  Whenever I was with my parents and around something that I may have wanted for Christmas, I would pretend that I didn’t want it because EVERYTHING had to be a surprise.  Like, if I was around a pair of Jordans that I desperately wanted, and my Mom asked me “would you like those for Christmas?” I would just shrug because if I told her, it would ruin the surprise and make her work easier.  I didn’t act like this when I was like 6 either, this lasted into my teens.  In fact, when I was like 15, I was sure that my parents were getting me a car for Christmas because every 15 year old deserves to learn how to drive on a brand new car.  In bed that night, I remember thinking anytime I’d hear a car pass by our house that it may be my new car pulling into the driveway.  Mind you, I could see our driveway from my bedroom window, but I refused to look out and ruin the surprise.  (So that’s why Jimmy’s parents got him a 1984 Ford Escort Hatchback and his Mom smashed into it with her suburban the first week he had it.  EVERYTHING IS COMING TOGETHER!)

When I was a younger person, I would act like an absolute asshole about gifts and what I wanted around Christmas.  Imagine going wine shopping with your snooty Aunt Rebecca, who has been on bike trips to Napa with her book club over 4 times (so, 5 times?)  Whenever you pick up a bottle and ask if it’s good enough to be included in the wine dinner you’re throwing her, she would suck her lips in and mumble “I don’t know, up to you” in that way where it’s not really up to you, but more of a test to prove how stupid you are.  So you just end up picking the second least expensive bottle of a few different styles because…I mean, that’s how you pick wine.  You look at the cheapest and go “well, I’m better than that” so you pick up the second cheapest.  At the dinner, Aunt Rebecca has a permanent snarl on her face and can’t stop from audibly whispering to anyone sitting around her, what a simpleton you are.  That was me.  (Time to go look in the mirror and ask yourself “do you like what you see here?”  You shouldn’t.)

Therefore, in an effort to never be Aunt Rebecca again, here is what I actually want for Christmas (whoa! How big of Jimmy to just tell people what he wants!  THIS IS GROWTH, PEOPLE!!!):

-I would like to not feel the need to have “one more beer” after I get home from being out with friends all night.

Is that beer ever enjoyable?  Have you ever woken up and thought “god, I’m really happy I opened that expensive Double IPA and had 4 sips at 12:43 last night!”  Few things cause more introspection than picking up three-quarters full Double IPAs the morning after a night out.  It’s like finding charred cash just littered around your apartment.

-I would either like The VP of Ops’ birthday to be moved from December 23 to a date in February, or, I would like The VP of Ops to become one of those awesome “I legitimately don’t care about my birthday”-people.  

Seriously, either one will do.  I would be happy with either (how easy is new Jimmy to buy for?!?!)  The stress that comes from being an adult around the holidays is exacerbated when your wife’s bday is 2 days before Christmas and she treats her birthday like the bar exam for how much you love her.  She’s open about it too.  She’ll say things like “my birthday is really important to me” and “Yes, I am seriously angry that you didn’t call me at 12:01 and wish me a happy 31st birthday.”  The reason we have a dog is because I got in trouble for momentarily (MOMENTARILY!) forgetting it was her birthday a few years ago.  The only way back into her good graces was to get her a dog…so now we have Belle.

-I would love my apartment building to install one of those electric chair things that I could sit in, press a button and it would take me up and down from my 3rd floor apartment.

You see the growth here?  I’m not asking for an elevator or an escalator–those would be unreasonable!  But those chairs mostly used for old people and sold through infomercials?  No way my building couldn’t afford one of those.  Now, I will say that I would also like there to be a rule where I’m the only person in the building that’s allowed to use it.  While that may be selfish, that is what I want and asking DIRECTLY for what you want is part of being an adult.  So, maybe that shows how mature I’ve become.  (That’s a classic Jimmy-switcheroo right there).  When we moved into this apartment, I remember thinking and probably saying “we’re young and walking up a few stairs never killed anyone.”  A year-plus into carrying groceries up 3 floors of stairs makes me want to find the Jimmy of 15 months ago just so I could spit in his face.

-I would like to never receive paper mail again.

I cannot remember the last time I got something in the snail-mail (cool, funny term, Jimmy!) that was good.  It’s either a bill, a “what is this? I’m not going to open it because I’m scared what’s inside”-thing, or a bill masquerading as an “invitation” to something that will take me away from my chair.  I check my mail like once a week now because it now takes me a full week of saving up courage to open up and see what’s waiting for me in that checking-account-decimating little metal box.

-I would like someone to take Belle out for walks and bring her back when I’m not looking.  Then, when I start getting ready to take her for a walk, The VP says “oh, she was already taken” and I can be surprised that I don’t have to do it every time.

There aren’t many better feelings than when The VP surprises me and says “I’ll take her out this time.”  She does take her out sometimes, but it is normally me first thing in the morning and last thing at night.  Dog walks in the winter are about as enjoyable as chewing on tinfoil.  So, instead of asking for The VP to take Belle out on all walks, I would just like someone I never meet to sneak in and take Belle out and bring her back without me seeing.  I’d feel guilty and like a sack of shit if The VP was the one taking her out everytime.  BUT! If it was some person I never had to see or pay or thank, then I wouldn’t feel guilty.  AND!  The feeling I’d get from The VP telling me “oh, she was already taken out” would power me through the darkest, coldest winter nights.  Is there a feeling better than grabbing the leash and going to put on your snow boots only to hear that you don’t have to?  I THINK NOT!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I really like this band and I really like this song.  It’s a little slow, but perfect for winter.  Why?  I don’t know, just feels wintery.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you make chili and see that people have frozen it before so you do that and then a week later you look in your freezer and your chili is covered in mold and you’re like “but, food network said…”

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Not good.  Like really guys, not good at all.

(My account is currently at $0.00)

K bye.

No…Not….WINTER!!!

OUR WORLD:

Whoever came up with the term “Winter Wonderland” never lived full-time in a cold-weather city.  (Did you look that up?  So, you don’t know.  Please don’t lie to your readers, Jimmy.)  Winter in a cold-weather city is a nightmare filled lined with salt stains, dry skin and wet socks that is only mitigated by the fact that it becomes socially acceptable to eat more.  For my Chicago brethren, this morning is the first time this year where I woke up cold, saw a bunch of bare tree branches and started tremble-crying that “it’s puffy coat time….”  Then the VP woke up and asked why I was crying but I was just welling up, which is different than crying and she just doesn’t understand because her winter coat doesn’t make her look like a Michelin Man EVEN WHEN I’M DOING WELL WITH DIET AND EXERCISE!  YEAH, I COULD BUY A DIFFERENT COAT, BUT I’D RATHER SAVE MY MONEY FOR ALCOHOL AND GAMBLING AND GOING OUT TO DINNERS!!!!  No, none of this happened, but the point is that it could because the older I get, the worse I get at containing my emotions re: winter.  Here are the top 3 worst things people in Chicago are dreading about winter:

Walking through slush while wearing your sporty no-show lil’ baby socks.

You wake up in early December and it snowed a little bit last night.  Nothing crazy.  In fact, when you look out your window you say something “oh, not that bad.”  So you’re in that “this sucks, but it could suck harder”-winter-purgatory that feels almost like happiness.  You get ready for your day and pack your gym bag.  But when you get to the sock portion of ready-time, an option presents itself: do I wear my big, hot, winter socks AND pack my no-show lil’ baby socks for the gym? OR! Do I just wear my I-don’t-have-cankles-and-these-lil-socks-prove-it socks for the day so I get to the gym ready to go and I don’t add to my mounting laundry pile with another pair of socks?  You go with one pair of socks because it’s “not that bad” out and if you’re forced to add 2 more socks to that laundry pile, it may tip over and bury you alive before your wife realizes that she hasn’t been asked “can I put sports on?” for over 18 minutes.  Yeah, you just died in a pile of dirty clothes and now your wife is going to jail because how could she not know?

So you put your no-show socks on slide into those cool boots that your Mom got you last Christmas.  It’s not that bad, you’re fine.  By the time you hit the bottom of the stairs on your way out, you’ve totally forgotten that whole excruciating sock decision you just had to make.  The podcast you’re going to listen to is queued up on your phone for the drive to work, and you’re damn near excited to hear if Bill Simmons will ask Jonah Hill the deal with his weight fluctuations.  You toss your gym bag in the passenger seat and…fuck.  Right as you step off the curb, your foot is wet.  The snow didn’t look that bad because it melted, and your body weight caused a splash when it landed on the street.  Tiny-brain you didn’t tie your boots that tight so the splash fell inside your boot and found its resting place all over your tiny-sock-covered foot.  Cool.  Now you’re Wally Wetfoot and you better tie that boot tight because you know the thing about wet feet?  They STINK.  Good luck trying to hide that stank foot in an office surrounded by people who don’t have a villainous pile of laundry forcing them into bad decisions.

Bundling up before taking your dog out and catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror by your door.

You’re lying if you tell me there’s not one second every winter, while getting yourself and your dog ready to go outside, that you don’t remember when you didn’t have a dog and think “that was a happier time.”  Don’t even try to tell me that when it’s negative 9 and you hear the wind howling, you’re not mean-squinting at your dog hoping he’ll be like “you know what, I can hold it.”  But whatever, dogs rule so you when you’re done putting their booties on to protect from the salt, you bundle up like you may get locked out and have to sleep in the snow.  Puffy coat, itchy scarf, old Bears hat, and the camouflage gloves you bought with your brothers at a gas station in Michigan.  Originally, you bought those gloves as a joke, but now they’re just your gloves and your wife can’t believe that she picked you.

When you’re done tucking your loose sweatpants into your boots, you grab the leash and march towards the tundra.  Unfortunately, your wife likes hanging mirrors near doors.  At first you thought it was just coincidence, but now you’re wondering if these mirror placements were part of a more sinister plan to prey on your insecurities.  Said mirror grabs the corner of your eye and you take a quick glance to see how you lo—JESUS, I’M UGLY!  Aside from the winter fat suit, the parts of your face that you can see are white pale mixed with little dry patches (thanks freezing wind!).  Moisturizing is a way of life that you must commit to, and it’s never been more obvious.  Like being hit with a wave from the ocean, you’re forced to go through every part of your last 6 meals.  When was the last time you went to the gym?  Yeah, you went, but did you even try that hard?  Or did you just go to say you went?  And, shit, you’ve been digging those dark beers lately.  And the outfit?  You’re not better than the Jordan Brand Cincinnati sweatpants you bought in High School?  You’re really not better than that?

“I’m better than this,” you say to your wife as you head out.  She smiles.  You’re gonna change.

Once you’re outside, she calls her Mom. “I’m coming home.”

Going to a Mexican restaurant and ordering a margarita to play pretend summertime only to come crashing back to reality the second you look out the window and see the look of pure terror on the driver that has lost control of their car while skidding on the ice.

Once late-January hits, you’re about to snap.  Two-plus months of frigid temperatures and short days have taken their toll, so you excitedly make a plan to go to a Mexican restaurant for a little “Let’s pretend it’s hot outside!”-meal.  It’s different than the norm and your spouse is like “he’s full of surprises!”  You’re proud of your ingenuity.  It’s cute, guys.  So cute.  You know what’ll make it even cuter?  Toss a hawaiian shirt and sunglasses on!  Can you say “Summer in January”?!?!?!

At the restaurant, the servers are kinda’ annoyed with how cute of a couple they’re waiting on, which makes you even more proud of your SAH KEWT plan.  You order drinks and not just drinks; we’re talking margaritas with extra salt baby.  Nothing spells summer like salt, tequila and limey sugary shit!  While you wait for Señor AnnoyedWithYourCuteness to get your drinks, it’s time to start reminiscing about awesome summer stories.  Remember that time you went on the boat and jammed out to pre-nutso Kanye jams?  Oh oh oh, how ’bout the time you had a picnic at the beach and made fun of the uncoordinated volleyball player ruining it for the rest of his team?!?!  And, guys, ‘member the time you grilled those burgs and made everyone address you as General Grillmaster for the rest of the night?  You’re laughing.  Reminiscing.  Dreaming, perhaps.  The margaritas arrive and it looks like each crystal of salt was placed by hand around the rim of your glass.  You do a cheers but don’t actually touch glasses because you want ALL the salt.  Then you hear a screech.

Your eyes dart to the window and see that the snow has picked up and a 1993 Dodge Neon is skidding past the stop sign right outside.  It’s not an emergency, but you lock eyes with the driver and share the “shit, there’s nothing you can do”-look.  The Neon hits the curb and is fine; it’s a piece of shit anyway, so another dent on the bumper will blend.  But it snapped you out of your summer fantasy.  Your spouse knows it too.  Now it’s a waiting game to see who’s going to ask the question you’re both thinking first…”You know we still have like 3 months of this shit?”

YEAH, I KNOW!

MY WORLD:

When I’m not writing this blog in the morning, I’m trying to work on a script and it’s really difficult guys!  In film school, I was only able to write shitty scripts AND I COULD WORK ON THOSE ALL DAY, EVERYDAY.  Now, I’m writing before work and…oooooo momma, I’m having trouble.  Turns out that coming up with a totally original movie idea is not something you can do just because you…uh…want to do it.  The first “assignment” I have due with my writing comrade is due tomorrow and I’m about 20% of the way done with it, so yeah, I’m stressed.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Realizing that the reason political ads are the way they are, is because THEY WORK.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Saw her perform on SNL and, ladies and gentlemen, we have a NEW CRUSH ALERT!!!!

JIMMY GAMBLES:

As you know, I had been on an epic losing streak.  We’re talking the kind that you would tell your grandchildren about when they ask why you live in such a shitty part of town 45 years from now.  Then, Sunday happened.  Guys…I hit a 4-team parlay and it felt like I, personally, defeated ISIS and saved humanity from their reign of terror.  The VP did not share my level of excitement, but she did hit me with a semi-genuine “oh, yay!”  So that was nice.  Did I squander some of my winnings by then betting on the Packers moneyline because my friend is a Packers fan and I’m a great great great friend?  Yes, I did, but I also cemented my status as a “great great great friend” in the process.  So, as far as I can tell, that’s pretty much breaking even.  I told a few people yesterday to bet on the Titans moneyline and then forgot to place that bet myself, so…that was fucking annoying.  Probably gonna take tonight off to watch voting results while praying the Republicans takes that much deserved L.

(My account is currently at $100.72)

K bye.

Work (11/1/18)

OUR WORLD:

Meh, I’ve been wrapped up in my own world lately.  Go see “A Star Is Born” if you haven’t.

MY WORLD:

You know what is one of the coolest feelings I get to feel in life?  It’s when someone says that I should get back to writing this blog because they miss reading it.  There’s nothing deep or poetic coming, it’s just a cool fucking feeling.

I don’t want this blog to devolve into one post every three weeks that basically explains why I haven’t been writing it (uh oh, I feel that’s what’s about to come here though…)  BUT (no!  He’s gonna do it!) that’s what’s about to come here.  The reason I haven’t been as active on Jimmyschair is because I think I’ve been going through some sort of third-life crisis (planning to live till you’re 99?  Sure, pal.  Those drinking habits will NEVER catch up with you!) AND because I’m trying to write a script that will someday win a competition and me a bunch of money…But mostly, because I’m fucking awesome at making excuses.  That’s the truth.

When I got back back from Ireland, I felt kinda’ changed.  When I told my Dad that it was a “life-changing experience”, he did what I would’ve done before I left if someone told me that: gently rolled his eyes in a “I’m not being openly”-rude, but “I’m not not being openly”-rude kind of way.  When he did it, I wasn’t offended, but felt more certain of it.  Like, “oh, you don’t believe me? watch this”….So I proceed to get kind of depressed about my place in life for the next 6 weeks. See Dad!  Before I left, I was relatively happy.  Now, I’m relatively sad.  HAPPY TO SAD SOUNDS LIKE A LIFE CHANGE TO ME!!!

Let’s not go overboard here, either.  Using the “D” word (depressed? oh, yikes) is something I did by accident in the paragraph above.  I still use that word lighter than most, and it’s because that’s how I was raised.  I get that joking about depression is a big no-no today, but…just, come on.  I’ve been kinda’ down lately and I wanted to use that word so get over it.  Have I been clinically depressed?  (What are you a fuckin’ doctor?)  No, I haven’t (HE DOESN’T KNOW THAT FOR SURE, GUYS!)  There are just times when it feels like, “fuck, am I too far behind to catch up?”

How does this happen?  I’ll tell you!  You go on the trip of a lifetime.  You see the world for, literally, the first time, and you come back home feeling invigorated and like you’re going to change a few things to live that fuller life that’s possible.  But first you have to rest and be lazy for a few days because you’re tired from the trip.  Then after you rest, you’re like, “wait, what was that thing I was gonna do?”  By then, your body and brain has reacclimated to being that chair person that’s on every episode of trashy daytime television crying about how they’ve “tried every diet and NOTHING works!”

I wasn’t eating that well and had started to convince myself that gaining a few pounds is a thing that most adult males do, so fuck it.  I got back into snacks and scrolling through instagram for hours on end!  HOW COULD ANYTHING GO WRONG?  Maybe, JUST MAYBE, scanning the internet for everyone’s best picture of them living their best life for hours on end, isn’t the healthiest habit.  Maybe it hypnotized me into forgetting about how manicured people’s Instagram lives are.  Actually, not ‘maybe’, that’s what happened.  Instagram started feeling like a window into the lives of those around me and those lives looked way better than mine.  Where’s the window showing someone have a near panic-attack when trading in their leased 2016 Chevy Equinox?  “So like, how close do they inspect all the dents and dings?  Do they use a magnifying glass?  Or, just like run around the car real fast and not look closely at all?”

So then it’s time to play the age game, right?  The “I’m 33 years old so I shouldn’t be dealing with”-whatever game.  Mine version of the age game went something like “I’m 33 years old so I shouldn’t be panicking about how I’d pay for moderate car repairs.”  (I’m still kinda’ panicking about that btw, but I’m gaining perspective.)  Then, instead of going to the gym to make my brain feel better, I’d jump into the pity party steam-room and inhale only excuses.  “It is dark out and you’re sad about not being a millionaire so it’s okay to skip the gym.”  AGAIN, WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

Shit gains momentum when you let it.  All of a sudden, I’m kinda quiet and getting angry about things that shouldn’t make me angry.  You know how you get annoyed when you hear someone unwrapping a little piece of candy?  They crinkle the wrapper for two seconds and you feel a rush of “JUST THROW IT THE FUCK OUT!”  But once second number three hits, you’re fine and you totally forgot about it.  I was more of the “I still remember you and that fucking wrapper AND I WILL EXACT UNMERCIFUL REVENGE!” like a day later.  You ever tell your spouse or someone you’re super close with “I’m not mad at you, I’m just mad at everything” through clenched teeth?  The VP may have heard that once or twice.

Then I’d sit down in front of my computer, stare at the blank screen and try to write Jimmyschair.  Except now, the feeling I get looking at the blank word document had seeped into the rest of my life.  It wasn’t a challenge, it was standing over me celebrating it’s knockout.  And, guess what? The canvas is comfy!  I think that’s how it happens.  The first few times you’re lazy and stop trying and have a few beers and some pizza, it’s really enjoyable!  And if it’s not really enjoyable, it is really easy.  You’re like “wait, not trying is definitely easier than trying.  This is great!”

The canvas was comfy at first.  Not writing this blog was easier than writing this blog, so I did that.  But my tricky tricky brain did this thing where it convinced me that the reason I wasn’t writing this blog was also because it’s kind of a waste of time.  If I’m overtaken with stress about paying for a dented bumper and rent and our flights for that wedding and student loans and shit, we’ve gotta have a kid soon, right?  If I’m consumed with money-related stress, then I should only spend time on things that can make me money, right?  And, spoiler alert, I don’t earn money from this blog.  Thus, waste of time.  My mind jiu-jitsued my laziness into an acceptable response to stress.

So I stopped writing my blog for a while and spent time trying to figure out a way to make money writing.  But writing is like going to the gym, which I was also NOT doing, in that the longer you go without doing it, the harder it is to get back into it.  The next logical step to take, once out of proper writing shape, was to make the decision that writing a script was where my efforts should go.  Writing a blog was too hard, but writing my first script in 6 years and making it a good enough one to win a competition and provoke a Hollywood bidding war was reasonable.  YIKES!  Try taking a year off from running then convincing yourself a week before the Boston Marathon, that you could win it.  It should not have come as a surprise that the following mornings were spent, yet again, staring at a blank page, unable to muster a fuckin’ thing.

I forced myself to the gym again.  My ankle hurt and all my workout shirts were a little tighter than they used to be, but I went and forced the treadmill.  And it felt good.  My legs hurt like “should I go to a leg doctor person?” but it felt good.  And then I did it again and again and took a little break and then again and again.  I’m getting there.

I texted two old screenwriting friends for the first time in years and asked if it was still possible to do the whole write-a-movie-thing.  I knew they’d respond “yes,” but I needed to see it.  They didn’t respond “yes” though, they responded “FUCK YES!”  So now I created a writing schedule with one of them to hold each other accountable as we write our next script.

With the script work and the gym and my job, I just didn’t have time for Jimmyschair.  Right?  Right.  Until I did.

That felt good.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Yeah, I got really into this movie and soundtrack.  I’m sure it had nothing to do with my moods…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When people drive down alleys behind your apartment like they’re actual roads and almost smash into you and your numbah one pretty girl dogga.  Even if they’re not that close to actually hitting you, it wouldn’t be the worst thing if Michael Myers stumbled upon those drivers alone at night.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

It should come as no surprise that my bout with laziness and being kinda’ blue coincided with a DASTARDLY gambling run.  Does it also then come as no surprise that I didn’t start writing this blog again until I won my first parlay in weeks on Monday night and that’s the last bet I made?  Yeah, I’ve taken two days off to bask in the glory of my Monday night parlay, and you know what?

It feels good…and it’s going to feel even better when the Raiders cover tonight against the 49ers.  Yes, the Raiders blow, but betting on CJ Beathard as a favorite makes me wanna puke.

(My account is currently at $70ish)

K bye.

 

 

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

MY WORLD: 

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

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

How to hang a picture:

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

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

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

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

mirror

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

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

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

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

How to change a tire:

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

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

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

OUR WORLD:  

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

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

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

I hate this shit.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account currently sits at $43.18)

K bye.

 

Movie Trailer Reviews (Pt. 2) & I May Have to Retire from Sports (8/17/18)

OUR WORLD:

I get panic sweats from not being in my movie theater seat 5 minutes before showtime.  Getting The VP anywhere on time is a struggle I fully realize will plague me the rest of my life, but getting to the movie theater and airport with plenty of time to spare is something I will never be rational about.  We will be at the airport two hours before our flight.  We will be at the movie theater 20 minutes before showtime.  In the words of every U.S. Government Official in every action movie with terrorists: “this is not a negotiation.”  Unfortunately, forceful military analogies don’t work as well as ones involving fried food when it comes to connecting with The VP of “I’m Almost Done With My Make-Up”.  Along those lines, here is what I plan to tell her the next time I’m about to sweat through my shirt at the thought of missing the trailers.

Jimmy:  “Can we go ye-”

VP: “I’ll be done in two minutes thank you very much.”

Jimmy:  “This theater has mozzarella sticks.”

That’ll work.  She may chuckle and act like that’s not going to work, but the make-up brush will go down and there will be newfound urgency to her movements.  Mind you,  I won’t look into whether the theater does or does not, in fact, have mozzarella sticks, but I can deal with that meltdown once we’re in the building.  Yes, we’re going to see a movie, but passing up trailers is like…how can I put this in a way that The VP would understand:  Trailers are mozzarella sticks; meant to be a tasty treat before the main course, but so overwhelmingly delicious that they ALWAYS overshadow the entree.  Are you passing on free mozza sticks?  I didn’t think so.  Let’s get into Part 2…

“First Man”:

Ryan Gosling has officially entered the “if he’s in it, I’m probably going to want to go see it” tier of movie stardom.  Obviously, we’re going to be interested because space movies are sweet, but seeing Ryan Gosling and…WAIT, IS THAT COACH TAYLOR?!?! DID HE TRADE IN HIS FOOTBALL COACHIN’ WHISTLE FOR AN ASTRONAUT COACHIN’…WHISTLE?!?! YOU BET YOUR FUCKIN’ ASS HE DID!

If you’re not already in on a movie featuring space, Gosdaddy, and Coach CoolDad, may I interest you in a scary sounding soundtrack?  The music in the background of this trailer makes me look out of the sides of my eyes before walking slowly to the window with an inquisitive expression on my face.  I may whisper something like “what in the…” before turning back to the camera before CUT!

WHAT DID I SEE IN THE WINDOW?!?!  Space, guys.  I saw’d space stuffs.

I do understand hesitation in buying a ticket to see a movie where you already know the ending; we land on the moon and are all like “suck it Russia!”  That’s a valid argument against this movie, and the same one I use when explaining why I don’t go to Bond movies: we know he’s never gonna die.  HOWEVA!  The movie “Patriots Day” changed my mind on historically-based movies: there is drama involved in the details of missions we only saw the final results of.  “Patriots Day” is about the Boston Marathon bombers.  Yes, I knew the good guys got the bad guys, but I did NOT know what it took and it was ABSOLUTELY fascinating to see that.  “First Man” is about landing on the moon.  Yes, I know Neil Armstrong makes it, but I did NOT know that a certain former Texas high school football coach with a smile that could melt an iceberg was the one pulling the strings backstage.  Clear eyes, full space-shuttle-gas-tank, can’t lose.

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

GOOD

“Widows”:

Pairing the writer of “Gone Girl” with the Viola Davis cry-face is a deadly combination, but I’d be lying if I told you that I wasn’t leery of an action movie led by a 53 year-old woman who appears to be in just decent shape.  Is that fair?  Yes, Tom Cruise is older than Viola Davis in Mission Impossible, but he’s cut from stone and is the best movie runner of all time.  Have you ever seen Viola sprint down a dock with a boat burning in the background?  Me neither. I know Viola Davis from being a mayor in an action movie I can’t remember and for delivering all-time cheesy lines in promos for “How To Get Away With Murder”.

I did, however, start to buy in once I saw that Michelle Rodriguez was part of the “let’s kill the guys who killed our husbands”-crew.  Alright, if we have Viola Davis delivering dramatic lines with no facial expressions and Michelle Rodriguez doing Michelle Rodriguez things, you have my attention.  Rodriguez has “don’t fuck with me” written all over her face and is in the kind of shape where I’d be nervous about pissing her off in a dark alley.  Okay, starting to buy in, starting to buy in…then, hey! There’s another one in the crew with a shaved head and arms bigger than Bruce Willis’ in “Die Hard”!  Now we’re cooking with gas!

As the tense music nears the crescendo and I start remembering how much I love Colin Farrell in everything he has been in, I begin to slowly turn my head towards The VP to give her the “let’s see this”-look when…Oh, Viola no….PLEASE!…DON’T SAY IT!

Viola:  “No one thinks we have the balls to pull this off.”

She did it.  I can’t believe it except I totally can because I am now convinced that Viola Davis has a clause in every contract that reads “Viola will give at least 18 dead-eye stares into the camera, and must be the one to deliver the most cringe-worthy dramatic line in the movie.”  I get that women are leading action movies now and I support that, but if there’s going to be a wink-like line that the female lead has to say in every one of these movies COUNT. ME. OUT.

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

BAD

“Little Stranger”:

-Somehow, in the midst of our trailer binge, The VP of Ops stole the remote when I wasn’t looking and went straight for the British-y looking trailer.  British accents and big old houses are catnip for the VP, AND SHE’S NOT EVEN A CAT, GUYS!  SHE’S A WOMAN!  Meanwhile, I take British accents and fancy clothes and big old houses as an affront to my Chicago sensibilities.  So yes, I did spend most of this trailer giving the VP my unmistakable “you got a lotta fuckin’ nerve”-stare.

I didn’t intend to turn this trailer review into an examination into my marriage, but the fact that she picked this one is the type of selfish move that MUST BE CALLED OUT.  The VP’s thought process had to have gone something like this:  “Jimmy hates scary movies, and british accents, and big old houses, but mayb—Oh wait! It ALSO has no one either of us have ever heard of in it?”  So then there must have been only one thing she could have said to herself, “FUCK JIMMY!”  There’s no way around it, this was a stone-cold “Fuck Jimmy”-decision.

In the trailers picked thus far, have you seen anything along the lines of a documentary about Greg Norman’s 1996 collapse at The Masters?  Or, wait, remember that trailer I reviewed about the 2001 NBA Draft where the Bulls took Tyson Chandler AND traded up for Eddy Curry and I was convinced that the Bulls were about to start a new dynasty?  No, you haven’t heard of either of those trailers because a) they don’t exist and b) even if they did, I have enough COMMON DECENCY to not force my less-decent-than-me wife to sit through them.  It would be like your allergist diagnosing you with a peanut allergy while eating a delicious Dark Chocolate and Peanut Butter Kind Bar.  I don’t mean to exaggerate too much, but…it’s the way a serial killer thinks, right?  Guys? I’m right.  The serial killer is like “hmmm, I really enjoy murdering people, but I know this woman won’t enjoy being murdered so…ahhh, fuck her!”  Tell me how that’s different than what The VP did here.  I’ll wait.  (Pssst, it’s not different.)

As far as “Little Stranger” goes; who sees these movies?  Ooooooh a bunch of rich brits with weird facial hair are tormented by bells in their house that are ringing when they shouldn’t be.  Here’s an idea guys, buy a new house without bells!

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

BAD

MY WORLD:

An update on my dead ankle?  Sure, thanks for asking.  It still hurts, but the brace the doctor gave me has gotten me some sympathy and gotten me out of some tasks around the house, so that’s nice.  Honestly, what this injury really signals is that I’m never not going to be terrified to play any sport again for the rest of my life.

The few times I’ve played basketball over the last 5 years, I was constantly thinking about tearing my ACL because two of my friends did it.  “Hey guys, can I just be the guy who makes all the inbound passes?  That’s a position, right? Inbound passing guy?”  But now, after destroying my ankle by WALKING, there’s no way I’m going to be able to enjoy playing any sport ever again without thinking about some catastrophic leg injury.  (Catastrophic?  You turned your ankle Jimmy.  Fuckin’ relax.)  BUT WHAT IF I CAN’T RELAX?!?! WHAT IF I NEVER RECOVER?!?!

I remember when I was in my 20s and I would hear people in their 30s talk about how old they were and how their bodies changed and blah blah fuckin’ blah.  They were all drama queens who didn’t know how to work out properly.  And then this shitty thing happened where I turned 33, rolled my ankle in a goddamn pothole and now I’m POSITIVE I’m never going to be able to run without my ankle exploding again.   Did I have to contemplate this new reality after being invited to play soccer by a group of teenagers by my apartment last evening? No, they didn’t invite me and…well, they don’t even exist, but I have created this situation in my brain.  And if this situation ever does present itself, I will be compelled to tell these teens to relish the years between 13 and 19 before dramatically lifting my right pant leg to reveal my never-to-be-whole-again 33 year-old ankle.

“And that’s why I can’t play soccer with you guys.  Ever.”-I’ll say as I embellish a limp back towards my dumpy apartment building.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

GUYS! GUYS!! HEY GUYS!!!! THE NEW DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE ALBUM IS OUT!!!! I’ve had it on in the background as I wrote this, this morning, but haven’t focused on it yet.  No matter, I’m sure it’s earth-shatteringly delicious.  Here’s a sure-to-be hot hot track of the new album that I found a live version of!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When your dog hangs her head off the side of the couch in an undoubtable effort to make you feel guilty for not providing a yard for her to frolic and play in like all the dogs got to in the movies she saw as a puppy.  Hey Belle, who’s stopping you from getting a job and contributing?

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I’m back at $0 in my account after only betting parlays for the last week.  Confidence is at an all-time low.  Not joking when I say that I cannot remember the last time I won a bet.  I could look it up because it’s probably been about 3 weeks, but that’s a warning….THAT I’M DUE TO GO ON A REAL HEATER!!!!

(My Bovada account is currently at $0)

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.

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OUR WORLD:

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account is currently at $31.44)

K bye.

 

Common Drunk Mistakes and Not Going to the Gym (7/10/18)

OUR WORLD:

I didn’t drink yesterday!  I’m planning to not drink today too!!!  (Planning is an interesting word, Jimmy).  Sobriety is one slippery serpent around summer holidays (and stressful workweeks, and Fridays, and Saturdays, and winter holidays, and football Sundays, and…people I work with/for may be reading this so GIVE IT A REST, PAL!) but that mutant Wednesday holiday was a real jolt to my drinking equilibrium.  Is anyone REALLY mad if we just start celebrating Independence Day on the first Friday in July?  Lets give everyone a 3 day weekend and cool it with the midweek hangover.  Am I the only one who felt like last Wednesday was a test?  Paranoid-Jimmy sensed judgmental bitches out in FORCE on Thursday, taking stock of everyone wearing sunglasses and eating McDonald’s out of paper bags in their cars while parked outside suburban dialysis centers (you just got too specific there, Jimmy.  They know it’s you now).  I could almost hear these people saying “I guess SOMEBODY couldn’t control themselves on a midweek holiday.  REVOKE HIS ADULTHOOD CARD!”  Before I go off into a real tangent, I would like to propose that all McDonald’s drive-thru attendants begin each order by telling the person in the car that “everything is going to be okay.  Now, what can I get you?”  The amount of anxiety those simple words would help ease in the world could lead to the end of anti-depressants ALL TOGETHER.  Exaggeration? Well duh, but how many people going through the McDonald’s drive thru are really just searching for someone to tell them that “everything is going to be okay”?  My educated guess would be 100%.

Now, to the issue at hand.  Over the past week-ish, through observing and participating in some alcohol-fueled escapades, I’ve begun assembling a list of mistakes that all of us drinking folk make time after time after time.  We’ll tell ourselves that we’re going to make sure we do this or make sure we don’t do that, and then we have beers and shots and FUN and start thinking “EVERYONE LOVES EVERYTHING I DO!”  They don’t.  My initial goal of this piece was to help us to learn and better ourselves, but I’m no fool.  For the vast majority of us, this may simply be a therapeutic exercise in communal immaturity.  Here are the drunk-person mistakes that all us drinkers make and will continue to make because drinking impairs our decision-making abilities.  Or, as I like to call it, the first edition of the “Oh, I’m not the only who gets drunk and”-list of missteps.

Makes extravagant plans with friends about “finally putting a group trip together!” only to never talk about that trip until the next time you’re all very drunk.

I’ve agreed no less than 28 times to start planning a group trip to Michigan or Wisconsin or some other moderately priced, drive-able location while out drinking with friends.  It always happens when someone in the group just got back from a trip.  They have a tan and are happier/less stressed than normal because they just returned from “a relaxing few days.”  Everyone around them is jealous and saying things like “but I wanna!” to their significant others.  Natural progression includes the person who just returned from vacay proposing that the whole group goes to where they just were.  “Yay!” is usually what I think and ALWAYS what the VP actually says out loud.  Aside from the two friends at the bar thinking they’re taking “secret” shots even though everyone can see them, everyone agrees that this trip is something that MUST happen.

This is when trouble begins to arise.  Who is going to take the lead on planning this?  NOBODY in the entire universe wants that responsibility.  Hey Friendo, when you’re done with work and walking your dog and paying your bills and cooking your dinner and doing your laundry and parking on the street in the city and going to the gym and apologizing to your wife for losing the iPhone charger, would you mind corralling a group of functioning alcoholics to all agree on which weekend they should all spend more than really want to, to go to some place in Wisconsin they haven’t been since they were children?  TYSM!!!

So what ends up happening is…uh….nothing.  And most of the time, honestly, I’m relieved.  I have heard of people going on their phones while IN the bar and making reservations THAT NIGHT.  While I applaud the immediate follow-through, I’ve gotta admit that if I were part of that group I would IMMEDIATELY start thinking of potential excuses to drop a week before the actual trip.  Yes, friend trips are fun, but agreeing to spend a bunch of money while you’re already drunk and already spending a bunch of money at the bar?  Folks, that right there is the origin story of most panic attacks for 30 year olds (surprised you didn’t know that.  Also, if you’re over 30, like me, referring to yourself as a “30 year old” is a nice cheat-code to feel younger.)

Orders shots for all the people you’re with and immediately regrets having to pay $48 for 6 Fireball shots and a sure-fire hangover.

I love thinking about how shots must’ve been invented.  You know some drunk guy named Terry was out one night thinking “I love drinking beer, but I want to get drunk faster.  Liquor? Yeah, but I hate the taste.  What if…someone could like shoot something into my mouth REAL quick to get me drunk and I could go back to drinking beer?  SHOTS!”  Once Terry’s friend, Lorenzo, heard of this idea he joined in the fray and asked the bartender to just add a bunch of sugar to his “shot” to also help mask the taste.  Said bartender then, one late night, tired of feeling like candy dealer, put on a bowtie, grew a mustache and invented simple syrup.  “It’s actually not sugar, it’s a cocktail ingredient known as simple syrup,” said the first ever douchey Mixologist.  Boom, I just gave you the  evolution of alcohol.  (I have done no research into that, but I don’t want to know if it’s wrong.  I don’t care what anyone says.  No chance someone other than a dude named Terry invented shots. NOW GET BACK TO THE FUCKING POINT, JIMMY!)

The point is that now, age thirty tuoeiwe, shots are but an illicit daydream while out at the bar with friends.  No one is really going to ask the crew if they WANT shots because nobody wants to be met with the “you have a problem, don’t you?”-looks.  The way around this, however, is to just show up to the table with a tray of shots.  It’s a risky move because the majority of the table is going to be pseudo-pissed at you, but that’ll fade.  The people that are excited, though, will think of you as their Dark Knight of fireball for allowing them to use the “it would be rude NOT to take this”-excuse.  In the words of Chief Gordon, the Dark Knight of Fireball endures the ridicule “Because he can take it, because he’s not a hero.  He’s a silent guardian, a watchful protector, a Dark Knight.”

Are you, like me, one of these Dark Knights of Fireball?  Let’s talk.  Like me, I bet you told yourself before going out “no shots tonight.”  I bet once you got to the bar and had a few POPS you started laughing and having an absolute ball.  You’re doing some dance moves by yourself to the faint Top 40 songs playing on the speakers (excuse me DJ, can you please play some Steve Winwood?  Yeah, I’ll settle for Katy Perry.)  Next thing you know, you’re in the bathroom thinking to yourself “I’ve got my lady here, my friends here and just pulled off a killer flossing routine in the middle of the bar, how could this night get better?!?!”  That’s when you slowly look up from washing your hands and catch yourself in the mirror…”Shots.”  It’s exciting in the same way that the idea of smoking a cigarette is.  (Look cool and get a little extra buzz in the process!)  

You’re in full-on “ignoring consequences”-mode until directly after you put down the empty shot glass.  Fireball isn’t cheap, but you can’t close out your tab right this second because…uh…I STILL WANNA HAVE FUN!  So now you’re panicking as you run through all the times you bought fireball shots in the past trying to figure out how much it’s going to cost.  The “oh no”-face begins to take hold of you, but you have to play it off when your wife asks if everything is okay because NOBODY likes the “can we split that tray of shots?”-guy.  (Honestly, I’ve never seen one of the Dark Knights of Fireball ask to split the cost afterwards, but I’m POSITIVE they all think about asking.)  So you’re now stuck in the bar trying to do math (legally impossible after beer #7) while pretending that you’re still having a good time.  On top of that, you broke your “no shots” rule and you’re thinking about it now because panic spares no potential suitor.  When it begins, the panic zombie-goblins come back to life and begin feeding on any potential fear-inducing topic.  2 hours later, when you finally do close out your tab and sign your check, you nearly hyperventilate while thinking about your bank account, tomorrow’s hangover, and how your pants are going to feel after you DEMOLISH late-night pizza.  Everything is, most certainly, not okay.

Thinks that no matter where you are, walking home is a good idea.

I don’t care if I’m at a bar in the middle of the goddamn ocean, the second close out my tab I’m thinking “walkin’ time!”  There are so many reasons for this, but the top one has to be that walking home allows for the possibility of stopping at a late-night eatery for some delicious delicious treats.  (I’ve gotta do a list of “Best Late Night Eats” at some point.)  Asking an Uber to go through a drive-thru includes feeling ashamed for involving a stranger in your excess (this is our little secret!) AND ALSO risks the driver messing up your order when he asks what he should say into the drive-thru speaker.  If you’re walking, you get to play the “well, I mean, McDonald’s is right there” game of chicken with your spouse.  Saying ‘no’ to McDonald’s after midnight is the type of self-control that is written about in books that smarter people than me read.  Whenever I’m late-night walking with The VP and toss out the “McDonald’s?” she shrugs in an effort to mask how OVERWHELMINGLY EXCITED she is that I was the one to suggest it.  (The Dark Knight strikes again).

Unfortunately, when you live in a city like Chicago, with tons of stories about drunk idiots (me? are you talking about me?) getting mugged, walking home is NOT. SAFE.  When I’m going out without The VP, she actually makes me promise her that I won’t walk home.  Little does The VP of Ops know that my toes are crossed when I make this promise and YOU CAN’T GET MAD ABOUT CROSSIES!!! YOU CAN’T!  If I simply plan to speed-walk home while zig-zagging down the sidewalk, “tough to hit a moving target”-style, I should be fine (I’m legit V nervous that I just jinxed myself.)  When I’m descending into panic-mode following my OUTRAGEOUS bar spend, skipping the $13 Uber ride is going to make me feel just a little bit better.  And at that point of the night, every little bit counts!

Finally, I don’t care what kind of shape you’re in, everyone loves breaking into the “I just want to be home right this second”-drunksprint and we’re ALL convinced that our drunksprint is faster than any car ever put on this earth.  The next “Fast & The Furious” movie should really be about dueling drunksprinters.

MY WORLD:

I’ve taken the last week off from working out because during my last run I felt some crazy pulling on my hamstrings.  I told myself that I needed the rest, which I probably did, but I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t A BILLION PERCENT THRILLED to have a legitimate excuse to not go to the gym for a little while.  The downside of this MANDATORY vacation, however, is the guilt associated following every meal.  Some of the things I’ve considered to combat this fat-guilt I’ve been experiencing, include:

-Shaving my beard:  Shaving makes your face look thinner.  I’ve had a “beard” (stop laughing Dad!) for a few months now, so if I shaved it, I think people would be like “whoa, have you been losing weight?”  Tricked ya!

-Cutting my hair:  I need a haircut and have been wearing a hat for about 5 weeks straight now to hide this fact.  Along the same lines as the beard thing, if I get a haircut, it could distract people from my widening torso.  If I got a SUPER new haircut, like a buzz or one of those cool hipster/hitler-youth haircuts, people would def not notice that I’m wearing my “the diet is not going well”-jeans.

-Embracing being bigger:  I just don’t think I’m tall enough to pull off “big guy”.  It stinks because I feel like there are taller guys who are overweight, but they wear it well so they can just be “the big guy.”  I wanna be “the big guy”!  When I gain weight, I’m stocky and NOBODY wants to be “the stocky guy”.  Is there any other way I can embrace the inevitability of getting bigger?  I’m open to suggestions here.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

My Dad sent me the link to this song last week.  I remember when I told people that I hated country music.  I do not feel that way anymore.  This song is fabulous.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you bring your car in for an inspection and the body shop guy comes into the waiting room because he “needs to talk to you about something.”  GREAT!

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Been really up and down lately.  Hit big on some World Cup bets last week but also learned the hard lesson that betting the moneyline in soccer means your team has to win by the end of regulation.  I realized this while celebrating my Croatia “win” and assuring my gambling partners that Bovada must be malfunctioning because it hadn’t paid us out yet.  After about 19 page refreshes, The VP googled “soccer gambling” for me and broke my heart while reading the moneyline regulation rules.  If I would’ve known gambling involved reading and learning, I never would’ve gotten into it.  Today I’ve got Belgium because I bet on them before the tournament started and don’t want to start rooting against them now even though I’m TERRIFIED of that fast French dude MBappe.

(Current balance at $31.87)

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.