I’m Not Exercising, but It’s Not My Fault

*Quick disclaimer: Remember when I wrote about how I was shot in the head by the Chicago Bears starting kicker? That was like so so long ago that I can’t even remember it! Tehehehehe! I just want you to know that I’m okay. Unfortunately, due to doctor-patient legalese that I don’t want to bore you with, I can’t get into specifics like if I was actually shot in the head with a gun by Cody Parkey. Just know that I’m going to be okay and I WOULD get into it, but I don’t want to be tied up in court cases for the foreseeable future. Lawyers, amirite?!?!

OUR WORLD:

For most of you, now is the time of year you’re getting back into shape, looking in the mirror and saying things like “this year’s gonna be different”, getting more serious about your career, and showing off all the new clothes you got for Christmas. What a hopeful time! But then, there are people like…well, me. The kind of people who went to the gym yesterday, realized they forgot to pack gym shorts, and used that as a very very acceptable excuse to then go home without working out. Do you live 2 blocks from the gym too? Did you also then drink a beer while watching “The Bachelor” on DVR?!?! MY PEOPLE!

In an effort to help all of my fellow Chairmen out there (whoa, who wants to start a “Chairmen” fan club?!?!) I wanted to help you out with things you can watch and listen to while you’re at home and not at the gym but only because you forgot to pack your shorts. Don’t worry, we all know had you packed your shorts, you’d be pounding that treadmill like all those try-hards clogging your Facebook feed with their #NewYearNewMe selifes.

THE JIMMYSCHAIR “DAMN, I FORGOT TO PACK MY GYM SHORTS, AND I CAN’T WORKOUT IN WORK PANTS, SO I’M HEARTBROKEN TO BE FORCED TO JUST GO HOME AND DO THIS INSTEAD” LIST

WATCH THIS: “Bodyguard” (Netflix Show)

The first half of the first episode of this show is, quite possibly, the most exciting first half of an episode of television I have ever seen. Quite? You know what, I’m gonna upgrade that to ‘VERY quite’. Aside from looking to your significant other and saying things like “holy fucking butt!” you will find yourself wondering where the main dude is from. He has one of those “I know you”-faces and it’ll take a minute. Then your wife will look it up on IMDB, even though you ask her to “let me think about it,” and tell you that it’s the Game of Thrones guy! The one that….?! YEAH! THAT ONE!

I know how hard it is to get into a new show these days, with all of the options out there, but this one has an easy litmus test. If you watch the first 15 minutes and aren’t into it, then pull the ripcord because you’re A LOON WHO COULDN’T RECOGNIZE GREAT TELEVISION IF IT SHOT YOU IN THE HEAD LIKE CODY PARKEY SHO—(REDACTED BY JIMMY’S LEGAL TEAM)—and now people are feeling bad for him?!?!?! Sorry, I lost control for a second. Just watch the first 15 minutes of the first episode and judge for yourself.

Oh yeah, quickly, I would like to officially announce that I have flipped my long held belief that watching a show with subtitles STINKS. There’s an exception to that rule: if the main characters have thick accents, subtitles do not stink. In fact, they enhance the viewing experience because you’ll no longer have to rewind every 3.7 seconds when your wife goes “wait, what did he just say?” Trust me, aside from being able to know exactly what Andy Accent just said, you’re also going to avoid many “well maybe if you’d just pay attention and stop looking at your phone, you’d know what he said”-fights with your significant other.

What is the show actually about? Look it up on IMDB. It doesn’t matter, though, I’m telling you it’s good.

LISTEN TO THIS: “Bag Man” (Podcast)

If you’re looking to not think about sports because the kicker for your favorite team recently missed a kick, forcing your favorite team out of the playoffs before they were supposed to be out, and then ended up shooting yo–(REDACTED BY JIMMY’S LEGAL TEAM)–and you’re like, how do people still feel bad for this guy?!?! Then I am BEGGING you to listen to this podcast hosted by Rachel Maddow. Not a fan of Rachel Maddow? First off, that’s a red flag that you’re a red jag (I’m really proud of that line and am going to take a lap around the apartment to celebrate it) but, also, you don’t have to be a fan of hers to enjoy this. However you feel politically, there’s no argument that she has a nice voice. It’s soothing and smart without being too NPR-ish (why does everyone on NPR whisper-talk?!?!)

So you settle in with a smart, soothing voice to help you forget the third workout in a row you’ve missed because you forgot to pack those damn shorts again!!! From there, it’s an incredibly fascinating deep dive into the story surrounding Richard Nixon’s VP (not his wife), Spiro Agnew. Have you heard of this dude before? Oh…you have? Yeah, me too. Totally. Spiro? I thought you said ‘Steven’! Yeah, I know Spiro. It was confusing cuz I was all like “I definitely know a Spiro Agnew, but I don’t know a Steven Agnew.”

Anyway, as we all know, Spiro Agnew, was Nixon’s VP throughout his first term and up until right before the Watergate shit REALLY hit the fan. He ended up resigning because of…well, people weren’t really sure but it seemed like it was kinda related to some minor tax evasion issue. The real story of why he actually resigned was lost in the glut of history, and that’s what this podcast delves into. Why was Spiro Agnew the first VP to ever resign while in office? And, folks, it was not just because of some minor tax evasion charge. We’re talking conspiracy, “I can’t believe this happened in real life”-type shit. It’s intoxicating.

The VP and I listened to this entire series while driving down to Mississippi for Christmas and it made me love sitting in my car for hours on end. Since listening to this podcast, I have been obsessed with everything related to Watergate and Nixon. History repeats itself y’all, and I can’t wait to write a review 20 years from now about “Bag Man 2: Trump Did Bad Stuff!”

COOK THIS: Gorgonzola-Stuffed Steak Roll-Ups

Every year when The VP and I head down to her family’s in Mississippi, I cook a meal for everybody one night. It makes me feel like less of a piece of shit for eating all their food for a week, and The VP gets to offer to help me in front of her Mom (I decline this help because I don’t need help. Ever.) Last year I made Chicken Parmesan and spaghetti, but this year I wanted to step it up a notch; a last ditch effort to get everyone to be impressed with me despite my wardrobe.

So I looked up a fancy recipe and this one was the perfect combination of looking like it took a TON of skill and effort, while not actually taking that much skill or effort. BINGO! Here’s what you do:

–Get a flank steak that’s butterflied. If you get one that’s not butterflied already, GOOD LUCK PAL!

–Sprinkle kosher salt and ground black pepper all over the steak. The higher you hold your hand while sprinkling, the cooler you look.

–Across the middle, line the steak with gorgonzola cheese, fire-roasted chopped red peppers, and arugula. You’re going to roll this shit up, so don’t go nuts with how much of each you put in.

–Time to roll that steak over the cheese, peppers and arugula. This is kinda gross as you really have to manhandle the meat to do this properly, but that’s what badass professional chefs do. Word to the wise; once rolled, you’re going to need to tie this bad boy. Have 6-8 long pieces of kitchen twine cut before you start to roll the steak.

–Once rolled, tie it up with the kitchen twine. Think one tie every 1.5 inches along the length of the steak roll. Tie it especially at the ends of the steak. You’re trying to keep all the gooey cheesiness inside.

–Cut this steak roll into like 4 equal pieces. Make sure not to cut too close to the ties, so as not to undo all the cool badass chef stuff you’ve done already. You’re going to sear these.

–Once cut, get a cast iron skillet SCORCHING hot with olive oil. I’m talking the kind of hot that sets off the smoke alarm in your Ukrainian Village, one-bedroom apartment (just me?) You’re going to sear these steak pinwheels, cut-side down, for about 2 minutes each side. Once done. Pop the skillet with the steak pinwheels into the oven (350 degrees) for about 10 more minutes.

–Take out of the oven, cover with foil on a plate, and let rest for 5 minutes before cutting the twine and serving.

–Serve and act all nonchalant about what you just did.

MY WORLD:

With my head recovering from–(REDACTED BY JIMMY’S LEGAL TEAM)–I wanted to talk about something a little lighter today. And by lighter, I mean food that makes you heavier! I give you the Official 2019 Jimmyschair Fast Food Chain Restaurants Ranking (Pizza not allowed):

McDonald’s: Best chemicals in the game. I’m not debating this.
Chick Fil A: There’s no denying those biscuits. Also, the service is just delightful!
Newks: Southern sandwich/pizza chain. The Newks Q is all I want to eat when I’m visiting the VPs fam. Like, every meal. I’m not exaggerating that I suggest it for every meal.
In-N-Out: I was a hater for no good reason for way too long. The cheeseburger is so good, it doesn’t matter that the fries suck.
Potbelly: Chicken salad sandwich with bacon. FOGETTABOUDIT!
Starbucks: their sandwiches are tremendous. Also, don’t sleep on their chocolate chip cookies.
Taco Bell: Had it for the first time last year. What a revelation. The taco with the Dorito shell is a game-changer.
Kane’s Chicken: Best sauce in the entire universe.
Auntie Anne’s: Limited menu? Yes. But is there a better smell in the world than those pretzels?
Jimmy John’s: Their bread is incredible and has become my go-to sandwich spot when I’m hungover.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The VP and I watched “The Bachelor” last night and it was just okay, which is why I didn’t write a full-on review. This season is all about how the bachelor, Colton, is a virgin. It’s weird. There was a part that made me laugh really hard though, and so I recorded it. Chris Harrison, the host, was talking to Colton about how people have reacted to him being a virgin. As Colton went through some insults hurled his way, Chris Harrison forced his way in with a “that you’re not a man!” and it got me REAL GOOD. Enjoy.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you wake up with a crick in your neck and you have to do weird neck stretches all day that make you look like the bad guy from “Men In Black”.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I made a bet with a friend of mine that the Cody Parkey will not be on the Bears opening day roster next year. This means that he now has to root for the Bears to keep the person who just ruined the most fun season of the past 10 years. HAVE FUN WITH THAT PAL!

K bye.

The VP and I Go To Ireland – Part 2 of ? – (9/18/18)

-CONTINUED-

Rumbling. The other tourists around me heard it too, but they carried on. This church, it seemed, was worth ignoring looming threats from beyond it’s walls. Something was off. Something was…coming…I sprung up out of the pew, blew a kiss to the rendering of our lord and savior Jesus Harry Christ and ripped my shirt off. This was no time for restricted movements. “Jimmy, what’s happening?!?!”–shrieked The VP from near the confessional. The walls shivered, a baby cried. Panic reigned as I reached The VP. Stained glass shattered behind me; sprinting down aisles meant for solemn processionals. The VP, slung over my shoulder (kettle bells), violently gasped “FASTER! FASTER JIMMY!” Thankfully, quiet nights spent training on Planet Fitness stair masters back home gave me that extra gear. Nearing the exit, I looked back, sweat stinging my eyes as the shadowy intruders rushed towards us. “Not today,” I said, “not today.”

Then we got outside, I put my shirt back on and we walked over to Guinness.

Having worked in beer for a while now, I was expecting a pretty routine tourist experience. I know what you’re thinking “I thought you weren’t those Americans?” Yeah, well I mean I just said I wasn’t even that excited about the Guinness tour, so we’re not. So shut up. The VP had yet to have a Guinness in Ireland yet and, even though she had tried a sip or two of mine back in the states, had no real feelings toward the product. Honestly, neither did I. Outside of some St. Patrick’s day slamming, I rarely drank Guinness. The VP did a great job of feigning excitement as we entered; an Oscar-worthy performance if I’m being completely hyperbolic (see what I did there? WINK!)

I’m telling you, though, as we started the self-guided tour it became a progression of shared looks that went from “hmmm….” to “well, I mean, that’s cool” to “holy shit! Here, come check this out!” I’ve heard people say that it’s a museum, but museums are static. This place crackled. It’s not a museum, it’s an adult amusement park (no…that sounds X-rated. Try again). The Guinness storehouse is a beer-fueled V12 engine that, amazingly, does not swerve.

The tour guides are natural performers, engaging as they walk you through how to pour a perfect pint and how to properly taste a beer that every idiot alive in Chicago takes for granted once a year. If you think wine has the romance market cornered, try drinking a Guinness in their lounge as servers, without warning, transform into dancers and the lounge transforms into an experience. Remember when I said I loved surprises? One minute, this girl was clearing tables of empty pint glasses. The next…

Guinness makes Irish step-dancing feel cool. THAT is how cool Guinness is; it makes one of the easiest targets for ridicule feel POWERFUL. After this performance, The VP and I gave each other a “should we…like…become Irish step dancers now?” Following another pint sitting next to some dorks wearing backpacks and plenty of “well that was awesome”s, we made our way up to the FINAL DESTINATION of the Guinness tour. Atop the building, they have a circular bar with 360 degrees of floor to ceiling windows. Yeah, it’s crowded, but quit being a little bitch about it. Trust, this is worth powering through a random arm graze. Growing up in Chicago, skylines became synonymous with tall buildings. You know what else is impressive? A skyline where you can see the FUCKING SKY. In the words of The VP: “What dat is?” There are clouds and stuff serving as a pillowy background for the explosive green hills sprawling throughout every one of those 360 degrees. Nature is beeeyuuful!

*Evidently, I went into a “yeah, I’ll just remember this”-haze and forgot to take pictures of these views. GREAT JOB JIMMY! So, here’s a video of a whistling oyster thing.

As nighttime descended, we stopped by a hip spot for a “hey, we’re cool young adults”-dinner of oysters and cheese. (When did cheese and crackers go from the snack your grandma gave you as a kid to a staple on every hipstery restaurant menu? I’m not complaining.) I felt compelled to take a break from Guinness because my body has been conditioned to send “you’re getting fat” warning signs to my brain whenever I drink two beers. This time, though, when I got the “cool it with the beer fatso!” warnings, I…couldn’t…stop. Yeah, the Guinness is better over there and it’s also kinda light and CALORIES DON’T COUNT ON VACATION!!! So I gave my pants button a “good luck pal”-wink and ordered another Guinness and then another and then we had to go to another place to order more Guinness.

After dinner we made our way to an area called “Temple Bar”. It’s a bar-heavy area but there’s also a bar called “Temple Bar” that we didn’t go in, but I’m curious if that bar was so great that the mayor of Dublin one day was just like “yeah, let’s just call the whole area ‘Temple Bar'”. (I don’t hate the idea of renaming neighborhoods every 4 years after the best bar/restaurant in the neighborhood. I’m sure suburbanites would have an issue being renamed “Marianos’ Rotisserie Chicken Counter,” but that’s an issue they can take up with their city council.) Continuing our “We’re not those Americans”-efforts, we skipped the actual Temple Bar for a spot our taxi driver recommended called “Palace Bar.” It was Saturday night and it was friggin’ packed. I know what you’re thinking, “but did they have Guinness?”

A packed bar in Ireland is also very different than a packed bar in Chicago. In Chicago, it seems that every dude in a packed bar is DYING for someone to bump into him so he can drop a “got a problem?” in front of a girl he’s trying to impress. (Single Jimmy LOVED acting tough in bars). Now, there are some nights where The VP and I get to a crowded bar and I go into painful Yoga poses in order to not touch all the Johnny GotAProblem?s. In Ireland, though, maybe because the drink of choice is a low abv beer and not a Red Bull Vodka, but the people seem almost happy to feel crowded. Making my way to the bar at “Palace Bar” consisted of making the “I’m so sorry”-face while also saying “I’m so sorry” about 9 thousand times. And every time, I was met with a smile and a “cheers”. There wasn’t one accidental elbow that was met with a snarl. The crowd was like one big hug. Reason #736 that the Ireland bar scene is better than America’s: I never had to come even close to acting not scared in front of The VP about a potential fight. It’s hard to enjoy a beer while lying to The VP that “I have no problem going outside with that guy.” Yeah, it’s more like “No, I’m not enjoying my beer because I may start crying if that dude I accidentally grazed actually takes me up on my offer to ‘take it outside’.” HEY GUY, I WAS JUST KIDDING ABOUT THE OUTSIDE THING! IT’S SCARY OUT THERE!

After a severe case of hiccups ruined my “it’s impossible to drown me in Guinness” demonstration, we made our way back to the hotel. These memories are fuzzy in the best sort of way. A trip to Subway was included because we’re so secure in not being those Americans that we felt comfortable ordering a late night sandy. Gah fuhbid! We woke up the next morning with zero “oh my god, what do I have to apologize for?” fears. When you wake up with a minor hangover AND a faint smile, you know it was a good night. Now, me breaking the shower door with my ass that morning did not help calm my body image insecurities, but The VP did seem to buy my “the door just like fell off”-cover. My big, destructive ass was my little secret for at least another day.

Then it was time to go back to the airport to pick up our rental car to REALLY begin our trip. The idea of driving on the other side of the road in a country you’ve never been to is nerve-wracking, but not exactly paralyzing while booking through Enterprise on my big comfy chair. When you’re in a taxi on the way to pick up the car, though, that fear not only seeped in, it wrapped it’s talons around my throat while growling “it’s NOT going to be okay, Jimmy” into my ear. The VP must have said “you’re going to do great,” no less than 92 times in that cab ride. My response of choice was a chuckle-cough; a classic way to cover up a little cry at the end of a forced laugh. By the time we got to the car rental drop-off, I had made the executive decision that the only way for me to get out of driving for the rest of the trip was to attach myself to our taxi driver’s leg while scream-crying “I’m not the man my father thinks I am!” As the driver opened my door, I zeroed in on his bulky right ankle, before looking back The VP and saying, “I have no other options.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

K bye.

*Yes, I know the videos are playing sideways. I don’t know how to fix it yet. ISN’T THIS BLOG CHARMING?!?!

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.

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

OUR WORLD:

Was I the only one to mutter “fuck this world with my whole heart” this morning? My Monday morning routine has come to include vile self-talk followed by a sad march to make coffee before sitting on the couch and hugging my dog until she gives me the “are you actually about to start crying?” pull-away. (Are we sure that hugging your dog can’t turn back the clock until it’s Sunday morning again? BUT ARE WE SURE?!?!) It’s quite the scene in the Pomerantz household. (Household? You live in an apartment, pal. Quit fibbin!”) Now that I’ve finished shaking my head at nothing in particular, I’m ready to put my energy into finding perspective. This section is somewhat twisted. I’m aware that making myself feel better by thinking about the misfortune of others isn’t exactly the most noble of pursuits. GOOD THING I’M NOT NOBLE! Faithful readers, lets take a trip back to…the “At Least I Don’t Have To Do That”-Job list.

Biker Gang Organizer:

I was in the burgeoning metropolis of Rockford, Illinois for a work event at a big sports bar this Saturday. Unbeknownst to me, Rockford is home to large biker organizations (I don’t know if it’s a gang and if they read this and saw “gang” would they get mad and come find me? Oh who am I kidding? Bikers can’t read!) GANG! In the middle of my event, a biker GANG (still kinda’ scared…) pulled into the parking lot of the bar. This gang consisted of about 60ish large humans wearing leather vests and bandanas while sitting on OBNOXIOUSLY loud motor vehicles. The bar hosting my event was also the second stop on a Biker Bar Crawl. I felt so lucky! (Lucky? Or that feeling when you’re terrified and sad and annoyed at the same time but you act excited because the people around you think bikers are cool? Yeah, the second one.)

Once all of the “I’m tough because I bought a leather vest”-people had parked their bikes, however, a leader emerged. A fleshy fellow walked to the middle of the lot, did that super loud whistle thing where you put fingers in your mouth, and yelled to the crew “WHAT DOES SINGLE-FILE MEAN?!” I confidently raised my hand, but I guess I didn’t count. (Fucking bullshit.) If we’re being honest, he didn’t seem to genuinely care if people did know because he continued with his loathsome rant pretty quickly, “IT MEANS SINGLE FUCKING FILE!” Ohhhhhhhhh! But I thought, it meant…double….file. The gang looked to each other with knowing nods, shared some chuckles and said things like “I’m glad that Larry is so willing to share what he knows with the rest of us!” Seeing education live is inspiring.

But then I watched Screamy Larry head over to his clique for a few aggressive fist bumps and backpats. It was clear he was not the leader of the Biker Gang. Instead, he must’ve been the organizer guy; which makes sense because a Biker Gang leader doesn’t have to do stuff like look behind him while riding to make sure everyone is in single file. Jax Teller never looked back, only ahead (Sons of Anarchy reference. If you don’t get it, watch the show NOW.) So I started thinking how much it must SUCK to be the guy in the biker gang in charge of making sure they stay in single file while riding around towns. Further, there’s no way that the single-file thing is all Screamy Larry is responsible for, he must be like the Head of Organizing for the biker gang. So the screaming made sense. Can you imagine how frustrating it must be to have to organize a biker gang?!

Aside from the whole single-file fiasco, he’s probably in charge of: figuring out how much each biker owes when they go out for a big group lunch; making sure everyone has the right patch on their leather vest; scheduling the chores at the biker gang clubhouse; AND, Screamy Larry also probably has to keep track of all of the members’ birthdays, ensuring they don’t forget to sing “Happy Birthday” and have cake in the break room. Remember the time they forgot Knuckles’ birthday? Knuckles and Screamy Larry do. Simply can’t have that.

Today, when you’re staring at your computer screen while telling yourself not to say what you really want to say to your boss, be grateful that your job doesn’t entail having to send Venmo reminders to bikers who still owe from yesterday’s team lunch at Longhorn Steakhouse. Screamy Larry knows that half the gang doesn’t even have Venmo, but asking a biker, in person, for money is something he’s just not up for on a Monday.

Money People:

This is broad and general because the whole “money management” universe is foreign and supremely intimidating. I have friends and a brother who work in this world and I cannot imagine the stress of it. Heading to the office on a Monday in charge of managing someone’s retirement or life savings or couch change would fill me with the type of anxiety that necessitates a 3rd martini on a Sunday night (NEVER a good idea).

What do their voicemails sound like? “Hey Jimmy, Mr. Perrywinkle here, I saw a report on the news that the market is taking a dive. Is that the same market you just passionately convinced me to put my life savings into? Just checking, let me know!” There have to be calls like that, right? And then you’d have to call back to remind the person whose bank account you just decimated that the market is, ultimately, unpredictable. I’m sure they understand…

(I always feel impossibly ignorant when talking about money stuff….BUT LETS KEEP GOING!) When I see reports about the stock market doing well or not doing well or doing the same, I think to myself “that should probably interest me more than it does.” In reality, I’m just annoyed that the news put the ‘Market Report’ ahead of the story about ‘Chicago’s Best Mozzarella Stick.’ (The answer is “Roots Pizza” FYI. You’re welcome.) The money guys, though, probably feel their phones seizing during any report about THE MARKET. I can imagine a money guy or gal taking their dog for a walk on a nice day when, out of nowhere, their phone begins vibrating so much that it starts a mini friction-fire in their pants pocket. “Uh oh, THE MARKET!”

Aside from having to be the face of market fluctuations, Money people have to make a lot of spreadsheets and graphs and presentations to really smart people in suits about spreadsheets and graphs. Decimals and percentages and JESUS H. CHRIST it’s hard to breathe while wearing a tie in the summer. If I were a money guy, all of my presentations would just be titled “We Should Invest in ______ Because My Rich Grandpa Said We Should.” That would be the entire presentation, actually.

Rich Person’s Assistant

Most of us work in jobs where we’re surrounded by co-workers who earn about the same amount. Today, when you’re having a mild panic attack re: the $74 you spent on brunch yesterday, you can look to either side and see co-workers also nervously typing in their online banking passwords. The Monday money check is a trying time, but we’re all in it together. That is, of course, unless you work as a personal assistant for a super rich person. While you’re scrolling through the 14 separate charges from “Louie’s Pub” on your Chase Mobile App, your boss is tasking you with picking out a new Monday watch for him. “Something that’s not too flashy, but enough to where people will know that I use the word ‘summer’ as a verb.” That means the assistant gets to go into the jewelry store with a security guard!

Who do these assistants relate to at their job? Who is the friend they can pull aside for the “you know, I hate to complain, but…”-chats? The housekeeper’s are not on your side because they know that you get to ride in the fancy cars. You can’t whine to the spouse because YOU KNOW they’re just going to tattle on you the next time they feel like having a “you can trust me”-convo with your boss. The kids just think of you as the person who gets them the things they want. So you’re left to text your friends who are too busy pretending to not look at their phones on Monday morning. YOU ARE ALONE AND POOR IN A BIG, EXPENSIVE HOUSE! If I was a rich person’s assistant, I would have a designated time every Monday morning where I would just stare at a mirror while crying. I’d also probably steal little things like toilet paper and the little dog poop bags.

MY WORLD:

I’m a one-pair-of-jeans-for-6-to-8-months kind of guy, and it appears I am nearing the end of the road for my current pair of jeans. This always happens and it’s never not sad. The crotchal region of my jeans, having been stretched for months on end, begins to wear…and then a hole appears. This hole gets large quickly and I am forced to retire the jeans. My current jeans are hanging on by mere threads. Upon close inspection this morning, we’re looking at another 3.6 days tops. This means that for the next two weeks I have to wear pants that I don’t really want to be wearing. It also means that I will be a little depressed because as hard as I try, there’s no way around thinking that the jeans died because my thighs got fatter. If you happen to catch me staring down at my thighs over the next two weeks, do me a favor and feel free to mention that my legs don’t look chubbier than they did 6 months ago. A simple “it’s gonna be okay” would suffice too.

And you think you’re having a tough Monday.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’m seeing Dave Matthews Band this weekend and I am so excited I’m going to talk about it to strangers this week!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you get up at 4 A.M. on Monday morning and think “is it even worth it to try to go back to sleep?” Next time this happens to me, I may just buy a ticket to Yugoslavia and start a new life.

GAMBLING WENT HORRIBLY THIS WEEKEND, THANKS FOR ASKING! TURNS OUT, BLINDLY BETTING ON A SPORT YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT (SOCCER) IS NOT A RECIPE FOR SUCCESS. LIVE AND LEARN.

K bye.

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

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY WORLD:

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

socks

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Rainy Fridays in the summer.

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

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

K bye.

Car People and Tight Shorts (6/6/18)

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

K bye.

Bachelorette Pt. 2 and Acting Young (6/1/18)

OUR WORLD:

Who’s ready for part 2 of Jimmy’s “Rapid Fire Judgement Zone”?!?! I AM FEELING VERY JUDGY THIS MORN!!!!

Jason NY

Jason “Sr. Corporate Banker” (New York): A banker who uses a TON of gel in his hair is a little too on the nose, right? This is the kind of guy that only drinks vodka sodas at the bar while gently touching his hair to make sure it’s not out of place. NOPE.

OFFICIAL PREDICTION: He stays a little longer than you’d think because he starts to blend into the background and Becca forgets that he’s there. Then, one night when Becca is having an especially hard time figuring out who to send packing, Chris Harrison reminds her that Jason is still there. Relieved, Becca sprints to the rose ceremony and tosses Jason out like a surly umpire throwing a high school brat out of a playoff game. YOUUUUU’REEEEE OUTTTTTAA HEEEEEERRRRRREEEEE!

Jean Blanc

Jean Blanc “Colognoisseur” (Florida): You know me by now, right? Take a wild guess how I feel about a guy who collects expensive colognes, talks about “accouterments”, and wears a MONSTER bow tie…Here’s a somewhat controversial take: he’s the least likable person on the show so far. Hear me out! We’ll get to the male model later, but this guy seems VERY GENUINE about being a “colognoisseur”. Like, I don’t think ABC producers have told him to ramp it up. If anything, I imagine the producers were like “jesus, this dude is REALLY into spray bottles full of smells.” I don’t have any cologne-guys for friends. Maybe some of them wear it, but I have never had a friend talk to me about their cologne. If they did, I would immediately label them “cologne guy” and loudly ask them in public places “What scent did you go with today, Terry?!?!” Villains are into cologne, not heroes.

OFFICIAL PREDICTION: Becca gets rid of this guy in like 3 episodes. She has to catch on to his ever-changing scents, right? That’s a red flag, y’all.

Joe “Grocery Store Owner” (Illinois): I want to like this guy more than I did (spoiler alert: he gone) The VP was ALL IN on this dude, and I kinda’ get it. He was endearing when he choked during his first interaction with Becca, but he’s a grocery store owner who looks 15 years older than he is. A Chicago guy with a non-flashy job seemed right up my alley, but then he just…got…a little….too into talking about watermelons. Hey guy, “I sell watermelons” isn’t an awesome pick-up line. You think Becca couldn’t wait to call her family later that night to tell them “I think I’m falling for the watermelon salesman!” Quit fibbing yourself, bro.

OFFICIAL PREDICTION: He was booted, but The VP still loves him. This means that for the next 3 months, any guy in Chicago that kinda looks like this guy, she will instantly think it IS this guy and probably call me to brag about being in the same CVS as “that grocery store guy from Bachelorette.” She won’t even remember his name. SAD!

John CA

John “Software Engineer” (California): This guy dropped a HAMMER of a line when he said “I build the Venmo app.” Becca should’ve married this guy that second. I like this guy. He’s normal with a WILDLY impressive job relies on his brain and not him being a slimeball. I don’t know a TON of engineers, but they’re all the same: side part, boring fashion, even-tempered, smart, stable, and, eventually, will make a BUTTLOAD OF SWEEEEEEEET CAAAASSSSSHHHHHH. Will this dude make you laugh everyday? Probably not. But he also will never cheat on you or get heated in a fight about how to speak to a Comcast customer service representative (Literally told me to “be nicer” to this person while I was on the phone. I almost jumped out the window. SHE TOOK COMCAST’S SIDE!!!! I FEEL LIKE I’M TAKING CRAZY PILLS!!!!)

OFFICIAL PREDICTION: Becca will toss this guy soon (maybe already did? Can’t remember) because he’s not SEXY. Hey Becca, congrats on being an IDIOT. While you’re taking care of baby #7 and Garrett is out fishing, John will be yacht shopping with his new Victoria Secret model wife.

Jordan

Jordan “Male Model” (Florida): First, of course he’s from Florida. Second, my opinion on this dude has evolved since watching the episode live. This is obviously a put-on, and I’m kind of thinking it’s funny now. This is the guy producers saw being a little too into himself and said “yeah that, but TIMES A THOUSAND if you wanna be on tv.” This guy really wants to be on TV, so he’s jumping into the Omarosa-deep-end of the villain pool. Unfortunately for him, I just don’t think he’s a good enough actor to convincingly pull off the villain role. He’s no Chad. If he was SO cocky and full of himself, he would’ve had the stones to talk to Becca one-on-one that first night. He didn’t and you could see he was nervous. When those guys were giving him shit for not talking to her, his face had “I’m not this guy I’m portraying” written all over it. Once you accept that, his whole persona goes from being super annoying, to actually pretty funny.

OFFICIAL PREDICTION: He stays around through mid-season because the producers have a lot invested in him being the villain. I hope he keeps trying SUPER hard to be a dick, but then wimps out at the end. If anything, he is showing every casting director in the universe that he cannot act. Can’t wait to see this guy on page 26 of an LL Bean catalog in 8 years.

Kamil

Kamil “Social Media Participant” (New York): This was the 60-40 guy! WHAT A FLOP OF AN OPENING LINE! Did he think the way to Becca’s heart was by BULLYING HER into walking towards him? Becca’s best moment of the first ep was when she refused to go past halfway. “Social Media Participant”? So….he’s on Facebook? How great would it be if this dude’s resume just listed all of his social media accounts? PLEASE LET THAT BE TRUE!

OFFICIAL PREDICTION: He’s heckled with “60-40” jokes for the rest of his life. Eventually, he’ll change his name, shave his head and move to the mountains to get away from all the derision. But guess what, Kamil…they have TVs in the mountains too.

Leo

Leo “Stuntman” (California): My favorite guy on the show. He’s legitimately funny and I think he owns how his hair is kind of ridiculous. I’m sure he’s a real weird dude, but he’s the most interesting guy on this show. Can we please hear stories about all of his “stunts”? He did fuck up, though, when he didn’t do some crazy awesome stunt when his limo pulled in. How could he not have crashed the car or jumped a tree in a motorcycle or jumped off the roof to meet her?

OFFICIAL PREDICTION: He better stay around long enough to impress the whole cast with some WILD stunt. There was a shot of an ambulance in the season trailer, and you better believe I’m hoping it has to do with a stunt this guy tries to pull, that goes VERY BADLY.

Lincoln

Lincoln “Account Sales Executive” (California): Is this the classic bait-and-switch? I thought this dude was pretty nice, but the trailers for the rest of the season imply that he becomes THE bad guy. CAN WE TRUST NOTHING?!?! The VP likes his accent a lot and I did say “God Damn!” when they showed him doing some ab workout that looked impossible.

OFFICIAL PREDICTION: His whole “scandal” is not going to be nearly as exciting as the season-long trailer made it look. Is he this season’s Crystal? Highly doubtful. UNLESS, the scandal is about his accent! What if he just changes it from episode to episode? One episode it’s Jamaican, the next it’s a thick southern accent. Yeah, that’s gonna be the “scandal” of the season.

Nick “Attorney” (Florida): The VP really really likes this guy and I find that somewhat upsetting. This guy? I mean, he’s decent looking but doesn’t he just look like if the bad guy in “The Karate Kid” got a law degree? And this picture? A QZ with no undershirt is a WILDLY COCKY move. I’d imagine this guy telling you that he wants to bang your sister and then not comprehending why that makes you FURIOUS.

OFFICIAL PREDICTION: He tells Becca that he’s into some really weird bedroom stuff and The VP, trying to save face, has to try to pretend that zipper mask stuff is normal.

These guys don’t matter and I will not waste my time on their SORRY ASSES!

FINAL PREDICTION: Colton is going to win and there will be a social media movement defending virgins everywhere. I will feel like a bully for making fun of his virginity and, due to overwhelming public pressure, will be forced to resign my post as “Judgey Blog Writer Who People Don’t Really Pay Attention To”. It’s been gun, guys. Who woulda’ thought Jimmyschair would be taken down by a virgin?

MY WORLD:

Tomorrow morning I have to set up a booth at a college music festival. Northwestern University has an end-of-the-year music fest every year, and the company I work for is a big sponsor for it. It’s my job to make sure our booth looks good and we’re ready to roll. This means, however, that I’m going to be surrounded by college kids wearing tank tops and cool hats. How am I supposed to act? I’m really not sure. Being 32, I don’t feel like college was THAT long ago but…like, it was. In an effort to feel young, do I try to befriend some of these kids? What’ll probably happen is I’ll try too hard to come off like the cool-guy and will fail miserably. Here’s what I’m thinking I can talk to these kids about tomorrow:

-Drake vs. Pusha T: I’ll say something like “Drake shouldn’t have messed with Pusha!” (I don’t like Drake and don’t know Pusha T)

-Music: I’ll say something like “I’ve been listening to a lot of Chance lately!” (I haven’t. I think Chance is overrated.)

-Politics: I’ll say something like “Just legalize it already!” (Honestly, I hope they don’t legalize weed. It’ll just mean I’ll have to deal with more peer pressure to smoke it and I’m VERY VERY SCARED OF THE WEED!)

-Sports: I’ll say something like “LeBron is amazing, but Jordan was–” (and then I’ll catch myself realizing that these 20 year old kids never saw Jordan play. Me saying that I did would immediately out me as “the old guy”. DOES THAT MEAN I HAVE TO PRETEND TO LIKE LEBRON MORE?!?! DOUBLEFUCKKKKKKKKK)

-Weather: I’ll say something like “Dude, sweatpants play no matter the temperature.” (As my legs sweat profusely in my thick 14 year old University of Cincinnati Jordan Brand sweatpants)

-Pop Culture: I’ll say something like “me too” to myself when I see a guy looking awkward off to the side. A girl will overhear this and think I’m making fun of the movement…and I will bring SHAME UPON THE COMPANY I AM REPRESENTING. (Jk lol omg I’m legitimately nervous about writing about the “me too” movement in a lighter way…k byeee.)

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

WHOA! MY NEW CRUSH WITH MY FAVORITE BAND?!?!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you call Comcast because your cable isn’t working and your wife snaps at you to “be nice!” once you start to get JUST THE TEENIEST BIT aggressive with their customer service rep. If you’ve ever dealt with Comcast, you know that you HAVE to get aggressive to get what you want. Telling someone mid-aggro to “be nice!” is a quick way to get your head chopped off. (This has developed into a real fight between The VP and I and I WILL NOT BACK DOWN!)

GAMBLING IS MAYBE MY FAVORITE THING TO TALK ABOUT BUT I THINK IT’S KINDA’ BORING TO WRITE ABOUT MOST OF THE TIME SO I’M GOING TO KEEP THESE SHORT:

I bet the Cavs moneyline last night. Can you all please just look up at the sky and think about how sorry for me you are? Thank you. And to JR Smith, I would like you to know that you let me and my future children down; because of your actions, they will have less bitcoin stock to help them get through college. Hope our kids are cool with community college! As for the rest of the series, I’m seeing a Warriors sweep now. The Cavs looked like they lost they were eliminated from the universe in their postgame press conferences last night.

(My account currently at $0)

K bye.

Something We’ve Been Wanting To Get Off Our Chest…(5/30/18)

WHERE HAS THE CHAIR BEEN?!?!

A relatively young man, boy perhaps, scared of an actual battlefield, was presented with an opportunity to prove that courage was not among one of his seemingly countless allergies. The roach scaled the wall the way a veteran climber would during a storm; deliberately. Each step was carefully placed, making sure footing was stable before pushing off onto the next. The older couple’s ignorance remained intact while squint-scanning a pasta menu. Little did they know that their favorite restaurant was just like every other establishment they turned their noses up at; food, servers, and roaches. There wasn’t time to react. There was only time for courage in the form of a bare hand. Without hesitation, the server opened his closed fist, as if he was high-fiving the wall in slow-motion, and nonchalantly pressed his splayed palm into the bug; smashing it between the wall and his naked hand. He held the pose for 11 seconds, tricking the couple into thinking that he just needed a casual lean at the end of a long shift. After answering the final menu questions they had for him, he pushed himself off the wall, making sure to scrape all the roach gut remnants from the wall with his murderous hand. There could be no evidence of this. The couple went back to bickering about what they should order. The server calmly walked to the kitchen sink in back, roach entrails lining the inside of his now-closed hand. As he washed the evidence from his hands, he caught himself in the mirror. Things were different now.

Once, when I was a server, I smashed a roach with my bare hand. (Would’ve been nice if you saved us all the hassle of reading the above paragraph…) It was probably the bravest thing I’ve ever done. That’s not much of an exaggeration, either (no one was doubting that, Jimmy, but thx!) Squealing like the scared baby that I am was not an option in a crowded restaurant, so killing this roach without hesitation was the only way to avoid making a real scene. I still can’t believe I actually did it when what I really wanted to do was make a cry-face, say something like “oh my god EW!” and run over to a bigger, stronger ANYBODY while screaming “HELP!!!!!” Nobody knew it happened! If it sounds like I’m SUPER proud about this moment, it’s because I am…GLAD THAT’S COMING THROUGH!

I’m sorry I didn’t write last week, but I was busy being taught what actual bravery looks like.

About three years ago, I found a lump in The VPs boobie. Boobs are supposed to be fun and that WAS NOT FUN! We went and got it looked at and the docs told her to just come back every 6 months so they could keep an eye on it. Didn’t seem like they were overly concerned, so that was nice. The VP would go back every 6 months a few times and they’d basically tell her the same thing. But then life got like supes distracting, y’all! We got married, she got promoted, I got really incredibly good-looking after I rededicated myself to the gym and…The VP and I kinda’ forgot that she had a lump in her BOOBIE (my hope is that by capitalizing the word “Boobie” it makes this subject matter a little lighter…IS IT WORKING GUYS?!?!)

Then, one day, I thought my tooth exploded while eating a burrito. Thinking I was due for a root canal and major scary teeth stuff, I forced myself to go to the dentist…for the first time in like 5 years. Is that gross? Yeah, probably, but dentists are terrifying and everyone knows you don’t have to go until something hurts. RIGHT?!?! I’M A BABY, REMEMBER?!?! Something hurt, so I went. And, guess what? It wasn’t THAT scary. One cavity filling later, bravery street cred at an all-time high, I reminded The VP to get that lumperooski checked out again.

Hospitals are stupid scary and it’s not the smell or the art or the tile floors. If all hospitals had your favorite band playing live, for free while giving away beers and backrubs, you’d still hate going to the hospital. That’s why we should all be allowed to hit the person who says “I just hate hospitals.” NO SHIT! EVERYONE HATES HOSPITALS! And, spoiler alert, there are some parts within these hospitals that are scarier than others. The VP’s appointment was in one of these scarier areas. But, I got a cavity filled so I could talk to her about being brave. (Ever look back at something you did and are so embarrassed that you think about legally changing your name so you can just start from scratch? That’s me looking back at this.)

In early May, The VP and I went to the Breast Cancer Screening wing at the hospital to get her lump checked out again. The car ride there was the kind of quiet you get when trying to act casual in a stressful situation. Funny thing about not acknowledging stress is that it doesn’t go away. And when I say “funny thing,” you know I mean “a thing that’s not funny at all and just weighs you down,” right? Good, glad we’re on the same page. The VP was so cool, guys. She made a few jokes about my stupid sunglasses and kept asking if it was okay that I was missing a couple hours of work that morning to go with her. She talked about where we should get breakfast when it was done and what shows we should start watching that night. I believe The VPs itinerary that day read: wake up, have a coffee, get boob lump checked at the scary wing in the downtown hospital, take a pee, join the military, stop a carjacking in process, dance on the ledge of a tall building, have some eggs. At least something along those lines. She was fine: a fucking badass with a southern accent and a ponytail. They called her name and she was off into the back.

I got to watch an episode of “The Price is Right” in the waiting room. The jumping and screaming of strangers on the television didn’t settle my nerves. So I scanned Twitter and tried to watch funny Instagram videos without the volume because I didn’t have my headphones and you’re a psycho if you have the volume up on your phone in public. (I’M NOT A PSYCHO!)

It didn’t really work, though. The other horrible thing about hospitals is that your mind goes to the darkest places way too easily. And when you have the internet at your fingertips, those darkest places seem inevitable after a simple Google search. My mom has been through cancer twice, really rough both times, and I learned the lesson of not going to the internet…and, yet, I still went to the internet. If you don’t think internet addiction is a real thing, then do me a favor and get the hell away from me because YOU DENY THE WORLD! So with The VP in the back, my brain and heart volleyed between forceful optimism and paralyzing fear of the unknown. Drew Carey’s annoying voice and stupid fucking glasses played the soundtrack.

The VP walked out of the exam shrugging her shoulders and walking kinda’ fast. When I asked how it went, she gave me a “it’s fine. It’s fine.” When I pressed for details, however, she told me that we had to wait to talk until we were outside. This is also known as the “oh, fuck”-moment. She was repressed manic at this point. I hope I’m not saying that to normalize how I was feeling, but I think it’s accurate. As we got away from other people waiting on other results, she told me that the doctors wanted her to come back for a biopsy: the lump had shown “substantial growth” and may be breast cancer.

The next available appointment for a biopsy was 22 days later.

Which meant that the next three weeks were for worrying, pretending everything is fine while at work and in front of friends, and then distracting ourselves with television and alcohol. I would do check-ins and ask how she was feeling about stuff every few days and she would almost always respond that she was “okay.” There was not a truly enjoyable day in those 22. It was about managing fears and staying positive in the face of the unknown and the goddamn, unrelenting internet.

My job, which consists of a lot of alone time behind the wheel (wait, is Jimmy a tire fixer?!?!), wasn’t great for these few weeks. For me, alone time means imagination time and, normally, that equates to daydreams centered around “what if I had REALLY dedicated myself to golf when I was younger? Could I have been pro by now?” Imagination time, alone in the car, is when I get to picture my life being WAY better than it is now: cooler car, better hair, bigger bank account…maybe less insecurities? But for these weeks, “imagination time” morphed into me thinking about how lucky I am to have the life I do with The VP of Ops and how scary and SUCKY any other life would be for me.

“Game of Thrones” helped. Remember when I wrote about how we had gotten into that show? THIS IS WHY! I knew we needed a HIGHLY engrossing show to distract the both of us from the upcoming biopsy, so it was time to dive into the world of dragons and war and….like, a lot of nudity. (Quick aside: anyone else get a little uncomfortable watching all the sex scenes in “Game of Thrones” with your significant other? We’re not prudes, but I feel like I’m back in high school watching these scenes next to The VP. Sometimes, during the middle of one of these RACY scenes, I’ll catch her looking at me out of the corner of my eye and I’ll just blurt out “NOTHING! I JUST CARRY THIS TEXTBOOK WITH ME BECAUSE I LIKE READING IT SOMETIMES! NOTHING!”) Between Khalisi and Drago and Ned Stark and Joffrey (WHAT A DICK!) and allowing ourselves that extra glass of wine or scotch; we were somewhat able to distract ourselves.

When the day of the biopsy finally arrived, we had settled into a new normalcy of drinking a little too much and staying up a little too late watching “GOT”. Not knowing what was going on with The VPs lumperoni was normal, and somehow after 3 weeks, the not knowing had become somewhat comforting. If you don’t know something bad is going on, then maybe nothing bad is going on? I went into coach-mode throughout, giving her pep talks that I believed 1000%…and then I would call my Mom for a similar pep talk directed at me. The power of positive thinking was always something I sneered at as a sarcastic college kid. Then my mom got sick and all she asked was that we surround her with positivity. It fucking works, guys.

On the way to the hospital on biopsy day, The VP was nervous. There were tears the night before. She blamed the tears on a fear of needles. Belle and I did our best to give her hugs and calm her down. It wasn’t panic on her part; it was more of a plea to any higher power that may be listening her desire to go back to living a normal, underpaid but well-loved life. I take it back, not knowing was never normal; it was awful. How the hell was The VP having to stare cancer in the face when she has never had a cigarette or chewing tobacco or…worked in a coal mine? It should be me: the guy who smoked through college, but justified it by “only doing it when I drink”…only to move on to chewing tobacco, but justifying by “only doing it when I golf…or am with friends…or am away from The VP.” ‘God Damn It’ is a term I thought of a lot in these few weeks and then immediately apologized for because we needed all the help we could get. Religion and believing in things that are bigger than you are easy targets for humor, I get it; I’ve done it. But when the chips are down, you’re fuckin’ right I’m talking to someone that I pray has more say than I do. I talked to God and my dead Grandma every single one of those 22 days; never more than I did while in the waiting room later that morning.

They came to take The VP into the back right when we got there. Let’s rip this band-aid off. I told her that she wouldn’t feel a thing and reminded her that all of the awful things she had been through up until now prove that she is tougher than she gives herself credit for. There was the time she broke her leg and the time she got mugged and the time she split her ankle open and the time she moved to a completely new city without a job and made an entire life for herself. She could handle a big, dumb needle to the boob. Then she went in back and I started talking to people in my head.

I made deals in my head about things I would never do again and other things I would stop putting off. If these were true negotiations; I wouldn’t have said no to anything if it meant this biopsy didn’t hurt the way The VP feared it might. (Thankfully, God didn’t ask for my flat screen television…) “The Price is Right” wasn’t on this time; instead, I was treated to “The Today Show” on the waiting room TV. Granted, I wasn’t in the best of mindspace at this point, but that Hoda lady is insufferable. Can’t we just put videos of animals doing cute things on waiting room televisions? I went back to the scary world wide web in hopes of finding stories where biopsies felt good and always came back showing no signs of cancer. (Thanks for nothing, internet.)

The VP of Ops bopped out from the back about 45 minutes later with big eyes and a bigger smile. The biopsy didn’t hurt! They didn’t have immediate results, though. We’d have to wait another “1 to 2 days” for them to call her with the results. More waiting was okay because you celebrate small steps when dealing with health issues. She had gotten through a big, hollow needle in the boob with a smile on her face. Time to go celebrate with pancakes (she actually got quinoa cakes for breakfast, but “celebrating with pancakes” sounded better than “celebrating with quinoa cakes.”)

She chilled at home for the rest of the day and I went back to work. Neither of us had told anyone what was going on this entire month aside from our parents. I definitely wanted to, but “I’m scared my wife may have breast cancer” is a tough conversation starter. We had another 1 to 2 days of keeping this secret before it would either go away or become another scarier thing entirely. We stayed up REAL late that night watching “GOT”.

We both went to work the next day not knowing when “the call” would come. I was in charge of training a new employee and The VP was to manage an admin staff and book flights for bosses because booking your own flight is too fucking stressful for some people apparently. I imagined her listening to higher-ups complain about how stressful their travel schedules had been that day and got angry at my desk just thinking about it. I may have planned exactly what I’d say to these people the next time I got to see them. You could say I was handling this stress AGGRESSIVELY.

At exactly 1:25 PM, The VP called to say that her doctor had just given her “good news.” No cancer.

So we got to go back to breathing again. I let out the most heartfelt “FUCK YEAH!” I’ve ever said and my eyes welled up. She giggled a little because I guess you can’t yell “Fuck Yeah” when you work in a tall office building. I told her how proud of her I was, and am, and we talked about the power of positive thinking and the AMAZING PEOPLE THAT WORK IN HOSPITALS. Holy crap, those people are a higher breed than human. The VP will have surgery to get the lumperooski removed and that won’t be the most fun time ever, but she’ll be fine. And we’re thrilled to go back to living our normal, boring, well-loved lives.

I’m sorry I didn’t write last week; this was why. And I meant to post this yesterday, but it ran long and I wanted to make sure I wrote it the way I wanted to.

I wanted to write this because when we were in the midst of waiting and being scared and getting trapped in the panic room of “imagination time,” I would search the internet looking for an uplifting story. Maybe this can be that for some people. The whole thing sucked because stress stinks and hospitals are scary. But, I got to see my wife act like a brave, grown woman in the face of an adversity that would bring me to secret tears in public bathrooms. She bit her lip, nodded and carried on. I got to see this with my Mom during her two bouts with cancer, and it’s the absolute most inspiring thing you can ever see. As much as it sucks to be going through, getting to see understated, everyday courage in those closest to you is amazing. It deepened my love and appreciation for my Mom and it has done the same now for my wife.

Someday, this big scary world wide web will allow our kids to read about how their Dad wanted to cry when he saw a roach and how their Mom laughed after a biopsy. And I couldn’t look more forward to being outed as the wimp in our boring, too-small, but well-loved home.

I love you Erin.

Procrastination Nation and Under-The-Radar TV (5/17/18)

MY WORLD:

Are you a procrastinator? ME TOO! Sometimes I’ll go on like 3 week spurts where I’ll be super productive and “ahead of the curve” and then…oh, I don’t know, The VP and I will start “Game of Thrones” AND PUSH EVERYTHING ELSE TO THE SIDE. All of a sudden, it’s Mid-May and both my drivers license (“license” is a hard word to spell FYI. I’ve never gotten it right on the first try) and my city sticker expire in June. Which means, folks, that I’ve basically missed the deadline to renew both of these by mail and now I need to go to the DMV in-person. WAY TO GO, ME! WAY TO ADD AN ABSOLUTELY MISERABLE CHORE TO YOUR LIFE BECAUSE YOU CAN’T PLAN AHEAD! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I GIVE YOU JIMMY “THE ASSHOLE IDIOT” POMERANTZ; GIVE HIM A ROUND OF APPLAUSE!!!

The most messed up part of this whole situation is that I remember getting a reminder about renewing my city sticker a few months back, looking at it and saying to myself “I’m probably gonna forget to do this until the last second and, therefore, force myself to go to the DMV in person.” Seriously, I remember it like it was yesterday. The only thing is, it was funny then, and it’s NOT FUNNY now. When I was a boy in schooling (I don’t know why, but saying “when I was a boy in schooling” with a British accent is making me laugh V hard) I remember all of the sleek justifications for procrastination. The schooling I’m talking about, mind you, was when I was in grad school for screenwriting (I’M LIVING MY DREAM!). A bunch of my classmates and I would read stories of famous writers who would talk about how “all writers are procrastinators” that our framed procrastination as being almost necessary to become a successful writer. Guess what, guys? That was total bullshit. All writers aren’t procrastinators. All writers get nervous when they don’t have anything to write about and then they distract themselves from facing the blank white screens because it white = failure. DROPPIN’ TROOF BOMBS Y’ALL!

I, however, am a legitimate, red-blooded American procrastinator, and here are the things I constantly find myself addressing either at the last minute or…after the last minute…Is this an attempt to take the sting out of my failures by finding fellow procrastinators? YOU BETCHA!

Buying toilet paper before I run out

I thought I’d get better at this after college…then after living with 3 dudes…then after getting married…and I’m still terrible at it. If I was in a job interview tomorrow and they asked “what are some of your weaknesses?” I would be forced to tell them about how often the paper towel roll ends up in my bathroom. It’s sad how I’ve perfected the art of tearing apart the plies of paper towel so as not to clog the toilet with a too-absorbent tissue. Usually, it’ll take about 3 days of me walking into the bathroom and seeing the paper towel roll awkwardly hanging off the toilet paper holder for me to make a trip to CVS to rectify the situation. Could The VP of Ops step in here and make a trip herself? Yes, but she has the FANTASTIC excuse of “well, I don’t have a car.” For as useful as having a car is, I do wonder if the excuses I’d be able to unlock by NOT having one would be more beneficial…

Doing the laundry before I’m forced to wear the emergency pair of loose boxers

Past the age of 27, most men make the switch from boxers to boxer briefs. Screw a Bat Mitzvah, this is when a boy becomes a man! (Bar Mitzvah? Bat Mitzvah? You get what I’m saying.) However, we all keep like one pair of boxers to be worn “just in case”, and that “just in case” is just in case we put off doing laundry to the point where we run out of clean boxer briefs to wear. The “Just In Case”-Boxers will be kept in most men’s underwear drawer for a minimum of 49 years. (Mine are from mid-college. The elastic is BARELY working and they have multi-colored christmas trees all over. If you happen to catch a glimpse of these peeking out above the waistband of my jeans someday, best keep your distance). It’s not flattering, and we know that, BUT! Who’s gonna see them? Seriously, it’s like having a fire extinguisher in your house; you hope you never have to use it, but you’re happy it’s there just in case. These loose, awful feeling boxers are also kinda’ necessary because they do FORCE me to do laundry that same day. Going into day 2 wearing my loose, christmas tree trunks is an absolute nightmare scenario. NIGHTMARE. SCENARIO.

Checking my credit card balance before it gets declined at a restaurant and I act super surprised in front of everyone that heard the waiter tell me “this one didn’t work”

I JUST DON’T WANNA LOOK! Quick aside: The VP hates when I talk about money stuff. She’ll say “I don’t want people to think we’re living under a bridge!” We’re not living under a bridge. We’re actually doing relatively TOTALLY FINE, but that doesn’t stop me from throwing EVERYTHING on my Citi card so I can get POINTS POINTS POINTS!!! (I’m a slave to points, guys.) But then, what’ll happen is, I know I’m getting close to my limit but I put off looking at my account online because I don’t want to have to face how much I’ve spent on Cliff Bars and Waters (and candy) at 7-11 over the past 10 days. When I do finally go to check my account online, I definitely hold my breath and wince while the “recent transactions” page loads. Sometimes I just get so nervous that I bail out of the site before it loads (‘load’ is a funny word). Much the way girls do, I have a “that time of the month” period where every time I hand over my Citi card (free advertising…maybe throw some points my way?) it’s a roll of the dice. I’ll try to watch the server at the computer terminal to see if they’re running the card more than once. If it’s more than once, I’m dead. If they’re shaking their head or rubbing the strip on the back of the card, also dead. If I can see this ahead of time, though, I at least have however long it takes them to get back to the table to come up with a feasible excuse. “Weird, I thought I activated that one”-is a go to. However, if I’m unable to see them at the computer terminal, and they sneak up on me from behind with the “I’m sorry sir, but there seems to be an issue with your card”-I’ll momentarily panic. My instinct is to shoot a flared-nostrils look at The VP and yell “RUN!!!” Unfortunately, The VP is simply not fast enough to keep up with me. Knowing this, I’ll usually just make some self-deprecating joke about how expensive my Peanut M&Ms habit has become.

OUR WORLD:

Are we all officially overwhelmed with the amount of television choices? Over the past few weeks, while proudly crowing about how The VP and I had finally started “Game of Thrones”, I was normally met with a “oh that’s nice, but you HAVE to check out this show!” If you can’t tell, I love T.V. We all love T.V. I’m not even counting the people who say “I don’t own a TV” because they are not people…they are animals (TOPICAL JOKE ALERT!!!)

But sometimes too much of a good thing is bad. (Is that the saying?) I say this because I was planning on writing reviews of G.O.T. (that’s how cool people refer to “Game of Thrones”. I’m part of that club now. AND, YEAH, IT’S A BIG EFFIN’ DEAL!!!) but then I realized that nobody would want to read reviews of a show that are SEVEN YEARS TOO LATE. My bad on that one.

So, if like me, you’re feeling overwhelmed by every one of your friends telling you to watch a different Netflix show, I’ve compiled a list of OLDER/UNDER-THE-RADAR shows and movies that hold up. I’m guessing you haven’t seen these or, if you have, its been so long since you have that re-watching them would be like watching them for the first time. These are not in any order because I don’t want to get into that bullshit. They’re just good (or I’ve heard they’re good from V reliable sources). Giddy up!

“Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip” (NBC TV Series): It’s just good. (I know, I watched it.)
“Deadwood” (HBO TV Series): I’ve heard it’s good from V reliable sources.
“In Bruges” (Movie): It’s just good. (I know, I watched it.)
“Boss” (Starz TV Series): It’s just good. (I know, I watched it.)
“Reno 911” (Comedy Central TV Series): It’s just great. (This show is way too overlooked when the topic of “best comedy series” of the past 20 years comes up. This is in the discussion. TRUST!)
“Adaptation” (Movie): It’s just fantastic. (An all-time great screenwriter + Nicolas Cage at his best = YUP!)
“Moon” (Movie): Think “The Martian” but grittier and more realistic. Sam Rockwell is the most underrated actor going right now.
“Terriers” (FX TV Series): I’ve heard it’s good from V reliable sources.
“Rescue Me” (FX TV Series): It’s great and it has been long enough for me now that it’s entering into the “may be time to re-watch that”-category.
“Zodiac” (Movie): The more I remember this movie, the more I think I loved it. Downey Jr and Gyllenhaal at their best.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Top 5 Funny TV Character is “Terry” from “Reno 911”

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When a new person moves into the apartment below you and thinks that talking outside on speakerphone at 11:49 P.M. on a Wednesday night is appropriate. (ANGRY OLD MAN ALERT!)

I DON’T WANT TO BRAG BECAUSE I’VE BEEN ON A REAL HEATER TO THE POINT WHERE I’M GOING TO ACTUALLY WITHDRAW FROM MY GAMBLING ACCOUNT, AND PUT THOSE WINNINGS INTO BITCOIN. THIS IS NOT A JOKE, I’M A BITCOIN INVESTOR NOW AND I’M THRILLED ABOUT GETTING TO RIDE THE WAVE ON MY WAY TO BECOMING MEGA-STINKY-RICH.

I mean, I think the new section title says it all.

(My account currently at $327.55)

K bye.

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

Car slappers

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

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

The get-away-from-me shirt

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

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

The fart silencer

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

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

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

The Sober-Now Pill

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

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

OUR WORLD:

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

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

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

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

K bye.