Category: travel

Work (11/1/18)

OUR WORLD:

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That felt good.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

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

(My account is currently at $70ish)

K bye.

 

 

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.

Pic 1A

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?”

Pic 1 9:18.jpg

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?!?!

 

 

 

 

The VP and I Go To Ireland – Part 1 of ? – (9/13/18)

IRELAND (PART ONE OF MANY):

*Hey friends!  I haven’t written in a little bit because I got crushed by work before going to Ireland for 11 days.  I’m back and it feels great!  I meant to write this as one long piece, but that’s not possible.  I don’t know how many “parts” there will be to this Ireland series, but I don’t want to shortchange any of it, so excuse the next few entries on Jimmyschair.  It will be Ireland heavy for I don’t know how long.  I hope you like it. 

When I was 15, I couldn’t go to sleep on Christmas Eve night because I was so excited about the possibility of being a gifted a car on Christmas.  My parents had told me over and over and over again that I was ABSOLUTELY NOT getting a car, but I had convinced myself that these assurances were all part of their planned rouse.  “He won’t be as excited if he KNOWS he’s getting a car,” they had to be saying to each other as they continued arguing over whether I was more of a Benz or Bentley kid.  Turns out, I was more of a HEAVILY used 1988 White Ford Escort hatchback 6 months later kid.  But I didn’t know that on Christmas Eve; so I lied in my bed with eyes popping out of my face anytime I heard a car passing by our house.  I wouldn’t look out my bedroom window because I love surprises (YOU READING THIS, VP?!?!) and I didn’t want to ruin what my parents must have been planning for months.  This is not a story of a petulant 15 year old  treating Christmas morning like a funeral for hopes and dreams (I mean, that’s what it became, but…) Instead, it’s the last time I can remember being incoherently excited for something.  Drunk without a having had a drink excited.  My life was about to change forever excited.  That was the last time I felt THAT kind of unmitigated excitement.  (Yes, I was excited for my wedding, but that was definitely MITIGATED by the nerves associated with standing in front of a couple hundred people.)  Then, 18 years later, the VP and I flew to Ireland on the night of August 30th with a plan to sleep on the 7 hour flight and wake up refreshed for our first Irish morning.  I should’ve known.  There was no fucking way I was sleeping on that plane.

The VP and I landed in Dublin exhausted, but pretending not to be because what’s lamer than kicking off the trip of a lifetime with yawns?  So we trudged through our baggage claim and customs with glassy eyes while assuring each other that “yeah, no, I am so excited!”  The taxi driver was the first hint that we were somewhere foreign because he…was professional and not mean.  Did you know that taxi drivers who don’t snarl from the front seat while you ask if he can pop the trunk actually exist?  Better yet, there are even taxi drivers who GET OUT AND HELP YOU with your luggage.  Unbelievable, I know, but I was there.  As the older gentleman helped load the VPs Gajillion pound suitcase into the trunk, I kept telling The VP to film what was happening on her phone.  “No one will believe us!  BUT NO ONE WILL BELIEVE US!!!!”

We got to our hotel before our room was ready, which was totally fine because we were SO NOT TIRED.  Matta’ ah Fack, before the front desk lady even checked the status of our room, I was all like “I don’t even care if it’s ready cuz I’m not even tired so like whatever.”  Her face changed as she looked back up at me.  “Whoa, didn’t know Americans could be so chill and masculine at the same time,” is what she wanted to say, but spotting the ring on my finger, opted to avoid a confrontation with The VP and instead said something like “Your room is not ready because you’re here 6 hours before check-in time.”  Her words were meaningless, her face told the story.  These Americans were different.

The VP and I left our baggage and went out to explore a Dublin morning.  When you’re NOT tired and your phones aren’t allowing you to Google “Uh, what do we do now that we’re actually here?” you just end up wandering and saying things like “I’m pretty sure…wait…no, maybe this way.”  It was vacation morning, which meant breakfast, which also meant drinking so…..PUB TIME!  And, living up to our reputation as “not your typical Americans,” we picked one where we didn’t see nerdy tourists.  We aren’t THOSE people!  (It was one kinda’ close to an H+M that The VP told me multiple times that she wanted to just “check out”.  Uh, yeah fuckin’ right VP, and ruin the movie being written about us called “Not Your Average Americans”?  OVER MY DEAD BODY).  Continuing the theme of rebellion, The VP ordered a Bloody Mary at the bar.  I ordered a Guinness, but I ordered it in that nonchalant, chill-like “this is just a beer that I love to normally drink and am not drinking just because everyone else here is drinking it and I want to feel included in the very community that my ancestors originated from.”  Youda’ thought we were born in this bar.

Pic 1 (ireland post)

The first meal was fine and it didn’t matter; which is something that I came to realize throughout our stay in Ireland.  Don’t get me wrong, Jimmy EatFace looooooves a good meal, but when you’re in Ireland you’re so anxious to see more, drink more, talk to others more, and go elsewhere…uh, more, that food becomes an afterthought.  It takes time away from seeing other things.  It takes up space meant for Guinness.  It occupies your mouth from–okay, we get how eating food works.  We finished our fist meal, a traditional Irish breakfast that we split because we weren’t that hungry and “no, I do kinda’ like this blood sausage thing. It’s interesting!”  Was it more off-putting than interesting? HEY! Haven’t you heard? WE’RE NOT THOSE AMERICANS.

Pic 2 (Ireland post)

After a couple more pints of Guinness (we were on vacation!) and some aimless wandering (uh, it’s called “exploring”) where we didn’t look at the map because, let’s all say it together, “we’re not those Americans,” we headed back to our hotel.  Oh, our room was ready a couple hours early?  Cool, whatever, not a big deal, guess we should check it out.  The VP and I then crumpled on the bed like those spiders you spray with whatever aerosol can is closest so you don’t have to almost touch kill them with your hand.  (I sprayed a spider in my car yesterday using a bottle of dog pee cleaner I found in my trunk). We slept for a few hours, dreaming of things I don’t know about because I can’t remember my dreams and never listen when The VP tells me what she was dreaming of. I just hope the hotel workers didn’t come in our room while we were asleep and uncovered my lie about not being tired.  Yeah, we locked the door, but I don’t know how hotel nap time is treated in Ireland.

When we woke up around 6, we made a plan to go to the place Anthony Bourdain loved the most on his show about Dublin, “Kavanagh’s” aka “Gravediggers”.  It’s an old pub next to a cemetery about 14 minutes outside the crush of the Dublin bar scene.  By the time we got there, it was the perfect kind of busy, like they were waiting for us.  And, based on how kind the bartenders were, maybe they were? We ordered pints on pints on pints of Guinness, chatted up the distinguished bartender who made us feel like we had finally gotten to where we always should have been going.  It wasn’t this type of “let’s milk these tourists for all they got with cheap smiles and too much conversation” type of welcoming, but more of an easy conversation with someone who almost instantly went from stranger to relative.

I think the thing I had heard most about Ireland was that the people are what you go for.  And while I like people, there was a part of me that was worried about being bombarded with strangers inserting themselves in every conversation I would try to have.  I’m happy to report back that I was an idiot for thinking that.  The people are the highlight not because they cheers every beer you get, but because, somehow, they already know you and you already know them.  Those increasingly rare nights at home when all of your friends are able to make it out to the same bar and you can talk or not talk to any of them because you’re all comfortable; THAT is an Irish Pub.  I signed the guestbook like an absolute dolt because I saw it and instinctively grabbed it before realizing I didn’t know what to write because I didn’t feel like a guest.  Imagine going home for Thanksgiving and your Uncle Rick putting a “guestbook” in front of you.

We ended up getting pleasantly drunk; nowhere near the “my brain is broken now”-blackout that ends most fun nights at home.  We took a Taxi back to the hotel and walked to a nearby Subway because we weren’t there for the food.

The next day was for walking once we actually got up and out of our room, which became more difficult than anticipated once The VP discovered a British dating show with cooking called “Dinner Date”.  There was no hangover, just reality television.  Remember the show “Next” on MTV?  It’s like that but the person being wooed comes over to 3 people’s houses for a home cooked meal.  I hated that I kinda’ enjoyed the show too because we didn’t come to Ireland to sit in our room and watch daytime dating shows…but…like, it was good.  FUCK!

After a few episodes, and a few “hey, can we go now?”s from yours truly, we finally made it out of our hotel.  The plan was to walk and walk and walk until we saw Temple Bar and Guinness and nice Irish men in cool little hats telling us stories about places that sound magical.  “Excuse me, Ms. Concierge? Where’s do wrinkly faced storytellers hang out?”

Our self-guided walking tour through Dublin worked like the strongest coffee I could ever drink.  If I owned a Go-Pro I would’ve strapped it to my rotund head and never pressed “stop” to capture every single thing I was seeing.  Look, maybe it’s because I had never been out of the country before, but walking in a city an ocean away from home is battery power for humans.  Look, a river! Look, an old building! Look, a guy I don’t know with really tight pants!  No wonder little kids always seem to be so happy, it’s amazing seeing anything for the first time.

We set out to make our way to the Guinness storehouse, making sure to hit Temple Bar along the way.  Little did we know that we’d stop at some pub here, an immaculate church from 900 years ago there, and countless other “this looks like a postcard” places along the way.  We took a tour of Christ Cathedral Church and I got to see a meticulously artistic structure coated with CENTURIES of stories.

I’ll admit, even raised as an Irish Catholic, I always found church impossibly boring.  When my Mom used to tell me how impactful a Priest’s sermon was, I’d almost crack my skull with the effort it took me NOT to roll my eyes.  But this house of history wasn’t that.  I could’ve sat on one of those pews, in silence for hours, and been riveted every second of the way.  Your brain does amazing things when you’re enveloped in stained glass and moldings that could not have been made without modern technology.  I was thankful there my internet wasn’t working; this was all about the wonderment of pre-technology.  A trophy on the human brain’s mantle.

CAN’T WAIT TO TELL YOU MORE NEXT TIME!

K bye.

 

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

MY WORLD: 

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

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

How to hang a picture:

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

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

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

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

mirror

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

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

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

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

How to change a tire:

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

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

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

OUR WORLD:  

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

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

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

I hate this shit.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account currently sits at $43.18)

K bye.

 

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

OUR WORLD:

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

“Serving Patricia: The Story of Michael Kelcourse”

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

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

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

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

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

michael kelcourse

 

“Backstage Pass” 

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

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

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

“Overnight Pharmacist”

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

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

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES

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

(My account currently at $4.71)

K bye.

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

K bye.

 

 

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

MY WORLD:

You know those couples that both have long hair that looks good when it’s dirty and greasy?  They both wear headbands and cheap sunglasses that look cooler than your expensive ones and talk about all of their outdoor activities.  Their instagram feeds are just nature pictures taken from the tops of places they had to climb and camp out on.  In a t-shirt, you’d describe them as “wiry strong”, but they’re not too snotty to avoid cheeseburgers and hot dogs.  They can’t talk to you about “Southern Charm” because they don’t own a television, but if you want to chat about some author that wrote some book about minimalism, they’re ready and willing.  Sometimes, I get real jealous of those couples and try to force myself into thinking that I could pull off the “hot outdoorsy guy” thing.  Unfortunately, after this weekend’s canoe trip that I forced the VP to join me on, it is now official that I can never be “hot outdoorsy guy”.

This is the second year that the VP and I joined a group of more outdoorsy people than we are (basically, everyone in the world) for a canoe trip along the Wisconsin River.  I talked The VP into it last year by making the “let’s try something different!”-case, while secretly plotting it as my “hot outdoorsy guy” (H.O.G.) coming out party.  A good friend of ours-let’s call him Bonesaw because that’s his actual nickname-who is taller and more outdoorsy than me (but, is he hotter?) was leading the trip and offered to lend us all the camping gear we would need.  Not only that, knowing that we were relative nature rubes, Bonesaw took the lead in really setting EVERYTHING up for us.  We were blessed with PERFECT weather, no bugs and Bonesaw setting up our tent, starting the fire and cooking the food.  All I had to do was paddle our canoe, which was great because it left me more time to try to look HOT and OUTDOORSY.  The VP and I did have to sleep on the ground because we didn’t bring any sort of mattress pad, but that was okay–it just gave H.O.G. Jimmy a little more street cred…or should I say, trail cred? We finished last year’s trip proud of ourselves and, yeah, probably a lot happy that it was over with.

Then a year passed, and Bonesaw sent out the “let’s do it again” e-mail.  (Wait, but I thought I already proved that I was a H.O.G.?)  When I brought it up to The VP, I could feel her waiting for me to give her an out.  She had the “please don’t make me do this again”-face, but I wan’t budging.  People, it seems, had yet to think of me as a true H.O.G. even after my one canoe trip where I didn’t really do anything.  (The nerve!)  Not to mention, over the past year, my Instagram feed has been seemingly taken over by H.O.G.’s who have yet to invite me into a private instagram group to talk about all the cool, outdoorsy things we’ve all been doing.  (Seriously? Not one person asked you about the paddling in the 4 foot deep river you did a year ago?  I know, I’m shocked too.)  So I signed us up for Canoe Trip Round Two, and exaggerated how great of a time we had the year before to The VP.  She didn’t want to go, but she never gave me an ultimatum, so I kinda’ played dumb and just made her do it.  I recruited some other friends of mine pretty hard to join, but most of them had well-rehearsed excuses that left little room for follow-up questions.  IT WAS AS IF THEY ALL KNEW I WAS GOING TO TEXT THEM!  How did so many of my friends have weddings to go to that I wasn’t also invited to?!?! SOMETHING WAS UP!!! Fine!  As long as we had Bonesaw doing everything for us, I’d be able to prove my H.O.G. worth through a barrage of social media posts when I returned.  GET READY FOR SOME PICS OF RIVERS AND CANOES AND TREES AND ME LOOKING REALLY FUCKING HOT WHILE OUTDOORS!!!

We got up at 4:45 A.M. on Saturday so I could take a shower and make sure our cooler was stocked with sandwiches and pineapple because eating fruit is a BIG part of being an outdoorsman.  Everybody knows this.  The VP put a brave face on and told me she was “actually excited” a few times because she’s nice and supports my dreams, but also because she knew that if this trip was a disaster, she could hold it against me for a LONG time.  The VP was playing chess when I was playing checkers, and I couldn’t respect that move any more.  One time I went shopping with The VP and her cousin ALL DAY in downtown Chicago and remember thinking the whole time that she was going to owe me for this.  I was going to owe The VP for this canoe trip.  We got in the car for about a 3 hour drive, and The VP leaned back, put her hat on her face and immediately went back to sleep.

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SO EXCITED TO TALK ABOUT OUR HOPES AND DREAMS AND FUTURE ON THE RIDE TO—Oh, you’re hat is on your face and you’re snoring.  Okay, talk later.

As you can tell from this picture, the excitement in the car was palpable.  I listened to some music and Howard Stern while The VP snored for the majority of the trip.  She did wake up about halfway through because she smelled something…”Is that Chic-Fil-A?” she bellowed, as fumes from a nearby eatery slithered their way through her straw hat and into her nostrils.  If you want to see The VP at her best, get a load of her approaching a Chic-Fil-A drive-thru.  I’m pretty sure I could tell her I bought us a mansion on the water, and her face wouldn’t light up the way it does for chicken biscuit aromas.  We got Chic-Fil-A and she went back to sleep.  It was a wild ride.

We got to the car drop-off area early because H.O.G.’s are punctual.  Yeah, you could say I was well on my way to reclaiming my status.  Little did we know, however, that it had rained HARD for the past week in Wisconsin.  And!  I’m guessing you too didn’t know this, but mixing rain with woods and a river is nature’s way of attracting EVERY SINGLE MOSQUITO IN THE UNIVERSE.  I stepped out of the car and into a mosquito soiree that I was NOT invited to.  Sensing a stranger in their midst, the mosquitoes deployed their security detail on me; chewing up my legs and arms and face until I shrieked “I JUST WANNA BE A HOT OUTDOORSY GUY!!!”  The VP watched in horror from inside the car.  I held my hand up against the window, as if to say “I didn’t know it’d be like this, but I want you to know that I love you.”  She touched my hand through the glass, but remained still.  The deet was in the trunk, and the only way to get to the trunk was to join me in the ambush; a kamikaze mission, no doubt.  As The VP contemplated, my arms began to tire from all the flailing, my legs began to shiver with itchies, and my mind began to wander….”is being a H.O.G. really worth it?”

-PART TWO COMING TOMORROW-

*TAKING A BREAK FROM THE OTHER SECTIONS TODAY.  WHY? BECAUSE I CAN DO WHAT I WANT.

K bye.

 

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

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Can’t wait.

MY WORLD:

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

K bye.

 

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Help).

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’m just going to lean into this one…

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

K bye.

 

The VP and I Are Going Abroad! (5/8/18)

MY WORLD:

Yeah, I took a few days off.  The VP of Ops and I celebrated our 1 year anniversary in the greatest and laziest of ways.  I’m talking dog walks and outdoor margaritas (although The VP got a Michelada for some reason and pretended not to hate it the entire time…she’s bad at pretending not to hate things), but mostly, I’m talking SWEATPANTS! COUCH! DELIVERY! NETFLIX!  And we finally pulled the trigger on buying tickets for our belated honeymoon; so the VP and I will be going to Ireland in early September.  (Braggy Jimmy STINKS!  THIS BLOG HAS CHANGED!)

Yeah, it is a slight brag, BUT we have had to answer the “where did you go on your honeymoon?” question for the past year with shrugged shoulders and stories about how “we’re saving up!”  I always felt like when that question came up, things would get real awkward and the people asking us would feel bad for us and walk away like “aww, they’re sad.”  I know that didn’t ACTUALLY happen, but it did kinda feel like it did.  So now, we get to play the nonchalant “oh, we’re going to Europe”-people for the next couple months.  (Going to Europe sounds cooler than just saying “Ireland” I think because that’s what my brain is telling me and I don’t have a rational way to describe why I feel like that.  IS THAT OKAY?!?!)  

Aside from bragging a lil bit (it is MY blog…I’m allowed to do that every now and then) this is more of a plea for help because I have no idea what to do on a vacation.  I’ve never been out of the country (or have I? And if so, why am I hiding it? Is Jimmy a sp– IS THE GOVERNMENT READING THIS?!?!) and The VP and I have never been on a vacation together.  Yeah, real talk.  The only times The VP and I have been out of town are to visit her fam in Mississippi or to go to a wedding (where I would normally get too intoxicated and come VERY close to embarrassing The VP in front of all her friends that were skeptical of her being with a Yankee in the first place.  I’m a master of first impressions, guys.)  The last time I was on a legit vacation was in High School I think, so we’re going to need some suggestions on where to go and what to do because here is what I think a vacation consists of (according to teen/pre-teen Jimmy):

Hours in the hotel pool:  Wait, so my Dad isn’t coming to Ireland with us to throw me around in the hotel pool?  WHAT KIND OF BULLSHIT IS THIS?!?! I swear to god, if The VP doesn’t want to play catch with a mini-nerf football in the pool, I’m gonna LOSE IT!  Here’s what should happen; my Dad shows up to throw me around in the pool and then Erin and I play catch with the mini-football where I’ll mostly stand on the ledge of the pool and have her throw it so I can make a V cool looking diving catch.  Instagram finna’ be LIT UP with my diving catch boomerangs!

Hotel freeze tag:  Little does The VP know that she lucked out and married the undisputed King of Pomerantz Hotel Freeze Tag.  “But Jimmy, you were the oldest of 4 siblings, so weren’t you always at a physical AND mental advantage?”  <<<Who in the fuck is asking me questions like that?  PASS!  Listen, barefoot freeze tag through hotel halls with your siblings (and now wife…don’t worry VP, we’ll let you play now!) is the 5th major sport in America.  The Sportscenter Top 10 was made for moments like when the oldest of 4 taunts the youngest for being too slow to win freeze tag and too immature to handle ALWAYS losing freeze tag.

Eating dinner at that place with peanut shells on the ground and a free popcorn machine:  If all-you-can-eat popcorn and getting to toss peanut shells on the floor doesn’t say vacation, I don’t know what does.  Were my parents simply masters of manipulation in framing dive bars as the epitome of relaxation for kids?  Possibly, but goddamnit do I respect that move.  Nothing was more exciting for 11 year-old Jimmy than pulling up to “The Satisfied Frog” in Cave Creek, Arizona and being reminded that it was the “peanut shell and popcorn place!”  AWWWWWW HELL YEAH!

Those activities sound doable for a couple of 32 year olds in Ireland, right?  (He’s joking, right? I can’t tell…I REALLY CAN’T TELL!)  I am kidding…sorta.  Please take this as an invitation to tell us what to do if you’ve been there.  Even if you haven’t been there and saw something in a movie that looked cool, we’re open!  We watched an Anthony Bourdain show on Ireland yesterday and it seems that Guinness and dive bars are a good place to start (maybe I’ll just bring my own bag of peanuts and pray they don’t get mad at me for tossing the shells on the ground?)

OUR WORLD:

I haven’t been living in “our world” lately, so gonna need to sit this one out today.  Takes a day or two for me to get my sea legs back.  Kinda like when you get back into the gym after a long layoff and your body doesn’t work anymore; that’s me and my writing fingers right now.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I plan on this being me every morning in Ireland…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Lisa Vanderpump was kind of a MAJOR B to the 2 Tom’s on last night’s Vanderpump reunion show, right?  So….my point about her being a pompous jerk was proven.

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:

Won with the Cavs last night which is never that enjoyable because I can’t stand Lebron.  We did lose with the Celts though and the parlay so….BASICALLY EVEN!  Tonight’s games have BIG lines which are scary, but the Rockets and Warriors seem destined to stomp out these series.  LETS BANG THOSE FAVES!

(My account currently at $153.68)

K bye.