What Not To Do At Weddings

OUR WORLD:

A good friend of mine is getting married in Colorado this weekend, and aside from waiting till the absolute last second to get my shit dry-cleaned, I’m going over what not to do this weekend while at this wedding.  (Wait, a 34 year old man needs to talk to himself about what he CAN’T do at a wedding?)  Listen, I’m not here to try make you think I’m cool (mission accomplished, bubba).  I’m here to help you avoid the wedding behavior mistakes that I’ve made and witnessed (mostly made, though) so that your friends aren’t talking about that time they found you drunkenly eating a sandwich lost in a random hotel hallway, looking like someone who belonged in a mugshot.  Next time you go to a wedding, make sure you don’t do the following:

IF YOU PLAY GOLF BEFORE THE WEDDING, AVOID GETTING PAIRED WITH THE AUSTRALIAN GUY.

This means you’re going to have to go to the golf course already armed with excuses as to why you can’t play with “Mike the Australian”.  Be fucking ready with these excuses, I’M NOT JOKING!  Because if they’re calling out the golf cart tandems, and they call “Mike the Australian” after your name then you’re in for a world of problems if you don’t have a “shit guys, my shoulder is really acting up” in your back pocket.  If, like me, you’re cocky enough to think that you can handle yourself while in a golf cart with a cool-accent-guy who drinks 24/7, then get ready to be IN TROUBLE.

Why?  Because whenever you’re in close quarters with an Australian guy, you want them to like you.  These people have the coolest accents in the world, and you’ll convince yourself that once you’re friends with an Australian, that some of that badassery-dust will rub off on you.  It won’t, guys.  You’ll just be the American guy who hung out with an Australian one time golfing at a wedding.  You won’t learn how to speak like that, how to act calm in the face of danger, or how to have every girl in a room thing you’re hot no matter where your hairline sits.  You’ll still be you, standing in the corner with your hands in your pockets because you forgot to cut your fingernails FOR A FOURTH STRAIGHT DAY AFTER REALIZING THEY WERE TOO LONG!!!  GODDAMNIT!!!

But once you’re in a golf cart with MikeTheAustralian, you’re going to forget all this and think to yourself “I think I’m about to be best friends with a guy who sounds like Chris Hemsworth.”  If you close your eyes, you’ll be able to convince yourself that you’re golfing with Thor.  The problems start, however, once the cart girl comes by and asks if you’d like anything to drink.  Uh….NO FUCKING DUH WE WANT DRINKS!  But while your boring, no-accent real friends are ordering Bud Lights and Snickers, you view this as your opportunity to prove how badass you are to your new Thor-sounding friend.  So you order two shots along with your beers, and before you know it, you’ve initiated a routine on THE SECOND FUCKING HOLE that whenever the cart girl comes around, you’re taking a shot with MikeTheAustralian.

I won’t lie to you guys, at first this is going to be really fucking cool.  Your loser American friends will be all “holy shit, they’re taking shots!” and be a little jealous from afar.  And Mike will be so excited that he’ll do something like slap you on the back, or grab your shoulder in that way that says “we’re gonna be lifelong friends and you’re going to be able to use an Australian accent one day because I’m going to give you the credibility to do it.”  You’ll start doing the things you do as you climb Buzz mountain, like laughing too hard at mean things, using a more gravely voice to make inappropriate jokes, and completely ignoring that it’s not even 10am, you’ve had 3 shots already and you’re supposed to be at a fancy dinner AFTER this round.  Consequences are in your fucking rearview as you lean forward, arms extended through the front of your golf cart, screaming “I’m king of the world!”

But you’re not king of the world; you’re king of the about-to-be-in-big-trouble-with-your-future-wife because, for some reason, she’s not going to find it funny when she has to dump water on you to get you to wake back up for the rehearsal dinner.  At that point, following a round of golf where you’re legitimately unsure of whether the number on your scorecard was the number of shots you took, or the number of golf swings you made, you won’t be able to explain that it was because you were paired with an Australian who you HAD to impress.  Nope, instead you’ll say something like “just took a lil sleepy nap!” And she’ll roll her eyes as she readies herself to go to the rehearsal dinner with the “keep your eye on him”-guy.

DON’T ACTUALLY FIGHT OR EVEN THREATEN TO FIGHT SOMEONE AT THE REHEARSAL DINNER.

Sometimes “fight guy” is cool.  Yeah, I know that’s an unpopular opinion, but sometimes when there’s an asshole in a bar and your group’s “fight guy” has had enough…it’s fun to watch him get all riled up.  Unfortunately, this does not apply to Wedding Rehearsal Dinners where “fight guy” will double as “he’s about to ruin the most important weekend of these people’s lives because he just got shushed”-guy.

You need to be aware enough that you could become this guy ESPECIALLY if you were paired with MikeTheAustralian earlier in the day at the golf course.  (This sounds very specific, Jimmy.  Like…)  Hypothetically speaking, IF you were paired with MikeTheAustralian at the golf course, needed your girlfriend to dump a bucket of cold water on you to wake you up after the round, and then, I don’t know, happen to get “shushed” for talking too loud during one of the groomsmen’s speech, you may find yourself in the middle of an uncontrollable rage.  Yes, we can all agree that being “shushed” is infuriating and that, in normal settings, it would justify throwing said “shusher” into an active volcano.  However, when you’re already the “keep your eye on him”-guy, and its a wedding rehearsal dinner, actions made out of rage are frowned upon.

Knowing this, I bet you’re just going to tell anyone with ears at that dinner that you’re going to “beat the shit out of Shush McGee”.  You’re going to tell all these people-with-ears this multiple times throughout the rest of the night thinking that this is your only alternative to NOT punching his face off.  The ears people aren’t going to think “wow, this guy is tough, but also has restraint.  I respect that.”  Not even close.  They’re going to think, “so, who here is going to tell security about this guy and his fireball breath?”

BE HONEST WITH YOURSELF AND MAKE SURE YOU’RE WEARING PANTS THAT FIT.

Surprisingly, this goes both ways.  Yes, at this point in MY life, I am officially NEVER in the “hey, these pants are too loose”-crowd.  But, I was there at one point in my life when I ran more often than I ate a family-sized bag of Tostitos Scoops.  If your pants are too big because you bought them when you were in a fat phase, but you’re thinking you can get away with not buying pants that fit, you’re going to regret looking like a bozo-the-clown in pictures with your big baggy dress pants.  They’re going to make you look shorter than you already are, and sloppier than you want to admit you are.  Spend the $40 at Nordstrom Rack and get a pair of pants that don’t gather at your feet.

Then there’s the other side.  The worse side.  The scarier side of this predicament.  The “yeah these are tight, but I only have to wear them for a few hours”-sized pants.  You’ll wear them out of a combination of not wanting to spend money on a style of pants you wear twice a year, AND not wanting to admit that you’ve put on weight since the last wedding you were at 14 months ago.  Guess what?  Calories matter, even if you’re standing while eating in the kitchen.  Don’t believe what they say, eating leftovers while standing in front of the fridge right before bed counts against your daily calorie total.

Now, you’re stuck at a wedding having to lean back in your chair, while keeping your legs straight so that your pants’ ass doesn’t burst in front of the bride’s Aunt Helen.  Getting on the dance floor means that you won’t even get to THINK about bending, and all of the great looking food and cake is just going to remind you that you’re a fatter version of yourself than you were at the last wedding you were at.  Not to mention, you’re friggin starving but have NEGATIVE space to spare around your waist, so eating anything other than mixed nuts is out of the question.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you’re getting your haircut and the stylist asks how you want it and you have no idea what to say.  You want to be like “uh…shorter,” but you know she’s looking for more details so you just hem and haw until you feel like an absolute IDIOT.  JUST MAKE ME LOOK BETTER THAN I CURRENTLY DO!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Whoa, just came across this little diddy and I lurvvvve it so so much.

 

MOM MEMORY OF THE DAY:

One time my Mom was dropping my friends and I off at the mall, and she was looking for a parking spot so she could go in and buy something for herself.  It was really crowded, so as she went up and down the aisles of packed cars, she got more and more frustrated.  Then she hit the rows of handicapped parking spots, all of which were empty…full rows completely empty.  Unable to find a spot, with snot-nosed dorks in her backseat, her anger crescendoed and she let out a “Jesus Christ, how many goddamn handicapped people are they expecting?!?!”

Sorry Mom, that’s a funny one.

K, bye.

I Sat Next to an NBA Superstar Yesterday and You Have to Believe Me

MY WORLD:

I sat next to James Harden at lunch yesterday.  Now, the reaction to that from the text message I sent to my friend groupchat, should have been “whoa, cool!”  Or, “no way dude, he’s so good at basketball!”  Or, “he has a big beard!”  Or, I don’t know, why couldn’t ONE FRIEND write something like, “hey Jimmy, even though it was blind luck that you ended up sitting next to the NBA MVP Runner-up, you should treat this as an accomplishment in your life, feel better about yourself, and expect to receive praise from others when you tell them of this accomplishment.”  WOULD THAT HAVE BEEN SO FUCKING HARD?!?!   But instead, all I got was “pic or it didn’t happen.”

So there I was, a 34 year old adult, contemplating how I could take a spycam picture of a 29 year old guy I’ve never spoken to before.  The situation went from exciting to terrifying immediately, and I basically stopped talking to the person I was actually having lunch with because I was so caught up in my brain about what I should do.  Some of the thoughts that went through my essentially useless brain, included:

-Do I ask for a selife?  Go up to him, say something like “huge NBA fan here, James!  Love watching you play!  Mind if I get a pic?”  

Yeah, that would’ve been a cool thing for me to do except uh…no it fucking wouldn’t have been.  I’m not a selfie guy.  I’m the guy who makes fun of people who take selfies!  THAT’S MY ENTIRE IDENTITY!!!  Although, yeah, I would ask to take a selfie with someone who actually IS a hero of mine (cough…Eddie Vedder…or someone who knew Chris Farley…cough) But then I started thinking of how big of a lie, that would be.

Okay, so I’m meeting James Harden for the first time and the first two things I tell him are FLAGRANT lies.  1)  I am not a huge NBA fan.  I like it, but I don’t really care about the NBA until football is over…and even then, all I think about is how “I miss football.”  2)  I actually hate watching James Harden play basketball.  If I was being totally honest with him (and isn’t honsesty ALWAYS the way to go?) I’d say “James!  Whenever I see the Rockets are playing, I loudly exhale and text my friends something I’m only half-joking about, like how I’d rather cannonball into an active volcano than watch you travel on every play before bitching to the refs that you were breathed on too hard.”  Wild guess here, but I don’t think he’d be excited about posing for a selfie with my fat face (you went to the gym yesterday, Jimmy.  Did you tell them yet?) after hearing that.

-I should pretend to be texting on my phone, while slowly rotating my chair to the right-where James is sitting-while I really have my camera up so that once I get him in frame, BOOM!  PIC TAKEN!

Clearly, I am not one of those people who have mastered the spycam technique.  (It’s because you’re a scared baby).  It’s not because I’m scared (it is, though) I just think that the risk of getting caught outweighs the reward.  So…shit, yeah I’m scared (my Dad just called asking for blood sample.  Something about “no son of his-“)  Can we think, for just a second, about what would happen if I DID actually get caught trying to take a spycam pic of James Harden?

The bartender had already told me “don’t be weird about it” when the guy I was having lunch with asked if that was, in fact, James Harden.  It was weird because I didn’t ask the question, but she looked directly at ME and said “don’t be weird about it.”  Of course, I calmly, quickly replied with a, “too late,” that drew some laughs but…like, it was too late.  I was caught in between staring and doing the “I”m not staring, I’m just drift-looking at the ceiling above your head James Harden”-thing.  Yeah, weird was accomplished.  So if after that, she caught the camera on my phone screen, there is a decent chance that she would have gently grabbed my arm, clenched her jaw and uttered a furious, “I fucking said not to be weird!”  Then, I’m the PROVEN weird guy who has to be touched to be believed.  She would probably be thinking “I have to touch this person to make sure that I’m not hallucinating that I’m witnessing an adult being THIS weird.”

And what if James Harden caught me?  (Can’t call him just ‘James’ because we’re not close enough friends) With how petty NBA players are, and how ready they are to air their shit on Twitter, is out COMPLETELY out of the realm of possibility that he would take my picture in retaliation only to post it on his Twitter with the caption “Chicago Creepo”?  Guys, that’s fucking possible and you know it.  YOU KNOW IT GODDAMN WELL!

Next thing I know, people are printing kitchy, graphic t-shirts featuring the pic Harden took of me on them with his caption underneath.  Then I’m walking down the street with The VP of Ops and people are whispering while staring at me.  So the VP curiously asks, “why are people looking at you and whispering?”  I pretend not to hear the question and just keep walking, until some girl starts laughing as she approaches me pointing and saying “you!  You’re the Chicago Creepo!”  Then I’m trying to explain that the reason a girl called me “The Chicago Creepo” is because I got caught taking a spycam pic of James Harden, but she won’t believe that.  No, she’ll go straight to “a girl pointed him out, so that must mean he was taking spycam pics of girls.”  So we’ll end up getting divorced, and any date I have with any girl after will be a terrifying “I hope she hasn’t seen that James Harden pic of me” experience.

-I could tell the bartender to buy James Harden a beer and tell him that it’s from me.  

So, I’m trying to pick up James Harden in a bar now?  Either two things could happen here: 1)  He could accept the beer, raise it for a “cheers” from down the bar and carry on with his lunch.  2)  He could decline the beer, in which case the bartender would then return it to me–but I didn’t want to drink during the day on a Tuesday, so now I’m just sitting at lunch with this beer/”James Harden rejection trophy.”  He’ll look over a few times to see what certified bozo-the-clown sent a Tuesday afternoon beer over to a professional athlete and I’ll catch him with a half-smile in an effort to convey “I’m not a weird guy.”  He won’t smile back, though.  Instead, he’ll look to the guy he’s actually having lunch with and say something like, “keep an eye on that dude for me.”

In the end, I convinced myself that doing nothing was the only option.  So I sat at lunch, pretended to listen to the guy I was having lunch with, and made the executive decision that proving I sat next to James Harden wasn’t worth risking my marriage/dignity/future.  BUT I FRIGGIN’ SWEAR HE WAS RIGHT NEXT TO ME WEARING A BIG HAT AND BIG FLANNEL SHIRT AND LOOKING FLYYYYYYY!!!!

OUR WORLD:

Continuing the theme from today’s “My World”, I’d like to educate my fellow early-to-mid 30s people on, aside from taking a spycam pic of James Harden, what other things you are no longer allowed to do.  Of course, if you’re one of those “I don’t believe in the word ‘can’t'”-people, then this section will read as a challenge.  But maybe, even those people can take a break from their life of posting inspirational quotes over their crossfit videos and actually contemplate whether “can’t” is something that they should incorporate.

-You can’t wear sweatpants in public anymore.

The sweatpants-wearing public has been fooled by the tapered (?) cuffed (?) bottoms of new sweatpants into thinking that those make it acceptable to go outside wearing them.  Yes, this was a “Seinfeld” bit 20 years ago, but the emergence of Lululemon (and imposters for those of us poors) has caused a confusion that has led to a sweatpants-in-public resurgence.  It’s like when you work out a lot and then think you can eat whatever you want.  Next thing you know, you’re too sluggish from all the chips to go to the gym anymore and you’ve put on 14 pounds.  Just because the hot mannequin guy is pulling it off in the store window, doesn’t mean that you and your puffy beer face can.

-You can’t go to music festivals and post non-funny videos of yourself there.

Was I the only one seeing people my age post Instagram stories of themselves wearing basketball jerseys and neon whatever while at Lollapalooza this past weekend?  They’re cringeworthy, and even though I hadn’t spoken to these people in years, I felt like contacting them just to see “is everything okay?”  Now, I’m not judging if you actually went–that distinction must be drawn.  There are bands at music festivals that we are still allowed to love (oh thank god Jimmy told me I don’t have to give up music!)  So you can go, yeah.  But while there, if you find the need to send any sort of video of the band on stage, or you in the crowd, you better be damn sure that it’s a funny video.  Because if that video says something like “all the feels” or is just of you doing some sway-dance moves that your drunk brain thinks are “actually pretty cool,” then you become THAT person to EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE.  One “look at me at this music festival” Instagram video after the age of 30 will cause: banks to never give you a loan; friends not to trust you alone with their spouses; and your parents to drink more.

-You can’t have dirty dishes in your sink when guests are over.

This one is deeply personal and, frankly, really fucking stinks.  Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was a goddamn crime to put a DISH in a SINK!  Unfortunately, I have been hit with one too many “you’re a slob, huh?”-looks from guests who see the plate I used at breakfast that morning sitting there in the sink.  Now, thankfully, there is a trick if you have a dishwasher, aka “the best hiding place in the world.”  Look, you don’t have to have every dish actually clean once guests arrive, they just can’t be able to see them without opening a SECRET door.  So do yourself a favor, jam every dirty dish or kitchen utensil you have into your dishwasher right before your guests arrive.  That way, when you’re giving them the grand tour of your 900 square foot apartment, you’ll get to shoot them a “bet you feel dumb for thinking I was a slob”-look when you get to the kitchen portion of the tour.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you get your dog all riled up and running around your apartment, but then she accidentally jumps into a table and starts crying.  You grab her, almost start crying yourself because it’s your fault and you think you’re about to pay $2,000 at the vet because her leg “has to be broken if she’s crying like this.”  Only to have her, one minute later, walk around like nothing ever happened while you try to convince your wife that you weren’t crying.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I really love this band and am reminded of it when their songs randomly come up on my Spotify mixes.

MOM MEMORY OF THE DAY:

Yeah, I know, this may be a bit heavy, but I’m always trying to be really honest in this blog and I think a lot about my Mom.  So, until I start gambling again (“I can’t wait!” said the VP in a shitty, sarcastic tone) I’m going to share some quick memories of my Mom.

When I was 15, my parents got me a 1984 Ford Escort hatchback to learn on.  They didn’t want me to learn on their much nicer cars, so they gave me this hunk of junk and DARED me to say anything negative about it.  Within the first week of having it, my Mom backed her Chevy Suburban directly into the driver’s side of my Ford Escort.  I was outside when it happened, and I watched like it was slow motion.  She left a massive dent in my car, while there wasn’t a scratch on the Suburban.  While I stood in the driveway watching, she rolled down her window and very matter-of-factly said, “we’re not fixing that,” before driving off.

K, bye.

“Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” Takeaways

OUR WORLD:

The VP and I saw “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” on Saturday night (date night omg sahhh kewt!) and it was the brand of good that makes you want to buy a movie pass so that you can go every weekend.  Now, having had a full 24 hours to digest what I saw, I’d like to go over what stuck with me.  If you have yet to see this movie (I almost wrote ‘picture’ instead of ‘movie’ there in an effort to sound smarter than I am…then my brain was like, “hey, but you’re dumb.” So I went with ‘movie’.)  If you have yet to see this MOVIE, then I’d skip today’s “Our World”.  There will be spoilers because I want to write about the ending.  In lieu of calling this a “review,” I’m opting for the much snappier “things that stuck with me even after 24 hours from Once Upon a Time in Hollywood”:

Brad Pitt is the coolest man to walk the face of the earth in my lifetime.

The first time Pitt walked on screen, the VP gasped, which was nice because it muffled my gasp.  When I looked over at her, her eyes were drooling.  (Crying?)  No, not crying.  Her eyes were panting, drooling, screaming “how is there a human alive who can look this good?!?!”  She didn’t utter those exact words, but she didn’t need to, her eyes told the story.  And I was with her.  I, on the other hand, wanted to start crying while shaking my head and frightfully asking the universe “how? HOW GOD? HOW IS THERE SOMEONE THIS HOT AND COOL AT THE SAME TIME?!?!”

The hair.  There needs to be a documentary about Brad Pitt’s hair because every time I see one of his movies, one of the first thoughts I have is “I want hair like that.”  Then, I’ll probably try to style my shitty whispies like Pitt for the week following the movie, only to realize that…uh…I’m not Brad Pitt.  His hair in “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood” accomplishes this feat again (where’s the “make my hair look like Pitt’s”-product?) Somehow it’s blonde and long and full and, even though he’s in his mid-50s, the lack of gray doesn’t come off as fake.  WHAT TYPE OF SORCERY IS AT WORK?!?!

I imagine Tarantino writing his character, Cliff Booth, and thinking “I need to write the coolest guy in any room he walks into…oh right, I’ll just think of Brad Pitt.”  I’m not even 100% sure that Tarantino wrote Pitt’s character, or if Pitt just showed up and Quentin was like, “yeah, just be you.”  What direction could Tarantino possibly have given Pitt in this movie?  “Brad, in this scene, can you do that thing where you strut in a natural looking way and then give that smirk that lets the entire universe know that you’re the coolest person ever?”

In the scene where Pitt’s character tosses Bruce Lee into the car, if you didn’t start laughing while saying “fuck yes” then you need to go to a therapist and ask “why do I suck?”

In the scene where Pitt’s character parkour’s his way from the ground to the roof, did you think for a second that he probably, actually can do that?  Maybe the reason I’m not into superhero movies is because Brad Pitt can make superhero things look natural?

In the scene where Pitt’s character tells “Squeaky” that a screen door isn’t going to stop him from seeing his old friend, did you try to think of a house with a screen door that you’ve been to?  That you could return to, pissed off but projecting calm strength, to flick said screen door and tell the owner that “this isn’t going to stop me”?  Yes, whoever you’re talking to will not understand what’s going on and, possibly, call the police, but just explain that you’re not trying to become Pitt’s character from “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood.”

Remember when you were a kid and you’d see a superhero movie and then go home and dress like the superhero?  This movie and this actor can give that same feeling to an adult.  Now, where can I find some moccasin boot things and a Hawiian shirt that, somehow, someway makes me look tough?

Who’s the next super villain Tarantino’s going to avenge?

Lately, it seems that the Tarantino recipe is to go back, find the greatest villains of all-time, and create movies with endings that kill these villains in the most satisfying way imaginable.  He kills Hitler in “Basterds”.  He kills slave owners in “Django”.  He kills the Manson family in “Hollywood”.  It’s a fantastic formula, that I’m worried I’m catching onto.  Like, will I instantly know what is going to happen in his next movie if it’s about another all-time villain?  Whatever, still worth it.

This formula got The VP and I talking after the movie, though, about what super villain would be next for Tarantino to kill in the most satisfying way imaginable?  Here’s what we came up with (and what I’ve come up with since because, honestly, The VP didn’t contribute all that much to this exercise…no offense, no offense!):

  • Osama Bin-Laden
  • ISIS
  • Mark David Chapman
  • Fidel Castro
  • Lee Harvey Oswald
  • Harvey Weinstein…wouldn’t THAT be something?!?!
  • Kim Jong Un

And, shit, I just remembered that The VP actually DID contribute to this exercise.  In fact, she came up with the BEST one: Yoko Ono.

Is Leo the last great classic-Hollywood star?

There’s something to that Hollywood guy who has gotten too big to ever return to television, who when you see on screen you don’t think of as human, but “star”.  It’s that indescribable quality that we’ve seen in Denzel Washington, Jack Nicholson, and, most recently, Leonardo DiCaprio.  Whatever movie they’re in you know is going to be fantastic because THEY are in it.

Quick, try this little exercise: think of Leonardo DiCaprio and then ask yourself to write the first word down that you thought of while thinking about him.  It’s “Star” isn’t it?  (Actually, it’s not Jimmy, so…fuck your premise and fuck you.)  It’s not that he’s the best looking person of all-time (we’ve gone over this, it’s Pitt) but it’s crackling charisma paired with an unmistakable knack to draw every eyeball in every room…ever.  That was Nicholson.  That was Denzel.  That is  Leo now.

But, who’s the next star of stars?  Again, The VP and I discussed:

  • She said that Timothee Chalamet guy from the gay bike movie with THE PEACH and I almost drove into wall.
  • I said Ryan Gosling and we both groaned like “yeah, I guess..like, if we HAVE to…” then we both scrunched our faces and shook our heads at exactly the same time because WE’RE SOULMATES!!!
  • Miles Teller kinda’ has a chance.  I guess?
  • Jennifer Lawrence
  • Michael B. Jordan but no because you can never be THE star of stars if you’re never going to be the most famous person with your name.

And the answer that we finally landed on is…that there’s no one.  Now, every star is television or internet based and so it’s over.  That’s it.  Pack it in.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you eat like an absolute horse after working out because you’ve “earned it,” but then you go so far overboard that you start wondering whether working out is the reason you’re gaining weight.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

THIS STAND-IN FOR GAMBLING SECTION:

Still working on it.  Actually, I’m going to be honest, I haven’t been working on it and then I got here and was like “shit.”  So…yeah.

K, bye.

TV Shows vs. The Summer

OUR WORLD:

When it’s a beautiful day in the summer and your friends are asking you to play golf, ENJOY NATURE! (fuck off hippy) or meet up for drinks on a big, dumb patio and you pass that up to stay in to watch television, you know you’ve got an all-time show on your hands.  In normal-weather cities, like Chicago, standards for television shows go up in the summer.  With 2-3 months of not-jesus-christ-it’s-freezing temperatures, passing up those days to stay indoors brings on the type of guilt that results in involuntary “I’M NOT A LAZY PIECE OF SHIT!” scream sessions (especially unfortunate when these scream sessions take place inside your office.)  Incurring that type of guilt-complex outburst to watch some Michael Strahan gameshow is CLEARLY not worth it.  But have there been any shows this summer that are worth making your co-workers contemplate having you committed?

Let’s see….

BIG LITTLE LIES

Season 1 was fantastic with a capital FANTASTIC!  I was really getting into Season 2 when I listened to a Bill Simmons podcast that basically made fun of me for loving the show…SO I GOT CONFUSED!  How are you supposed to continue loving a show that your fave podcaster is kinda’ loving but also kinda’ making fun of?  (Here’s how…uh…don’t be such a windsock little bitch?)  I AM A GROWN MAN WHO IS TOUGH AND STRONG AND I….LIKED SEASON 2 OF ‘BIG LITTLE LIES’!!!! (Why are you crying then?)

There’s just no way to deny the acting performances in this show.  I’m always overeager to give all of the credit for a show or movie’s success to the writers, but with this cast, I think they could make the fine print of your electric bill entertaining.  (I never trusted that fucking meter!)  Early in the season, when Meryl Streep begins to make her presence known, I remember looking to the VP after each scene and saying “no, no SHE is the best actress on this show!”  Reese, Kidman, Streep, and Dern all took turns hoisting the “Best Actress on TV” trophy in between scenes of Shailene Woodley and Zoe Kravitz pretending to hold back tears because they’re tough, but not all the way because they’re DEALING WITH STUFF.  (If you want to see my best impression, ask me for my Zoe Kravitz in ‘Big Little Lies’ Season 2 face.  I’m incredibly proud of it.)

Now, if you haven’t finished it, I won’t lie, the ending doesn’t deliver in the way you’re hoping it will.  It’s not so disappointing that you should stop watching it now, but if you were thinking of skipping getting bombed outside with friends you feel comfortable splitting a check with, then I’d urge you to reconsider.  Season 2 is seven episodes, and episodes 3-5 pick up the kind of momentum that makes you say things like “I wanna be a big, little liar!”  But then you watch episodes 6 & 7, calm down, and explain to your wife that you’re not a liar.

Worth giving up big, dumb patio drinking time with friends? Almost, but not if that patio serves good margaritas with fat salt crystals lining the rim.

YELLOWSTONE

I’m not qualified to even really write about this show because (you’re a bad writer and nobody values your opinions) I’m basically a full season behind.  Think of this as more of a Public Service Announcement: if you have yet to start “Yellowstone,” you need to start watching it now before you’re a full two or three seasons behind and feel too intimidated to even start it.  I call this the “Breaking Bad Syndrome”–where you know a show is amazing, but get so far behind that you feel like you’ll never get caught up so…you just don’t, but you do lie to people and say “oh, yeah” when they ask if you’ve seen it.  Based on the first 6 episodes of Season One, “Yellowstone” is on the trajectory where in about a year and a half, most of the people you know will ask if you’ve seen it and judge you if you haven’t.  It’s not too late, guys.  Start now.

Think of this show as the cowboy version of “Succession,” where you trade some witty sarcasm for good fight scenes in dive bars.  Kevin Costner is here to remind you that he’s still the man you want to become, and his kids in the show look really fucking cool in their ranchin’ clothes (wait, this show has ranchin’ clothes?!?!)  Yeah, we’re talking full-on dusty cowboy boots, flannel shirts in the heat (how is this possible?), and cowboy hats that look like they were born to wear them.  After watching a few episodes, you’ll think about adopting this look, and then quickly abandon the idea once you realize that the jeans they were aren’t stretchy (once you wear stretchy jeans, you can never return to NOT wearing stretchy jeans.)

Worth giving up big, dumb patio drinking time with friends?  Yes, unless you have friends who are from Montana and say things like “I reckon'” without sounding ridiculous.

SOUTHERN CHARM

I’m going to be honest with you guys…the show badly misses T-Rav.  BADLY.  Now, does it make me feel good that I’m lamenting the loss of a probable-rapist from a reality show on BRAVO?  No.  It actually makes me feel horrible that I even wrote that, so I’m immediately taking that back.  Folks, please disregard the opening two lines in this section; I’ve only had 1.7 cups of coffee thus far, and everyone knows that I’m not my true self until I’ve hit the 2.4 cup mark (he’s right, everyone knows this.)  

What I’m trying to say is that this season of “Southern Charm”, while still entertaining in the way that a bag of chips is satisfying, it’s causing me to feel as bad as I do after gorging on a bag of Salt ‘n Vins.  This season, more than any before, I’m finding myself saying “I think these guys are just kinda’ sad losers, though…”  (Is Jimmy finally criticizing people who drink too much?)  The episode where Austin breaks up with Madison over the phone and then gets hammered with Shep and Craig on like a Tuesday night, played like an exploding “WE’RE ADULT DO-NOTHINGS!” neon.  And I hate that I sound like that friend who gets off on criticizing reality TV, but Shep is close to 40 and looks like damp dishrag every episode.  Craig, while still lookin’ LIKE A GODDAMN SNACK, has permanent Lindsey Lohan-voice, and Kathryn feels the need to constantly remind everyone in her vicinity that, no matter how big her house is, she’s still the number one victim in the world.

Listen, it’s still worth watching to make fun of stuff with your VP of Ops (yeah, you can use it, as long as you give me proper credit every single time you do.)  But the older and more responsible I’m forced to get, the more I feel myself resenting people who are given life on a silver platter, yet still complain as much as often as they breathe.  I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO FEEL SO STRONGLY AGAINST REALITY TELEVISION AND IT’S MAKING ME UNCOMFORTABLE!

Worth giving up big, dumb patio drinking time with friends?  Not this season, but if T-Rav makes a comeback then…NOPE, NOPE, STOPPING NOW!

MY WORLD:

The VP and I moved into our new apartment over the weekend.  Clarification: when I say that “we” moved, what I really mean is that we watched three men move all of our stuff and almost die of heat exhaustion while we pretended to do things not near them because we felt so guilty.  I know what you’re thinking, “but Jimmy, did you show all the movers the scar on your leg and talk about the ankle surgery you had?”  Uh, duh guys, what do I look like?  You really think I’m going to be silent while being emasculated right in front of my wife?  THINK AGAIN, BUBBAS!  (It was still weird when you used a bright, red marker to draw a circle around your scar tho…)

Anyway, we’re in to our new, bigger apartment now and besides pretending like I’m the mayor of box city, I’ve been fantasizing about how I could configure what will soon-be my office.  Yeah guys, this will be the first apartment that I finally have an office in, and I feel like Tommy Boy after his Dad shows him the mini-fridge in his new office.  Right when we moved in, I walked into the office, opened the door to it’s closet and said “I could put coat–or jackets–or pants in here!”  To which the VP responded, “anything, you’d like to keep out of the way.”  Then I bear hugged her before barreling into the kitchen for a victory beer.  (What did you even win?)

Now, I have to play this cool and say things to the VP like, “hey, this isn’t JUST my office, this is OUR office.”  But, between you and me, it’s my goddamn office and I’m probably going to install a lock on it that I’m never going to give The VP a key to.  “Wait, really? A lock?  That’s so weird!” Will definitely be something I say to her many times before changing the subject as quickly as possible.

I’m finally going to be able to put up all of the cool pictures that the VP of Ops has had “qualms” with in past apartments (what do you mean you don’t want the picture of Michael Jordan’s last shot as a Chicago Bull above our couch?)  But what else should I do with the space?  Here are some options, I’m mulling:

  • Multiple TVs hung on the wall
  • A fancy office chair that I can see how many times I can spin around in without having my feet touch the ground
  • A mini fridge
  • A fish tank that I can put numerous really weird-looking fish in and name all of them “Erin”
  • A phone connected to the landline that I could call from my cell phone whenever The VP and I are having a “civil disagreement,’ so when it rings, I can say, “sorry, I have to take that.”

I’ll keep you updated on my office construction, but please don’t tell The VP that it’s not hers and that she’s never going to be welcome in that room.  Thanks guys.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Getting to the age where you no longer feel comfortable not updating the address on your Drivers License whenever you move.  So now, moving ALSO includes a trip to the DMV.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

JIMMY GAMBLES:

This section sucks right now and I know it.  Until football season arrives, I’ll try to come up with something better.

K bye.

 

The “Are You An Adult?” Test

OUR WORLD:

There aren’t many things more annoying than hearing someone younger than you say, “OMG, I’m so old!”  I know this, and I want you to know that before reading the following…If you’re older than I am, this ‘Our World’ has the potential to make you hate me (are you a fucking agist, Jimmy?!?!)  Don’t worry, I’m not an agist (unless…you’re younger than me).  But, after some exhaustive research over the past 34 years, I have come up with the Top 3 “whoa, I’m really an adult now”-moments.

Working Out in the Hotel Gym on a Trip

(Wait, isn’t this just your way of telling us that you just did this on your trip to Portland, Maine?)  Did I mention I worked out in the hotel gym MULTIPLE TIMES during my trip to Portland?  (SONOFABITCH!!!)  Remember when hotel stays, whether for work or vacation, meant that calories didn’t count and exercise wasn’t even an option?  Everyone under the age of 32 abides by the rule where if you’re out of town, you don’t have to work out.  It’s my favorite kind of rule; clean, with little room for confusion–like “if you’re standing while eating, it doesn’t count.”

But then you reach a certain age (let me guess, 34?) and a lot of your pants are getting REALLY FUCKING TIGHT FOR NO GOOD REASON OTHER THAN YOU’VE BEEN EATING LIKE SHIT AND NOT WORKING OUT LATELY, and you go “shit, I think calories count even when I’m out of town.”  Hotel gyms are depressing little rooms with way too many mirrors, and only a few machines, so you’re going to feel like you’re on a shame stage.  It’s as if the hotel gym architects were like, “how can we instill as much shame as possible on people who are, otherwise, in the middle of treating their bodies like a dumpster?  I know!  More mirrors and less machines!”

There is a silver lining, here, though.  The hotel workout counts for 2.7 times more than a workout at home.  (Seriously?)  I’m not even fucking exaggerating, guys.  Thus, if you walk 2 miles on a treadmill at a hotel gym, it’s the same as running 5.4 miles (did he just do that math in his head?!?!) Screw a silver lining, that line is gold babayyyy!!!  Why?  Because the more viable excuses there are to not work out, the more calories are burned.        And fighting through excuses is the top qualification for “being an adult.”  So after that uphill walk on the treadmill (can’t run because of the ankle/knee/hip) make sure you walk through the lobby showing off your sweaty t-shirt to all the children.

Being more excited about morning coffee than night drinks on the weekends

You still won’t admit it, but I know.  You’re not “just tired.”  The reason you’re not ordering another drink with your now-more-fun-than-you friend is because you know that drink puts your Saturday morning coffee trip into jeopardy.  All you’re thinking about is “jesus, the next drink guarantees a meaningful hangover, doesn’t it?  DOES IT?  WILL SOMEBODY TELL ME IF THIS DRINK IS THE ONE THAT CAUSES THE DIZZYING HEADACHE TOMORROW MORNING?!?!”  Next thing you know, your friends are asking why you’re holding your arms out and screaming “GIMME A SIGN!” into the cool, night sky.

What you’re doing, though, is trying to make sure that you squeeze every second of I’m-off-work enjoyment out of your weekend, though.  THAT is adult; knowing that all a crippling hangover does is ruin precious not-at-work time that is meant to be spent doing things other than asking your wife “why didn’t we get Gatorades last night?”

What you should be doing is getting up and taking the doggo to the coffee place with the baked TREATS! and people wearing cooler clothes than you.  Eventually, you’ll be one of the people showing up in workout gear, having just got out of some class taught by a woman in her 50s who is FUCKING RIPPED, but let’s just take it step by step.  First step is being there not hungover, and wearing something other than sweatpants and the t-shirt you slept in.  Guess what?  You’re wearing jeans AND A NOT-THAT-WRINKLED GOLF SHIRT!!!  (Standing applause?!?! Y’all are too much!!!)

Now listen close, how do you tell that you’re in the right kind of coffee shop to maximize Saturday morning enjoyment?  The more unwelcome you feel, the better the coffee and TREATS! are going to be.  The air inside the shop smells not just like coffee and bread, but THE BEST COFFEE AND BREAD.  The trade off is that the people who work there aren’t going to like you.  Big stinking deal is what I say!  I wouldn’t like a decently dressed adult getting to enjoy a lovely, not-hungover Saturday morning while I was busy getting berated by my boss for not perfecting my “flower design thingy” on top of the lattes I was serving.

Listening to the music your parents listened to and saying things like, “I can’t believe I used to complain when they’d put this on.”

It doesn’t make much sense that at the same age you realize that you were a dick as a kid, that you’re simultaneously making the decision that you would like a kid of your own.  34 is right about the age where you start really listening to the music your parents played when you were a snot-nosed little bitch in the backseat of their car.  In between eating your boogers, you’d barf out “this song stinks!” or “ughhhhhh, no more country!” while your parents just shook their heads.  How my parents never barked something back like, “until you stop shitting your pants on a semi-regular basis, shut the fuck up!” is amazing to me.  But kids are dicks, and the time when you realize this THE MOST is when you’re 34, sitting in the backseat of a car and a song from The Eagles comes on and you think, “this song is fucking awesome, and I can’t believe I ever criticized my parents for liking it.”  (To everyone saying “the Eagles suck,” I’d ask you to really examine if you actually think that…or, if you just love “The Big Lebowski” so much that you feel compelled to say that whenever hearing The Eagles.)

I remember hating The Eagles, country music, Jackson Browne, Fleetwood Mac, and, GOD I WAS SUCH A DICK AS A KID!  That music is so good!  Maybe all kids are just undercover hipsters who think that saying they don’t like something that those closest to them like will make them seem “different”?  Or, maybe kids are just selfish people who think that their decisions are better than people who have been making decisions for far longer than they have because…their brains are small?  Whatever the reason, they’re just not nice!  And the time that this really crystalizes comes around the same time you’re telling you’re wife that you “think it’s time”.  “Now that I know for a fact that kids are a-holes, I’d like to add another to the population.”  HOW DOES THAT MAKE SENSE?!?!

But maybe that’s just it: the time you know that you’re ready for a kid comes at the exact time that you’re adult enough to realize that you were a jerk as a kid for not liking your parents’ music.  So, try this: if you’re thinking that you may be ready to bring a tiny jerk into the world, put on that band/artist that your parents used to listen to ALL THE TIME when you were young.  If you put it on, and you still think the music sucks, guess what?  Still not ready for a kid.  But, if you put it on and immediately feel guilty for heckling the people who paid for your entire life, then you’re ready to be a parent.  We’ll call this the “Jimmyschair Parent Test” and I would patent it if I knew how to do that and thought it could actually end up becoming profitable.

MY WORLD:

The VP and I are moving tomorrow and…well, things are stressful in Casa De La Chair.  Last night we got mad at each other for no real good reason, but we’re still kinda’ not talking to each other because neither of us want to give in and admit that they were wrong.  Do I think I was wrong? Yeah, duh, I know I was wrong.  BUT! I’ve been taking a lot of “L’s” lately and so, I’m just not in the mood to willfully accept another right now.

What will probably happen is I’ll get home after work tonight, pretend like we’re totally fine and then notice that The VP isn’t making eye contact with me.  She won’t give me the TOTAL silent treatment, but her answers will be short and the jokes will be forced.  If I make a joke, she’ll pretend not to hear it because laughing = saying we’re “okay”.  So it’ll get tense, but I’ll tell myself to hold off just a bit longer until SHE’S the one to break.  But then I’ll make a FAT cocktail (fancy boiiiiii) get deep into it and really start to miss feeling like the person I live with doesn’t hate me.

Then I’ll break, admit that I was wrong, have to nod through her reliving the blow by blow account of EXACTLY when I went wrong, and then…get kinda’ mad but stifle it and remind her of the things that “weren’t the best.”  This whole “trying to save face” exercise for the both of us will go on for no less than 16 minutes.

Happy Friday!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Moving.  It’s the fucking worst.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The post-move drink.  It’s a top 5er.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I think I’m done until football season…WHICH IS FAST APPROACHING!

 

 

 

 

The Clubs I Would Like Entry Into

MY WORLD:

Mike Jones is a Houston rapper who rapped something about saying “Mike Jones? Who?” years ago and there are people my age joking about people who don’t know who Mike Jones is.  Confused?  If so, you better be careful, or you’ll end up like I did–sitting in a car laughing nervously about this “joke” while praying that the other people in the car didn’t turnaround and go “please explain this Mike Jones joke to the class, Jimmy!!!”  I have no idea who Mike Jones is, still, but the people who do know who he is sounded very cool and current and alternative and COOL!  So like, can I become one of those people?  Can I become a “I know about cool rap stuff”-guy?

There are little groups bonded around things I don’t know about, that I’m jealous of.  If you think that jealousy ends when you graduate from High School, try spending a weekend around people who know about things like Mike Jones and it’ll take you right back (tell them the story about how you used to hide in the library and eat your lunch!  That’s a fun one!)  While sitting in the back of a car resisting the urge to say “this Mike Jones character sure sounds spunky!” I started thinking about things, activities, and topics that I, as a 34 year old MAN, think I would like to get into at some point (unless I’m like not allowed to because that group is already full and they just can’t fit one more person into it.  I mean, it’s fine, I don’t even really care.  I was actually not even really interested to begin with, so it’s like, whatever.  Okay…I’m gonna go back to the library now!)

Here is the Jimmyschair list of “Things I Think I’d Like to Get Into Maybe?  If it’s cool?  If it’s not cool, though, that’s fine.  I’m just like, chill, whatever.  That hat is really cool by the way.  So we’ll talk later?  Or not.  Whatever.”:

HIKING:

Did hiking exist before Instagram?  One of nature’s great unknowns, huh?  It feels like a large group of the people I follow on THE GRAM (make sure you keep saying cool slang like that so people know you’re not a cop!) got together one morning and were like “alright, does everyone have their big backpack, short shorts, and sporty brown hiking boots?  Nobody tell Jimmy about this!  DANIEL?  YOU DIDN’T TELL JIMMY ABOUT THE BIG COOL BACKPACK STORE DID YOU?!?!?! DANIEL!?!?!”  Then Daniel was all “I haven’t talked to Jimmy since the Mike Jones incident,” so the group started up the hill, taking beautiful pictures meant to clog my instagram feed and make me feel VERY EXCLUDED (maybe if your thighs weren’t so big, you’d be invited to the cool, tiny shorts store!)

I don’t even know what hiking really is.  Like, if I eat a Cliff Bar and then walk up a big hill in my old Brooks running shoes, did I just go hiking?  I’m pretty sure rocks have to be involved on some level, so what if part of that hill walk includes me going over a gravel driveway?  And the tiny tan shorts with a lot of pockets?  Those are necessary for a hike, right?  Like, if I wear my big white Indiana University mesh shorts while doing this uphill walk, it doesn’t count does it?  DAMNIT!

At some point over the past few years, I think a professional Hiking Judge saw me buy a Cliff Bar at a 7-11 and ruled that I was guilty of “buying a Cliff bar as a treat, and not for sustenance during an Instagram-worthy trek uphill,” before sentencing me to “not a legit hiker”-jail for life.  It was a tough sentence, but looking back, I understand.  Why was I buying a nearly 300 calorie bar when all I was just going to be sitting in traffic for the next hour on my way home?  Stern, but fair.

But is there any opportunity for parole?  I’d love to find my way out of “not a legit hiker”-jail, so I, too, could be in a picture while wearing a big backpack at the top of a beautiful hill.  What a feeling that must be!  (And the Instagram likes!  MY GOD, THE LIKES!!!)  I imagine once you’re accepted into this group, you get some really cool perks like getting to eat a Cliff Bar and not having the 300 calories count because your body knows that you’re a hiker and need that stuff to push through all the rocks you’re gonna have to awkwardly step on.

Dear REI Store Worker,

Next time I walk in, I promise to pretend to know what kind of boot I’m buying and to not ask “which one do you think looks cool, though?”  It’s all about utility, I get it.  Looks? Don’t even care.

SNEAKERS:

A good amount of my friends talk about online sneaker releases, secondary markets for sneakers they bought a few months ago, and the basketball shoes that some non-mega-star has coming out that are “amazing!”  I have no idea what they’re ever talking about, so I’ll throw in cheap jokes meant to throw them off my insecure scent.  “You guys see the new ‘Gary Levinson’s’?  No?  They’re the new Brooks running shoes for suburban dads who can’t really run anymore because of their knees.”  

BUT!  They sound pretty cool talking about the “New Kawhi’s” and the new “Paul George” shoes and…I don’t even know if I’m supposed to fucking call them shoes or sneakers.  I feel like a gym teacher from the 80s calling them sneakers, but then I swear I’ve heard a DJ on Hip Hop Radio Station use the word “sneakers” and sound cool so…What is it?!?! SHOES OR SNEAKERS?!?! GIVE ME A SIGN, GOD! GIVE ME A SIGN!

These guys are also able to pull off the new basketball sneaker/shoe with skinny jeans look, and that’s kinda unfair when I’m having a hard enough time pulling off the running shoe with relaxed jeans look (you’ve got the “suburban surrender”-look down pat!)  Whenever I’m around someone NAILING this look, all I can think about is “aren’t you scared of getting those dirty?  And how have they not gotten ONE SPEC OF DIRT ON THEM?!?! DO YOU HAVE SOMEONE FOLLOWING YOU AROUND WIPING YOUR SHOES WITH DISINFECTANT WIPES!?!?!”  Also, do you play basketball in those shoes too?  Or is that like a lame thing to do?  I’m pretty sure there is one set of basketball shoes meant for skinny jeans, and then another set of basketball shoes meant for…actually playing basketball, and if you mix the two up, you’re kicked out of the sneaker guy club forever.

Last time I played basketball, I wore Brooks.

SCARY MOVIES:

I’m just tired of feeling the compulsion to blurt out “they give me nightmares” anytime the topic of scary movies comes up around me.  It’s not a cool look.  I’m also pretty sure that the people around me are annoyed that they can’t talk about some make-believe monsters because the 34 year old dude next to them, wearing Brooks and a small backpack, will get scared when he goes seepy at night if they do.  (Here’s an idea: quit being a fucking baby, Jimmy!)

So can I just decide to stop being a baby?  Is there a pill I can take that will cause me to enjoy scenes where teenagers get stabbed by a guy wearing a mask at a cabin in the woods?  The people that seem to really enjoy scary movies, REALLY FUCKING ENJOY SCARY MOVIES AND LOVE TALKING ABOUT THEM!  Hey guys, I love talking about stuff!  Being able to talk about brutal murders while smiling also connotes a brand of “bad-assery” that I wouldn’t mind being a part of.  It’s a high-wire act between bad-assery and “hey, do you think Eric liked that torture scene a little too much?”  Once you master it, you’ll be as cool as Nick Wallenda walking in between skyscrapers (minus the weird family stuff going on there…)

There has to be an age you reach, where you’re just like “I pay bills and talk about politics with relatives, I can watch ‘Scream’ without softly whimpering into my pillow later.  Is that age 34? CAN IT PLEASE BE 34?!?!

OUR WORLD:

I’m going on an impromptu, not-fun road trip to Kentucky today and so, of course, I will be allowed to cheat on my diet because road trip calories don’t count.  Here are the Top 10 “Road Trip Treats”:

  1. Gardetto’s Snack Mix
  2. McDonald’s breakfast
  3. BBQ Pringles
  4. Chick-Fil-A waffle fries with Chick-Fil-A sauce
  5. Teriyaki Beef Jerky
  6. Honey roasted peanuts
  7. Gummy worms
  8. White chocolate and macadamia nut Cliff Bar
  9. Diet Mountain Dew
  10. 7-11 Coke Slushy

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you get that feeling in the back of your throat that means you’re about to get sick, but you’re not TOTALLY sick yet.  It’s like walking around with a bomb strapped to your chest AND YOU CAN’T GET THAT TICKING SOUND OUT OF YOUR HEAD!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I don’t know this person, but…

cheering young woman hiker open arms at mountain peak

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I’m at $0 right now and feeling lost.  I want to gamble on something but I’m tired of baseball and I think I’m really bad at this thing.  But…what if I’m not?  What if I just need to…yep….STAY THE FUCKING COURSE!!!

K, bye.

 

I’m Moving to Maine

MY WORLD:

Over the past few years, whenever I go out of town, I start a conversation with myself about whether or not I could see myself living wherever I’m going.  Do you do this too?  When did vacations or work trips turn into scouting expeditions featuring Zillow searches and me saying things to an Oyster shucker I just met, like, “I keep thinking I should move to Maine.”  He responded with a “yeah, you should,” but what he probably meant was, “dude, I don’t know you or care.”  I went to Maine this weekend and told a lot of people that moving there was on my mind, and now I’m doing the thing where I return to normal life and talk myself out of doing something drastic.  But why?

I’m sure that part of the reason I think about moving as much as I do is because I know, deep down, that the VP and I probably won’t.  What’s the risk of thinking about jumping off the high-dive, when you don’t even know where a pool with a high-dive exists?  The process of moving to a new state is so daunting that considering it ‘basically impossible’ feels like an instinctual reaction.  Yeah, I’m in a better mood on vacation or when on a work trip that feels more like a vacation than sitting behind my desk does, but am I drunk?  (You? I mean, probably.)  

I’d never been to Portland, Maine before and I thought it was beautiful (HOT TAKES ON A MONDAY, Y’ALL!!!)  “It feels like I’m in a postcard,” is a line I think I said to 42 different people over the span of my three days in the Northeast.  (Yeah, I’m sure it’s been used before, but I still DIG that line.  SO BACK OFF!)  It smelled like the ocean with seagulls providing the soundtrack to hipster coffee shops, oysters, and people who seemed in better shape and more relaxed than me.

I’ve never been awed by the ocean, but I was this time…fuckin’ lighthouses are cool to look at from a distance and not go in!  (I did that!)  We drove to a more rural area one day, through woods and fields with little creeks and houses with decks where cell phone reception wasn’t very good.  Thankfully, though, it was good enough for me to run a Zillow search that revealed houses near creeks in Maine go for less than apartments with creeks in Chicago.  (See what I did there?  With the creeks thing?)  So I went into “well, could we actually figure out a way to live here?”-mode.

This consists of me telling the people around me “I think I wanna move to Maine”; me texting The VP that “I think I wanna move to Maine”; and me asking the guy who just rang me up for my first Maine bagel if I “should move to Maine?”  It’s a scientific and thorough fact-finding mission, one that has been honed over the past two years of being annoyed with Chicago rent prices along with OTHER PERSONAL ISSUES THAT I DON’T FEEL LIKE DISSECTING RIGHT THIS SECOND!

Usually, the people around me will toss a “I think I’m supposed to laugh here”-chuckle my way; The VP will say something along the lines of, “yeah? Do you think I could open a wine and cheese shop there?”; and the bagel man will pretend not to be annoyed with yet another out-of-towner idealizing a place where he works as a cashier for a local bagel chain.  (Does YOUR paradise include clocking in at a place called “Mister Bagel”?)  I’ll push back on the courtesy laughs from those around me.  I’ll remind The VP that just because she eating cheese and drinking wine doesn’t necessarily qualify you to open a wine and cheese shop.  And I’ll take to heart when Bagel Man says, “yeah, you should come here.”  (He’s definitely not saying that because it’s just the easiest thing to say in that moment.  HE REALLY KNOWS THAT I SHOULD BE IN MAINE!!!)

Then at night, I’ll have a few drinks, try to think of what I’d do to…ya know, make money in Maine, and come up with something attainable, like “writing something that sells for hundreds of thousands of dollars.”  (This blog ain’t it, buddy!)  BUT MAYBE, for a few minutes, it feels like something that could happen and then I get to imagine my new Maine life.  Living in a house by a creek with a deck means I could sit on a rocking chair in the morning and LOOK OUT AT A CREEK WHILE EXFOLIATING MY FACE WITH THE STEAM COMING FROM MY HOT CUP OF COFFEE!!!  From there, I could write for a few hours, before bringing my dog on a long walk into town to get a sandwich that, somehow, doesn’t make me as fat as a sandwich in Chicago would.  Oh, and my dog Belle?  She gets it, “can’t be a psycho in Quaintville, USA,” so she lets kids touch her snout without sending them to the emergency room.

After leaving the “sandwiches that are good for you”-store, Belle and I swing over to The VP’s wine and cheese shop to sample the new cheese (Kraft singles?!?!) she brought in and congratulate her on being named Trip Advisor’s “Best Place to Spend Too Much Money And Then Brag to People That You Love Supporting Local Business.”  When doggo and I return, it’s time for me to put my big, brown, comfy boots on to do my afternoon hike workout that leaves me sweaty and with, somehow, a perfectly full and manicured beard.  (That’s what happens when you get into hiking, right?)  We cook a dinner with wooden utensils and eat outside after telling all the bugs and mosquitoes to politely “leave us alone” because in Maine, the bugs listen.

There are people that live lives like this.  Do I know any?  No, but I’ve seen it in the movies and I’m not being facetious when I say that I’m beginning to fully realize that stuff in movies is inspired by stuff seen by real people in real life.  People have seen lives like this and written them onto screens.  And I have watched those screens before.  I’VE SEENT IT!

So why will I do what I always do after a trip, and spend the next few days talking myself out of what I just saw and felt and thought?  I have no problem with getting whiskey-drunk, but hopes-and-dreams-and-fantasies-drunk is a line I just can’t cross.  I’m aware this has been a rambling entry, but sometimes that’s what a blog should be.  And since this has already been all over the place, how about I just stop before talking myself back into the sobriety that includes whiskey but not the other more fun stuff?

OUR WORLD:

Heat wave > Polar vortex.

LETS HATE THIS AT THE SAME TIME TOGETHER:

When you make a can of chicken noodle soup that has been in your cabinet for a year and, after eating, you start wondering how the chicken in that can was still safe to eat…Is it actually chicken?  Yeah? Then how is it okay after sitting in a room temperature can for a year?

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Tom Cruise doing Tom Cruise things will always be one of my favorite things.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Yeah, I lost all my bets on The British Open and got to watch them lose while on a plane back from Maine.  The guy sitting next to me was wearing sunglasses the whole flight and, I swear, he was doing it so he could watch me rolling my eyes at Shane Lowry ruining my picks.

K, bye.

 

 

That First NFL Sunday Morning of the Year

*Trying something new-ish today.  From time to time, when I don’t feel like there’s a ton going on in either “my world” or “our world,” I’m going to fantasize about something that I am realistically excited about.  I’m going to call it “34-Year-Old Dude Mundane Fantasy Time”

34-YEAR-OLD DUDE MUNDANE FANTASY TIME:

-First NFL Sunday Morning of the Year-

Close your eyes with me for a little bit (yes, even if you’re driving).  It’s the first full NFL Sunday of the year, and since you stopped yourself after beer #3 last night , you’re up before 7am.  You kinda wake your wife up on purpose as you make your way out of bed, but you pretend like it’s an accident, and say something like “shit, I’m sorry.  Hey, I’m going to the gym.”  She needs to know that you’re going to the gym (those not-washboard-abs be damned!).  You get to the gym and make eye contact with a few people inside.  Guess what?  This is the responsible adults club and, by showing up early on a Sunday, you’re now a part of it; don’t forget to pick up your “Look-At-Me-Not-Wasting-Plastic”-tote bag.

Now what you do during this gym visit won’t matter as long as you’re there for at least 48 minutes.  The bike with the recliner seat on the back?  Yeah, that’s fine.  But, keep in mind, if you actually do break a sweat, then you can get a bagel on your way back.  NFL Pregame shows are on every single television, and most of the people there are wearing some sort of Bears something.  As you climb on the elliptical (the winner of the “hey, it’s not the easiest machine in here”-award) you share a look with the woman next to you, and connect…”Go Bears,” you say.  Unfortunately, she was wearing headphones, which was obvious because headphones aren’t invisible, so now she’s scrunching her face and taking her headphones off mid-workout.  “No, no, it’s ok-” but it’s too late.

“What did you say?” She annoyingly asks.

“Nevermind, sorry.”  Okay, minor bump in the road.  Don’t let it derail your First NFL Sunday mood.  DON’T CRY!  STOP CRYING!!!  Distract yourself by pushing yourself into those supremely awkward “is this what running in outer space is like?”-elliptical movements.  You’ve got a fantasy football podcast going and guess what?  THAT HEADPHONE WEARING STRUMPET NEXT TO YOU BE DAMNED!!! YOU’RE FUCKING BACK!  Matta’ fack, take a look at what resistance she’s doing, go a few levels higher on your machine and make a promise to yourself that you won’t get off your elliptical before she gets off hers….NO MATTER WHAT!  If she catches you looking at her screen, that’s fine.  Let her deal with her own insecurities, did Jordan feel bad for dunking on white guards?  Not your fault that you’re a psychopath elliptical killer.

After dominating a 50 minute elliptical session, guess what time it is?  Yep, it’s time to walk out of the gym and over to the bagel and coffee place a half block away.  Before returning to your kingdom, you must treat the hungover scoundrels to a “this is what an adult looks like on a Sunday morning”-show.

You know you’ve earned a bagel with extra cream cheese, so order that shit, but make sure you loudly say “excuse me!” while pointing at your very sweaty t-shirt to anyone who gets close to you.  If you feel like expanding that to a “excuse me, I got up at 7 on a Sunday and worked out for an hour which is why my shirt is so so so sweaty and I don’t want you and the sleep in your eyes to accidentally touch it and be grossed out,” that’s fine.  A little long? Sure, but being isn’t being completely honest always okay?

Once you get back to your apartment, with an extra iced coffee for your VP of Ops (not my VP, right?…Wait, what?  She said she was staying at her friends last night…)  Your VP will, most likely, have something like Food Network, or Not-Football on TV, but once you walk in she’ll know that her television minutes are numbered.  How mad can she get, though, when you hand over her iced coffee, made exactly the way she likes it, AND you offer to split your bagel with cream cheese with her?  You debated the entire ride home whether you’d offer to split the bagel, and decided that there’s no way out of it (why didn’t you just get a second bagel YOU IDIOT!!!)  

“Half for you, half for me,” you say while praying that she says ”no thanks, you earned the whole-”

“Perfect!  Thanks babe!” As she extends an open hand….

Okay, that did not go as planned and now you’re really sad, BUT! BUT! Working out following by only half a bagel?  Get ready to try those college jeans on again because you are now OFFICIALLY SKINNY!   (Make sure you give her the bottom half of the bagel.  Enjoy that plain-ass bottom babayyy!)

It’s a little before 10am, so you’re practically tingling with football electricity right now.  You’ve got 11 minutes to shower before the least horrible NFL pregame show starts, so clock is ticking,  But, once you get in the bathroom, you look down at your phone and remember, “I haven’t told my group chat that I worked out yet.”  The chat is on fire about fantasy and gambling bullshit, but you passively insert yourself by texting out something that starts with “now that I got the gym out of the way…”  Now they know.  All the other slobs in the group now feel guilty for eating their unearned toaster strudels.  Mission Goddamn Accomplished.

It’ll seem like you should shower while listening to that Fantasy Football Podcast, but come on, even you know that podcast is boring. (Are there people in the world that take silent showers?)  So switch it up for those last 9 minutes before NFL Pregame and put some music, like Eric Church or Darius Rucker’s “Wagon Wheel” on.  I’m talking music that screams good times, beers and sun.  Even if it’s raining.  Sing along in the shower, and while it doesn’t have to be loud enough for Old Wifey to hear it, if you’re feeling into it, don’t hold back.  This is your friggin’ day, random 34 year-old dude.

Towel around your waste, stroll through the living room holding your Eric Church-blastin’ iPhone while doing that cool sway strut on your way to change.  If you’re really looking to enter that “annoying, but funny”-zone, I suggest standing directly in front of the television your VP is watching and pretending not to hear her when she asks you to move.  It’ll start as funny, then she’ll get bad, but if you hold strong, it’ll return to funny.  Be patient.

Change into your stretchy jeans (what an invention!) and that Bears t-shirt you bought in college, but is big and soft enough to still not look ridiculous.  When you re-emerge from the bedroom, donning your best NFL FanDude uniform, be prepared for your VP to play some whole “I’m not giving you the remote”-game.  Now, listen carefully because this is a very dangerous time for all of us.  At first, you’ll think it’s cute when she holds the remote away, or sits on it, or runs into the other room with it.  But when she continues for that extra 1.3 minutes, that may extend to the start of that pregame show you’re aiming for, DO NOT ENTER THE LEGITIMATE ANGER ZONE.  GUYS!  IT’S NOT WORTH IT!  This means avoiding the following:

  • Throwing a harsh cuss in, like “just gimme the FUCKING remote!”
  • Saying “I’ll just watch it in the bedroom” and then, having re-entered the bedroom, slamming the door.
  • Bringing up the coffee and half bagel you got her no less than 16 minutes ago in an attempt to drown her in guilt lagoon.

Just be cool, be cool, EVERYONE BE COOL!!! (But be careful not to fake-laugh too hard either because that’ll just extend this).  

When she relents, feel free to drop a “you know what? Actually, you wanna watch one more ‘Barefoot Contessa’?” and when she begins to light up, give her the old “PSYCHHHHHH!!!! FOOTBALL TIME BABAYYYYY!!!”

Phone in hand, computer screen on the coffee table in front of you, it’s football time.  The only thing left is your inner countdown to when you can crack that first beer.  I say as long as you’re within 30 minutes of game time, you’re golden.  And if that feels like forever away, remember that your “get out of beer jail”-card is a bloody mary.

Wait, you hear that?

 

COMMERCIALS ARE THREATENING OUR LIVES!!!

OUR WORLD:

When did television decide that 98.91% of all commercials should serve to scare the ever-loving shit out of the viewers?  I was watching the boob tube (cool guy term for “television”) with my Dad last night and a commercial came on featuring a home video of a guy singing karaoke.  Immediately, I knew this guy died.  How did I know that? (Because…YOU KILLED HIM AND HAVE BEEN CARRYING A HEAVY CONSCIENCE EVER SINCE BUT IT’S TOO LATE TO CONFESS NOW, SO YOU’VE DECIDED YOU WILL BE BURIED WITH THIS SECRET!!!) No, I knew this guy died because the stakes in so many commercials have been raised so high that if you don’t do the thing that said-company wants you to do, then the penalty is death.

Yes, they’re normally for good causes.  It’s not like “Hey, if you don’t use these Clorox Anti-Bacterial wipes, we’re going to have you put on our secret serial killer’s ‘who’s next?’ list.”  It’s ads like this one where Joe BlueCollar is singing karaoke until the screen goes black and we read that “This is Joe B.”—more singing, then black again, “And he was struck by a car and killed in a work zone.”  I think it was like the Illinois Department of Transportation trying to get people to drive more cautiously around work zones.  Listen, I, too, am against innocent road construction guys getting murdered by cars but…does that mean I was pro-car-murder before seeing this ad?  And that’s not even the point, I know, because it raises awareness subconsciously and blah blah blah.  I KNOW!  But, I’m trying to make a joke about how fat I’ve gotten to my Dad, in between innings of a Cubs game, and now I feel like a dick for using this poor guy’s eulogy as the soundtrack to my “boy, is my tummy big”-bit.

Now, if this were some rogue “let’s make the viewers think about death in a jarringly real manner”-ad, then maybe I’d have more tolerance.  But no, it was followed by a commercial starring a smoker in a hospital bed, with a hole in her neck talking about how she regrets ever starting smoking.  After that, while praying for some lightness with one of those fucking “can you hear me now?” spots, you’re uppercut with a ‘Cancer Centers for America’ commercial telling you that they’re “here for you” when that stupid fucking disease knocks on your door.  WHAT THE FUCK EVER HAPPENED TO THE BOWLING CAVEMEN TALKING ABOUT INSURANCE?!?!

Again, these are all great causes; that is impossible to dispute.  But, are we not allowed to just…I don’t know, escape the real world for a couple hours at the end of the day?  It’s not like I was tuned in to the “Get Ready To Be Freaked-The-Fuck-Out About Everything In The World”-channel (GRTBFTFOAEITW isn’t quite as catchy as NBC).  Can there be an option put into our televisions that allow us to opt-out of these incredibly heavy commercials that make us think about the very things we’re trying to forget for a few hours before we go to sleep?  (Hey Zenith, want to become a relevant television company again?  INVENT THIS!)

You know where I don’t see all of these “careful, an invisible murderer with a big, sharp knife is under your bed”-commercials?  Instagram.  Facebook.  Twitter.  Maybe that’s why we all find ourselves staring at those screens instead of our televisions?  Sure, it’s easy to make fun of Big Brother and those personalized ads, but wouldn’t you prefer seeing an ad for a watch you were talking about 6 seconds prior to seeing an ad reminding you that jumping off a tall building without a parachute usually results in death?  Tapping into my phone’s microphone > Tapping into my worst fears.

MY WORLD:

The VP and I are moving for the six-bajillionth time in a couple weeks and I’m already regretting it.  A few months back, it rained really hard in Chicago and the window frame in our living room started leaking like crazy.  Brown water came through and ruined some shit we really don’t care about, but, when it happened, we both acted like that water landed on our life savings and then burst into flames.  We sent picture texts to each other of stained curtains and lamp shades and side tables like “HOW WILL WE EVER PROCEED WITHOUT OUR BLUE CURTAINS?!?!”  It was all dramatic and we probably got wrapped up in the moment because it’s really exciting when you’re presented with a legitimate opportunity to get mad at someone other than yourself.

So I got really mad at our buildings management company.  I demanded being reimbursed for damages and when they pushed back in the slightest, I lost my brain and threatened legal action.  (The only thing I know about legal action is that you “threaten” it when you’re really, really pissed off and don’t know what else you can say to back up your argument.)  At the time, I’m sure our 39 year old building manager read my e-mails like “do they think I ordered God to send the worst rainstorm in Chicago history?  They’re aware they rent a dumpy apartment in a mediocre neighborhood, right?”

The VP and I continued along with our misdirected-anger rampage until we reached the very measured, logical conclusion that the best way to exact revenge on our management company was to move out at the end of our lease in July.  (Good luck finding tenants who never clean the inside of the oven and have a dog that tries to bite neighbors!!!  THAT’LL SHOW EM!)  Our management company probably held a company-wide champagne toast when we notified them we were bailing.  While mid-level employees that we’ve never met were getting champagne-drunk on some random Tuesday, The VP and I were busy patting ourselves on the back for standing on principle and volunteering to do one of the most stressful things someone can do: move.

Since we made this principled decision, in between shaking hands at the rallies held in honor of our courageous stance, we’ve found other “back up” reasons for why we had to move.  These included things like: needing to be walking distance to a Dunkin Donuts; needing to have an office that allows us to escape each other under the guise of having to “work”; and, cuz.  A comprehensive list it was, tough to argue with the logic there.

So I picked out all of the other neighborhoods we’d prefer living in, looked at Zillow and Craigslist on my phone until my eyes stung, and….quickly realized that we couldn’t afford to live in any of those other neighborhoods.  (Um….management company? ‘Member all that stuff I was threatening?  That was just like a goofy laugh-joke.  Hahahahahahahahaha help me I’m in too deep now.)  It was too late, so I checked out an apartment about 6 blocks from our current place, walked through it one time without paying all that much attention and said “clean wall! shiny floor! sign lease!”  (Master Negotiator Jimmy up to his old tricks!)

Two nights ago, we got the keys to our new place and walked through it with our still-not-calm dog.  It’s a fine apartment, that’s bigger than our current spot, but I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t go home after, think about the reality of moving, look into the mirror and dramatically whisper “what have we done?”  Since maybe sharing my anxiety will help me cope with it, here is what I’m MOST not looking forward to with regards to this move:

  • Talking to Comcast for no less than 9 hours and, somehow, ending up with a cable/internet package that costs exactly the same as the one we have now.
  • Doing the whole “I know I’m never going to wear this again, but I’m still going to pack it because this moving box is closer than my garbage”-thing.
  • The VP sending me an endless stream of texts about new couches that she wants to get and then ignoring my texts asking her “have you Venmo’d me your share of next month’s rent, yet?”
  • Having Belle snap at our new downstairs neighbors and me trying to laugh it off while saying “she’s such a fake tough-guy!”
  • Trying to assuage the guilt I’ll feel watching movers by offering them Gatorade…then realizing that the Gatorade I just bought for them was off the shelf, and not from a cooler, so I’m handing them room temperature Gatorade and they’re pretending to be grateful.

I can’t wait.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Still, the “Most Annoying Commercial of All-Time” GOAT

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

My all-time favorite commercial

WAIT, SO YOU DO STILL GAMBLE, RIGHT?

Yes, and I need to pick out my British Open winners soon SO LAY OFF!

K, bye.

 

 

FEAR #1 ABOUT HAVING A BABY

MY WORLD:

For the past two years, whenever a friend of ours or someone we know (who has not EARNED our friendship yet!) announced that they’re having a baby, the VP and I would look at each other with the “but we’re still having so much fun doing whatever we want!”-face.  Now, while we can’t do WHATEVER we want (laws are like so dumb omg) we have really enjoyed each other and the freedom we have.  The whole making-sure-a-tiny-human-stays-alive responsibility hasn’t been exactly something The VP and I have been itching for.  “Babe, I know this trip to Ireland is fun, but what if…now hear me out…instead, we were at home pretending like we didn’t want to cry while dealing with a screaming newborn?”  I can feel the parents reading this either snarling or relating to it so much that they’re feeling guilty, and let me tell you, I’M DOING BOTH NOW!

I guess when you get older your priorities change and whatever this is dumb, I think we want a kid now.  Why? I don’t know, and I’m not asking for all of the new parents around my life to text me about how rewarding it is.  I’m sure that it is, but, for me, hearing a new parent talk to you about how their life has changed with a kid is like hearing fireman talk about rescuing a family from a burning building, “yeah, sounds hot and scary!”

I think The VP and I are ready to care about  another person as much as we care about each other.  That’s fun, right? Like, caring about someone?  (*If I was a Cowboy, I’d definitely say something like: “I only care about the whiskey in my flask and the open road..”  I’m not a cowboy.)  But while caring about someone or something (my chair!) is fun, it is also really really scary (what if my chair breaks?!?!)  So as the VP and I begin to attempt to maybe, sorta’, kinda’ start a ChairFamily, I’m going to start writing about some things I’m scared about related to this whole “having a kid”-thing.

Here’s the first:

The VP, and most of our friends, being proven right that we HAVE to spend a lot of money on a stroller.

First off, there’s a difference between being cheap and just being…ya’ know, not rich.  We fall into the second category (AND THAT’S OKAY!).  Like, when we go shopping for wine, we’re not buying the big “Jug O Grapey Alcohol” on the bottom shelf, but we’re also not buying the bottle that “needs to be properly cellared”.  So in the initial discussions The VP and I have had about important baby things (toys!) I already feel a LARGE gap between what I think is a reasonable amount to spend on a stroller and what she feels is a reasonable amount to spend on a stroller.  No, we haven’t written numbers on folded pieces of paper and slid them across our negotiating table, but she has dropped a few “when it comes to a stroller, we cannot skimp”s on me.  Guess what babayyy?!?! I THINK WE CAN!

It’s a goddamn seat on wheels that will NEVER go over the speed of 1.6 MPH or down the side of a mountain.  We’re not in a Jeep commercial, we’re in a developed city with sidewalks–I’m pretty sure that the same stroller that my parents used with me would work JUST FINE.  And I’m also pretty sure that, that stroller is still somewhere in the depths of my parents’ house, so…guess what?  FREE STROLLER BABAYYYYY!!!!

And this is where my fear comes in because I’ll die on this hill…AND I DON’T WANNA DIE!  What if I somehow, someway make it through countless fights with The VP where she says stuff like “you’re cheating out on our first child’s safety!” and I’m all “trust me,” and then…it happens.  I’m pushing our 1985 stroller down Division St. on a cool, late September, Saturday morning.  The VP is wearing a hoodie and we’re debating what bullshit, hipster coffee place we should get ripped off from this week.  Little BabyChair is drooling in his vintage stroller, but not crying, so we’re not going to touch him.  Then, as we turn the corner, I feel a little rattle from the front, right wheel.  I don’t move my head, but I do dart my eyes to see if The VP saw anything…she didn’t, it’s fine, it’s fine.  “Stroller just had a little cough, probably allergic to the autumn leaves! Nothing to worry about!”  So I keep pushing until I momentarily forget about that rattle.  Unfortunately, as we approach the “$37 Latte Store,” I don’t see the slight crack in the sidewalk…

The front wheel of our Prince-era stroller plunges into the 3-inch-deep crevice, making a slamming noise that sounds like a T-Rex footstep. The VP’s mean eyes shoot down RIGHT AS THE WHEEL EXPLODES, sending a little rubber shards screaming towards her already-pissed off face.  BabyChair is screaming, but like, still sitting because we were walking very slowly.  That is, until The VP loses her balance, on account of the rubber shards barrage, and steps on the back wheel of our very delicate stroller.  Not having lost the baby weight yet, The VP’s misstep OBLITERATES the back wheel, and sends BabyChair flipping through the air towards the front door of the “You Should Really Try Almond Milk, Latte Store”.  As the VP tumbled toward the sidewalk, I am faced with a choice…and I choose my seed.

Thankfully, my ankle has recovered enough by this time, that I’m able to lunge over the stroller wreckage in time to catch BabyChair, twist mid-air and land on my back.  BabyChair, cradled gently yet securely in my arms, would land on my chest and think that he was just put down in bed without ever knowing the full catastrophe his supremely athletic father just disrupted.  And then I would look up from the ground, as a crowd of people tried their best to upload my heroism to the “Amazing Dads Doing Amazing Things” instagram account, The VP would rise.  Brushing the wrecked shards of sidewalk from her back, she would step over me and look down.  Imagine lying on your back and being straddled by a Killer Whale who, somehow, has legs and can walk on land.  That’s me, here, now.

“I told you we needed the $14,000 stroller,” the SeaLand Creature will bellow.

Next thing I know, I’m sipping a $37 latte while in the “Stroller Section” at a Tesla dealership.

OUR WORLD:

People are still setting off fireworks around Chicago.  Was your Monday night THAT great?  Really?  How long do the people that have leftover fireworks get to set them off before someone with a bazooka is allowed to fire a missile into their living room?  Fireworks set off by cities and communities between July 2 and July 5 are cool and fun and whatever.  Fireworks set off by women named “Terry” between July 6 and the rest of the year are obnoxious and scary.  One day, I hope all of the dogs in the world band together to find and harm all of the women named “Terry” setting off fireworks after July 6.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The selection of movies in theaters right now.  WOOF TIMES A BILLION!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Heard this song yesterday and lurvvvved it.

I STILL GAMBLE, YES, BUT THERE’S NOTHING INTERESTING GOING ON WITH MY ACCOUNT RIGHT NOW, SO I’M NOT GOING TO WRITE ABOUT IT:

That about says it all.

K, bye.