I May Be in Serious Legal Trouble

MY WORLD:

My world is a little baby girl right now (every living thing in the universe just rolled their eyes. No Jimmy, I’m not kidding. Even cadavers, and weird animals with no eyes.). Yeah, writing that first sentence made my skin crawl, but I promise to always be honest in this blog (tell us EXACTLY how much you owe in student loans then!) and that’s a totally honest statement. I’m not writing it to sound like the sensitive, stunningly hot, surprisingly JACKED Dad that you’re thinking I may be (not thinking that) I’m writing it because I’ve been trying to think of what to write in this section and I don’t want it to ALWAYS be about our dumb baby who CAN’T EVEN FART WITHOUT CRYING YET! Seriously, what if you cried every time you farted? Actually, yeah. If you’re reading this and you don’t have kids yet and are wondering “but Jimmy, now that you’ve been a parent for 4 seconds, what is parenting REALLY like?” WELL, SINCE YOU ASKED! If you’re wondering if you and your partner are ready to parent a newborn, try this: for the next 24 hours, every time you have to fart, start scream crying. Every single time you feel a fart, you have to start huffing, and then have that constipated huffing sound VIOLENTLY turn into growling cries that last no shorter than 11 minutes. After 24 hours, if neither you or your spouse has started cutting yourself, then you’re ready to be a parent! Congratulations!!!

Okay, that was a sidetrack. (I hate you.) My world is the little baby in my house right now, so you’re just going to need to bear with me and this section for a little. For the sake of this dumbass blog, my wife is the VP of Ops, and my baby will now be referred to as “The Warden”. I promise it won’t be all parenting stories. Now, instead of complaining about the things a baby does (you just did that, though? Oh, you think the readers won’t be able to tell that your “hypothetical” challenge was related to your daughter? So you think your readers are dumb. See this everyone? HE THINKS YOU’RE ALL IDIOTS!) I’m going to write about how bad of a parent I am here. I think you need to know the mistakes I’m making because there’s a chance that I shouldn’t be allowed to do this. Like, legally. I’m not a lawyer (then why do you have SO MUCH student loan debt?)

Last night, I think I almost popped the Warden’s head off. Not…wait…okay, it’s not like I grabbed her head and was trying to rip it off (this is not going well.) You need context (and YOU need a lawyer.)

So, the Warden was going El Nutso. It was about dusk and, according to our calculations, she should have been sweetly resting in her swing thing so the VP and I could cook and drink ranch waters until driving would be a crime. Surprisingly, our calculations were off. (You just put ‘80085’ into the calculator, didn’t you?) The Warden alerted us to this miscalculation with the use of rage squirming and growl howling deep into the early night sky. Like any fabulous parents, the VP and I both calmly took turns reminding the Warden that we could, in fact, hear her and that we would love to comply with any requests. Unfortunately, the Warden did not have any demands. She simply needed the world to hear her.

The VP held her on her chest. I cradled her gently and rocked her back and forth while singing her my new song, entitled “I love you, but you are being kind of a jerk.” Then we put her in the rocking swing. We put the sweet music on in the rocking swing! The shusher machine (wut?) Yeah, we literally have a little machine thing that just goes “shhhhhhhh”. So we put that on. No dice. Then the VP was all like, “well, should we sell her on the internet?” and I was like, “no, this is my baby! And I love her! And that love is worth more to me than the hundreds of thousands of dollars we might be able to get for her on the internet. Not to mention, I bet you don’t even know what website we could list her on! Do you?! Do you know what website we could put her for sale on? What is the website? What is it? Yeah, but how do you spell that?”

I shut The VP’s laptop HARD, and told her “I got this.” I took the Warden, who I love more than hundreds of thousands of dollars, into the other room as I went into “Daddy’s got this”-mode.

That’s when I almost popped her head off. You see, I have recently been implementing this burping method that I saw on Instagram. Now I know what you’re thinking, “you’re going to Instagram for parenting advice?” Well, the portly woman in the video had white hair and spoke in calming tones so…uhhhhhh, yeah, I think she knows what she’s doing!

This perfectly legitimate burping method, includes me putting the Warden on my knee and then holding her cheeks with one hand, while my other hand works on her back to help her sit straight up as I rotate her around in small circles. The idea is to expand her stomach, allowing her diaphragm (haha you said diaphragm) to expand and expel gas. DAD OF THE FUCKING CENTURY, MUCH?!?!?!

However, the Warden’s violent wailings had an unforeseen consequence of forcing my brain to tell my body to something else. You see, instead of my brain telling my other hand to go on her back, my brain told my other hand to go on the back of her neck. So, when I tried to sit her up straight, my hands were basically ONLY HOLDING HER HEAD. In short, I lifted her by her head and, look, she’s small and I think there was definitely a chance of it popping off. Judging by her screams, against all odds, increasing in volume, it did appear that the Warden, too, thought her head was about to pop off.

Now, I know the Warden is clearly at fault here for screaming me stupid, but…like, am I in any legal trouble? Legally speaking, can I be charged with ‘attempted head pop’? That’s not a charge, right. It’s not, so, you’re actually the one on trial now. How dare you accuse me of attempted head pop! Don’t tell me how to parent! Nah nah nah, SAVE IT! MY LIL BABY WARDEN’S HEAD IS STILL ON! TELL IT TO THE JUDGE! I’LL PUT YOU ON TRIAL!

(Are you fucking drunk? Or you’re just dumb all the time now?)

OUR WORLD:

You know that feeling when you’re in a small, shitty town and you go to a restaurant that you know is going to suck? That’s what being a Bears fan this year, and most years, is like. You’re super hungry and want a break from the gas station ‘Subway’, so you say something like “we should give Memphis Grill a shot!” And instead of reminding yourself that there’s no goddamn way a place in Arkansas called “Memphis Grill” is going to be good, you dilute yourself into thinking this place was on the ONE episode of “Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives” that your fatass hasn’t seen yet. Well guess what tubby (really going after your fat self here), just like every episode of Triple D, you’ve seen this Bears season before! And just like “Memphis Grill” it’s going to make your stomach hurt and make you sad.

But who wants to read about this sour meat NFL season Bears fans are about to chow down on?!?! That’s no fun. So, the same way you convince yourself that Arkansas’ “Memphis Grill” is going to actually be good, let’s do that with the Bears.

The “you can’t mess up a hamburger that bad” possibility: Justin Fields has dominated football games since he was a little kid. He was the top recruit in the country out of high school, and then threw for a billion touchdowns at Ohio State. He had one of the best, toughest performances I’ve ever seen in a bowl game against a Clemson defense that is probably all in the pros now. I know the Bears suck at life, but they can’t mess HIM up that bad, right? He can’t dominate every level of football, get to the league, look around Soldier Field and go “oh wait, I’m a Bear now, so I need to start sucking ass at playing football”. RIGHT?!?!

The “as long as you stay away from the seafood, you’ll be fine” possibility: As long as we run the ball and play solid defense, we’ll be able to stay in games. And if you stay in games, you can steal some? And if Justin Fields doesn’t realize he’s supposed to SUCK now that he’s a Bear, maybe he can actually win us a game or two? As long as our defense holds up, we could surpise some people. Hey, Eberflus-led defenses have been awesome in Indianapolis and it’s not like they’ve had superb quarterback play over the past few years. And those Colts teams contended for playoff spots basically every year he was there. So…hmm…

The “every town has a hidden little gem” possibility: What if Darnell Mooney IS that dude? I know he was drafted in a late round and has oddly skinny legs, but what if he actually does turn into a legitimate number one receiver? His training camp highlights have been pretty sick. Him and Fields seem to have some serious chemistry. Cooper Kupp wasn’t a first round pick! Is it that OUTRAGEOUS to envision Darnell Mooney as Cooper Kupp-lite? If he turns into a legit number one, I could see Cole Kmet taking some strides and becoming an above-average tight end. If you close your eyes and just say “Darnell Mooney becomes a LEGIT number one receiver this year,” the Bears offense has a chance to be not awful.

Okay, I’m exhausted. That was mentally and physically exhausting. But you better fuckin’ believe those are the little thoughts running around my head as we head into this NFL season.

CAN’T WE GET LUCKY ONE TIME AND NOT HAVE DIARRHEA AFTER A BEARS SEASON?!?!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

College football kicks off a week from tomorrow. Next week, we should talk about what we’re all going to be doing and cooking and eating and drinking and wearing. I might buy a new QZ. IN FACT, I AM GOING TO BUY A NEW QZ!!!!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The self-checkout lanes at grocery stores. I will stand in line to have humans that are NOT ME scan and bag my groceries. I can’t be the only one who gets big time anxiety when using the self-checkout lane and running out of space on the scale after I’ve scanned a bunch of items. It’s like there is ZERO CHANCE I’m not going to get the error message on the screen saying “Please put your item on the scale after scanning.” It makes me so mad I wanna hit the screen with a spiked hammer. JUST MAKE A BIGGER SCALE AREA!

JIMMY COOKS:

I’m on a huge sandwich kick lately (lately? Okay pal! Hey everyone, Jimmy JUST got into sandwiches), and I recently made one for my brother that was a HIT. I stole the recipe from a restaurant I used to work at, but last I checked…that restaurant doesn’t have a blog. Sooooooo, MY RECIPE NOW BITCH! Here’s what you do:

Find someone you want to impress with a great sandwich.
Tell that person to sit back, relax, and strap it down.
Buy a nice French baguette, prosciutto, brie, arugula, red onion, and mayo.
Cut the red onion into thin slices. Razor thin. If you don’t cut yourself while cutting this onion, the slices aren’t thin enough.
Cut the brie into triscuit-like squares (are rectangles okay? WHAT ABOUT TRIANGLES?!?!)
Drizzle olive oil on the baguette and slightly toast it on a pan (on a pan? Why not a bowl? Thanks for the tip!)
On baguette, you’re going mayo, prosciutto, brie, arugula, thin thin THIN red onion (thin, as in the opposite of Jimmy)
Give that person you’re looking to impress this sandwich.
If this person^ is an attractive female, give her my telephone number and don’t tell her I’m married.
Yes, you can put some Dijon mustard on there, but only if you hold up the mustard and say in your best French accent “pardon, do you have any grey poupon?” and then laugh hard like a real jerk until the entire room feels uncomfortable.

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.

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.

Mom

*I’ve gone back and forth about whether I should post the following or not. While the purpose of this blog has been to be as entertaining and fun as I can make it, I also did set out to make sure it was always unflinchingly honest. Whenever I felt myself shying away from any embarrassing truth, I’d stop, recalibrate, and instead lean hard into that truth. So, I’m going to do that here.

I haven’t written this blog in a long while because I’ve had some really, really good excuses not to. For a writer, a good excuse is like cocaine. Ankle surgery and my mother’s sickness allowed me the cover to be as lazy with my fingers as I wanted to. So I was. Unfortunately, yesterday I went to physical therapy and jogged for the first time in about 5 months…so the ankle excuse is toast.

My Mother passed away two weeks ago today, and that’s a really sucky thing to write. I don’t know how to write it without sounding awkward and weird and guilty and sad and relieved. I don’t know how to write about her…but I did. My Mom loved reading this blog and has been on me to make sure that I always put writing first. Whenever I’d stray away from it, snort the hell out of some excuse not to write, she’d remind me that this is what I love to do. This is what makes me happy. So Mom, here’s my return to the blog, and to honor this dumb blog’s number one fan, here is a post about her (pssst, that’s you, Mom).

This is the eulogy I wrote for my Mother and read on Tuesday, July 9, 2019. (I never know when to capitalize the ‘M’ in Mom or Mother, but I feel like this post necessitates constant capitalization.) Also, if you don’t want to read this because it’s Friday and you don’t feel like reading something that’s not light and fun, I get it. Don’t read it. I’ll be back writing fun, dumb stuff about my maniac dog and the VP of Ops very, very soon. If you do feel like reading about this blog’s number one fan, though, here it is:

No one in my family every saw my Mom run. I’m not exaggerating. Over the past week this has come up a few times, and we’ve all sat around doing our best to close our eyes tight and remember ONE TIME when ONE OF US saw my Mom running. We can’t do it.

There was a time when I was around 6 or 7 and my Mom made lasagna. Being the picky eater that I was, for some reason, I decided I didn’t like lasagna as a little kid. I wish I could go back to not liking lasagna in my 30s, but…anyway, I started pouting about the menu and my Mom told me that I could either eat the lasagna or go up to my room. So I got up from the table and made my way upstairs. When I got to about the top of the staircase, I heard that kitchen door fling back open and saw my Mom coming after me. Evidently, that “choice” she gave me wasn’t really a choice. Now she was moving quick-ish, but I still wouldn’t describe her movements as “running”…it was more “charging”.

Then there was the time I was playing football with my friend in the front yard, and I went deep. He threw it, and I sprinted, keeping my eyes on the ball right up until I ran, face first into the metal hammock stand at the end of our yard. I remember my Mom holding an ice-pack on my right eye while I laid on the couch, but no, I do not remember her running.

Or, there were the times we used to go to the Winnetka Fitness Center together when I was in High School and some in college. I’d run for a few miles, go downstairs and lift for a bit, come back up and see her, the entire time she was walking on the treadmill. After the workout, when I asked her how it went or when I’d overhear her talking to some other person about her workout that day, she’d say “good, I ran for a while.” She didn’t. She walked for a while. I’m sorry Mom, but that was walking.

I don’t know, maybe my Mom didn’t even know what running was? Being in a family where my Dad has run almost every day I’ve known him, my sister would run on treadmills next to me, my brothers played sports and included jogging in their workouts, her aversion to the action is surprising. I mean, I ran a MARATHON and dedicated it to her, and she STILL didn’t seem to quite grasp what running was.

And I think that’s what made her the bravest person I’ll ever know. While I’m aware that this whole “not running”-thing initially sounds like a negative, I’m coming to understand that it was anything but. Why? Because this whole “not running”-thing also extends to the toughest moments in and around her life. Whether big or small, soul-crushing or seemingly innocuous, my Mom didn’t run from even the slightest whiff of a tough situation. Nope. She stood in there, while others sprinted away, and shared her gifts: the bravery to show up anywhere, and the skill to tell anyone exactly what they needed to hear in their moment of need.

As a teenager, when her Dad got sick, she took care of him. When a friend needed a babysitter, she became those kids’ second mother. When her 20-something year old son would call her whining dramatically about how some girl didn’t like him back, she’d listen, and as easy as it would have been, didn’t make fun of me…I mean him. When her older brother was killed, she consoled her Mother. When a neighbor’s dog would die, she would send food and flowers. When a waitress didn’t have plans on Thanksgiving, she had her over. When a nurse would come in to give her pain meds, she would ask that nurse how SHE was doing.

That is bravery. Look, she fought that stupid disease time and time and time again, and exuded as much in-your-face bravery and strength as I’ve ever seen in real life. The kind of bravery that is played on “Sportscenter”. The highlight reel of brave acts includes: fighting disease, chasing down the bad guy, running into a fire. But as I’ve thought about my Mom, what I find even more impressive and inspiring, is that subtle brand of bravery she displayed every single day of her life. She didn’t run away from anything, big or small, that may have been hard or uncomfortable. She was so aware of struggle and hardship, that whenever ANYONE, ANYWHERE close to her was having even the most minor of issues, she’d be there. For someone who didn’t run, she sure got to where she was needed fast.

I think back now to how easy it was to roll my eyes or almost be annoyed that she was so giving, because it made me feel guilty for not being as good of a person. The easy thing, the cowardly thing, is to justify a reason to run away. I’ve done this. I bet most people in here have done this. My Mom? Remember, nobody has ever seen her run. She once went across the country to be with a friend she hasn’t spoken to in years, but who was currently going through a divorce, and I remember thinking “come on, Mom! Gimme a break!” Would I have been there for that person? Or, would I have justified a logical excuse for me to take the easy way out? I would have taken the easy way out, blamed that former friend for losing touch and chalked his or her distress up to “something that doesn’t affect me directly”. My Mom, on the other hand, was allergic to the easy way out. She’d take a sip of Pinot Grigio, snarl at the camera and charge right into that fire.

So now it’s my turn to see flames and embrace the heat because that’s the standard that she set. I plan to honor my mother’s legacy, by being more present for everyone around me. Her legacy will inspire me to become a better husband, brother, friend, neighbor, co-worker, acquaintance, passerby on the street, you name it. Her legacy will inspire me to become a truly brave person.

I’ve been going through my Mom’s facebook page lately, and I saw that she posted a quote not too long ago that read: “As a parent, it’s my priority to help get you into Heaven, not Harvard.” Well Mom, I didn’t get into Harvard, and I’m gonna make sure I get into heaven. I figure the only way is to follow your lead. I love you to the Moon and back, Mom. You earned your place up there by having your priorities in line…better make sure you save me a seat.

We Know Why All Of You Are Moving Away From Us

MY WORLD:

You got a problem with me? No? So you must have a problem with The VP then, right? No? Or, maybe ‘yes’, but you don’t want to admit that out loud because she’s more sensitive than I am and could start crying in public? (Bragging about being less sensitive than a southern sorority girl is interesting…) Let me put this out there, loud and clear: THE VP AND I ARE SICK AND GODDAMN TIRED OF PEOPLE MOVING OUT OF CHICAGO TO GET AWAY FROM US! Matta’ fack, The VP of Ops and I are OFFICIALLY sick and goddamn tired of people moving away from Chicago without admitting that it’s because of us. Jobs, kids, family, blah, blah, blah. Cut the fucking shit. If you’re close to The VP and I, and you decide to move away from Chicago, guess what? WE’RE TAKING IT PERSONALLY!

Lately, a lot of people that The VP and I consider VERY CLOSE have decided to move across the country and, being the reasonable adults that we are (reasonable, narcissistic, whatever) we have dealt with all these moves with the required forced smiles and fake enthusiasm. “Disappointed that I’m only going to get to see you once a year and have to compete with the rest of the people who want to see you while you’re in town for 7 hours? NOT AT ALL! We couldn’t be more excited for you!” Being a reasonable adult requires an insane amount of lying.

First it was both of our best friends (like, they’re married to each other…it’s dumb), then it was her best Chicago friend, and now some people very close to me (secret people) have decided to get the hell away from us. Yeah, we said all the right things like “we’re happy for you,” and “that’ll give us a reason to visit ________-town!” but you better KNOW that’s NOT where our mind first went. Instead, when we said “we’re happy for you,” we were thinking “we know it’s because of us”; and “that’ll give us a reason to visit,” when put through the truth-machine would translate to “we’re gonna get you!”

In an effort to get out in front of this growing “We Gotta Ditch Jimmy and The VP”-movement, I would like to address the issues those we are close to MUST be having with us.

The VP does wear that black fake-silk shirt too often.

I’m risking my marriage by writing about this. While trying to think of what material The VP’s go-to shirt is, I messed up BAD and just asked her “hey, you know that black shirt you wear all the time? What’s that material called?” Blouse material questions are not commonplace in Casa De Pomerantz, so Sherlock VP’s suspicions were raised. After investigating further, by looking at me grinning from behind my laptop, The VP knew what was at stake if by answering. “Are you going to write about that? Please don’t.” She plead with me. It wasn’t a “please don’t” with a smirk or followed by a “I’m so happy I married someone who keeps me grounded”-chuckle. Not at all, actually. She made the scared face, furrowing her brow and not breaking eye-contact with me while she repeated “please don’t” at least 4 times before leaving for work.

What The VP must remember, however, is that she married a genuine bad boy who was born to accumulate student loan debt AND test limits. Therefore, I must stay true to myself. My truth today is that The VP wears her fake silk black blouse too much and that must have something to do with people close to us (closies) moving out of Chicago. There’s no way around it, this has to be the main reason you moved or are moving away. Before I go on, please take a moment to take in how brave that was of me. Wait! I think you need one more moment to really get it. She’s gonna be like super-pissed, guys. Really think about my sacrifice…my courage…my truth….

To the issue at hand, we know you’re moving away because you’re tired of setting up double dates with us and having The VP show up in the same fake-silk blouse every single time. While I am thoughtful enough to rotate through my four hot-dad quarter-zips, The VP bitches about how I never buy her anything before settling on the same fake-silk blouse that, her words here, “I wear so much.” Looking back, I realize that the looks on your faces as we met you at the restaurants said it all: “Jesus, the fake-silk black AGAIN?!?! Does she even own another shirt?”

The hostesses and servers must have been talking about it as well, which would explain the whispering they do behind the bar and the looks I get for loudly asking “ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT WHAT WE’RE WEARING?” I used to think that you just didn’t like that I was trying to forcibly eavesdrop on the restaurant staff, but now I know it’s because you were trying to hide that they too were talking about The VP’s fake-silk black blouse (I’m tired of writing that out, so let’s call it the FSBB). Had the staff, just once, responded to my question about whether they were whispering about what we were wearing, we would have unearthed the whole cover-up. Everyone knew The VP was wearing the FSBB too much, but was too embarrassed to say so. The servers I aggressively questioned gave me the “you’re a creep”-eyes, and you moved to Nashville. Two different ways of responding to the same issue: that goddamn FSBB.

Getting this out in the open feels good. For me, for you, for those hostesses and servers. Probably not for The VP, but that’s the price I’m willing to pay. And here’s a deal I’m willing to make: I will kidnap the FSBB and film me giving it a proper Viking funeral if you agree to move back. Just think, the FSBB in a tiny boat set aflame drifting atop Lake Michigan, never to be seen in a Wicker Park or Bucktown restaurant again. Think about it.

It’s true, I don’t truly know how to shave.

The issue is the part where my jaw meets my neck and how I tried to shave at a 90 degree angle going from neck into jawline. We all know it. You especially, it appears. Being Mr. Accountability, I’m not going to blame my dad for not showing me how to properly edge my beard when I was young enough to learn new things. Instead, I’m going to say that no, I do not feel confident as a face shaver. Further, I know that my lack of skills created many a time sitting next to me where, upon investigating my profile, aggravation at my decision to go for a 90 degree cut had to ruin the rest of your night. “WHY WOULDN’T HE JUST ROUND IT OFF?!?!”

Better yet, why would a grown man grow a beard if he KNEW he couldn’t properly care for it? It’s a question I struggle with daily, trust me. While I looked good when I was clean shaven in my wedding pictures (good? Jimmy, you looked like an undiscovered runway model in those pics) I have put some face-weight on since and, therefore, have leaned on my beard to give me the jawline that my jaw can no longer give me. (No joke, by writing that, I just hurt my own feelings.) So I’m forced to ask myself this question: who am I without a jawline? Not the man I want to be, that’s who.

Instead of devoting myself to avoiding York peppermint patties and bread, I have gone the beard route. This route, however, requires learned shaving techniques and tools such as a proper trimmer. I possess none of these. My shaving technique revolves around sharp angles, and my trimmer is from the bottom shelf of CVS–proper, it certainly is not. That left you with a choice to either have an awkward “what’s the deal with the right angle in your beard?”-confrontation with me, or simply move pack up all your things, find new jobs, and move across the country. Who am I kidding? You had no choice, you had to move. If I go to Bed, Bath & Beyond, buy a top of the line trimmer, and sign up for “how to shave like a grown man”-classes at my local YMCA, will you move back?

We could keep our place cleaner.

You noticed the clothes pile leaking out of the laundry closet, didn’t you? The top of the ceiling fan in our bedroom?!?! No, don’t tell me you saw the surge protector under our TV stand too!!! I’m out of excuses. We’re out of excuses. Cleaning, dusting especially, is an issue that has plagued us (mostly The VP, but I’m not gonna say that because I’m Mr. Accountability) since we moved in together. The 87 seconds spent in front of our door, where we’d explain why our place was in the shape that it was in, was as hard on you as it was us. We knew you didn’t believe that “it’s really never like this.”

Lying to closies is unacceptable and we lied. Our place is like that. NOT ALL THE TIME! NOT ALL THE TIME! But, like, almost most of the time it’s not in peak condition, with respect to cleanliness. As Mr. Accountability, I will not make excuses like “it’s tough to put anything away when you live in a place without much storage and The VP refuses to throw away seven years worth of ‘Southern Living’ magazines.” I repeat, I will NOT make excuses like “when the VP’s idea of ‘doing the dishes’ means putting dishes in the sink and ‘soaking’ them instead of simply putting them in the dishwasher, like a normal human, it makes our place look more cluttered than it should.” Not going to make those type of excuses because the buck stops with me, Mr. Accountability.

Much to your surprise, I’m sure, we do own a vacuum AND a duster-thing. With those tools in hand, I promise to have our place ready for your arrival if you ever decide to move back. I’ll even let you check the surge protector under the TV stand in the living room–I’ve got a disinfectant wipe with “surge protector” written all over it. Protecting my closies from surges is not enough, I know that now and vow to also protect my closies from sneeze-inducing dust. God bless you, no more.

Belle

Here’s where we’re at with Mrs. PsychoKillerFluffyFace: there’s a chance the other dogs in our apartment building drive her to do something drastic…like overdose on CBD. If that doesn’t happen, all you have to do is give me “the look” next time you’re in town. Once you give me the “we’ll move back if Belle disappears”-look, I’ll know to put a key under my boot outside my front door. From there, whether or not someone finds that key, brings Belle to a farm out in the country, and robs our place of things such as a stack of “Southern Living” magazines in the closet off the living room, is beyond my control. I simply left a key…

OUR WORLD:

Cody Parkey is on “The Today Show” this morning and that makes me want to puke. Misplaced sympathy is DISGUSTING. DISGUSTING! HOW ABOUT THE KIDS AT THE BORDER?!?! THE ELDERLY IN PUERTO RICO?!?! THE PEOPLE LEFT BEHIND BY CLOSIES WHO MOVE AWAY FROM CHICAGO FOR REASONS THAT WERE FIXABLE?!?!?!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The Chicago skyline is tough to see from Nashville, and Austin, and Arizona, isn’t it?

skyline

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Having to watch the Eagles play this weekend. I’m still not over this.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I’m going huge on the Saints, then probably taking Chargers, Rams, and Colts. I’m sure I’ll go 0 for 4 and start yelling about how “if Parkey made a GODDAMN KICK, we’d be playing the Rams right now!” at some point.

(My account is currently at: $40.19)

K bye.

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OUR WORLD:

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account is currently at $31.44)

K bye.

Easter and Being Inappropriate in Church

MY WORLD:

Happy Good Friday my sweet lil babies!!! Who is excited for Easter this weekend? For my siblings and I, Easter means going to church for one of the two times we go a year. (I legitimately thought about not writing this because I think there’s a chance we’re not going to church this year, and I don’t want to make my Mom feel bad about that…I may actually block my Mom from reading this post.) We’re an Irish Catholic bunch, but our Dad is JEW (saying that word aggressively is funny and not offensive because it’s my Dad) so he used to taunt us as we’d trudge our way out to church on Sunday mornings. I specifically remember him sitting on the couch watching NFL Countdown when I was a kid. He was the happiest he was ALL week and would wave excitedly at me saying “have fun at church!” as I contemplated suicide on my way to Sunday School and missing the first half of the Bears game. If you’re a HUGE football fan, marrying someone of another religion, one that requires them being away for most of Sunday morning, is an absolutely genius move. Well done, Dad.

As miserable as going to church and Sunday School was as a kid, going now with adult siblings is actually pretty fun because we get to make our Mom made and she can’t really do anything to us! Making people mad is so much fun, guys. As a kid, church was sitting in the pews and kneeling and being quiet and praying and standing for HOURS as the Priest drags on and on about how scary hell is and JESUS H CHRIST THIS IS BORING! Now, though, as adults we get there purposefully late because my brothers and I get real quiet in the house as my Mom gets ready….like, “don’t say anything and maybe she won’t notice we’re gonna be late to church”-every time we go. Thankfully, our Mom runs late. She’ll normally burst out of her room saying good Catholic things like “SHIT!” as she rushes us all into the car. My bros and sister and I share a “we did it!” glance on our way outside.

On the drive to church, my two brothers and I are probably making fun of our sister because she’s tougher than us but…ya know, a GIRL. We pull up to the church and our Mom speed walks to the backdoor while we saunter behind cuz we bad y’all! Who ‘dem bad boys?!?! WE ‘DEM BAD BOYS Y’ALL!!! Our Mom will then look back and say something like “come on damnit” and we’ll get kinda scared for a second and hurry in.

When you arrive late to our church you have to stand in the WAY back, and my brothers and I love this because it means we can lean against a wall! Walls! Leaning! This also means that we can whisper inappropriate jokes to each other the ENTIRE time. These church services are easily our finest comedic hours. It’s really like we save all our best material for these hours because A) Church is forever boring, sorry God but it’s true, and B) nothing is funnier than making your religious Mom laugh OR get mad at you for inappropriate jokes during church. As Mass begins, our Mom and sister will move about 8 feet ahead of Brothers Pomerantz Limited (BPL) to prove that real Catholics don’t need walls to lean on. Meanwhile, BPL will immediately begin getting inappropriate…normally, at the expense of some little kid dressed like a baby back bitch.

Some of the other targets of our deep, sick burns include:

-Teenage boys who tried WAY too hard trying too look like preppy stockbrokers. I want to try to replicate the deep burns we’d nail these doofuses with, but you had to be there. Trust me, they were deep and they were sick burns.

-Little kids doing dumb stuff is always an easy target. We normally stand near the door to the bathroom door, so we get a real kick out of kids not understanding why a door is locked and then proceeding to BANG on it until it opens. It’s also intensely funny whenever a kid budges a line of adults waiting for the bathroom, but none of the adults feel comfortable enough to say anything so they just let it happen.

-Hungover college kids with bed head and super wrinkled khakis. Sometimes you can smell the fireball-sweats from across the room, but normally we’ll throw some “hang in there buddy” head nods his/her way.

-Girls who are dressed WILDLY inappropriate for church. Like, the ones that wear their Friday-night-going-to-the-club-to-make-my-ex-jealous-dress. You can feel all the adult women judging THE SHIT out of them, and the Dads are all like “what girl?” (use the side-eye dude). Normally, one of my brothers will throw in a “yeah, but what if…” in the middle of our jokes because they’re contemplating hitting on a stranger in front of the Lord. (Hitting on people in church is something that BPL has spoken about at length, and we just don’t think it’s really possible. Does that mean we’ll stop talking about it? Of course not. But, it’s just not in our cards.)

-Angry dads; the ones with undiagnosed, but OBVIOUS anger issues. Normally, their kids are really well-dressed and seemingly well behaved. Then, one of the kids will do something awful like accidentally burp, and Daddy RageFit will burst into a clenched-teeth “KNOCK IT OFF DAMNIT!” full-on outburst with his eyes bulging and his wife moving another 6 inches away. For comedy’s sake, BPL always fantasizes about trying to prod Daddy RageFit into an actual church-fight, but then we get ahold of ourselves and realize that getting our asses kicked in church would only be funny for like 2 seconds.

Of course, there are wild card targets that appear throughout the duration of the mass (people wearing jeans, smelly old ladies, the handshake guy who nobody knows) but these are the go-tos that we can expect at every mass. This year, I’m hoping we don’t have to go cuz….ughhh, just like COME ON MOMMMMM! But if we do, mark my words that BPL will make it VERY uncomfortable for anyone actually trying to impress the big man upstairs.

OUR WORLD:

It’s Good Friday and I have written many many words this week so my brain is fried….DON’T EAT MEAT TONIGHT GUYS! (Yes, The VP and I have resos at a fancy steak place tonight, but we made these resos like 4 months ago and so our meat consumption doesn’t count. ALSO! We’re using a wedding gift card that’s about to expire, so doesn’t count times 2. Suck it nerds.)

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Salute to all the Church Daddy’s in jorts.

Jorts

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Huge fan of Easter candy but NOT the bunny circus peanut thingys. Major Yucko Alert!

brachs_easter_marshmallow_chicks_and_rabbits_ff_130708.jpg

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:

Saved my many many dollars last night because this weekend is when Jimmy Gambles COMES FOR FUCKING BLOOD!!!

(My account currently at $73.12)

K bye.