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.

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

OUR WORLD:

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

Biker Gang Organizer:

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

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

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

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

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

Money People:

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

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

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

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

Rich Person’s Assistant

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

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

MY WORLD:

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

And you think you’re having a tough Monday.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

K bye.

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

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MY WORLD:

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

socks

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Rainy Fridays in the summer.

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

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

K bye.

Being Single Stunk and Haircut Anarchy (4/24/18)

OUR WORLD:

The VP of Ops was out of town most of last week, got back on Sunday and left again this morning for the next 3 days. I have officially left the “being alone is fun!” phase of her being gone, and entered the “well, who’s gonna listen to me bitch about my day?” phase of missing her. Call me a romantic, but getting to whine about relatively benign daily happenings to someone who is GUARANTEED to agree with you is one of the main advantages of being married. Actually, part of my vows alluded to this when I wrote: “I promise never to spare you a detail of the times when an older woman will inadvertently cut me off in traffic. I promise to assign said woman some malicious motive that I fully expect you to agree with when I recount the story to you later that night.” Guys, I’m like so kidding about having written vows–we’re not those kinda’ weirdos. It’s called a joke!

Which is a long winded way of me saying that I do not miss being single. For those who are good at it, congratulations; you won’t enjoy the rest of today’s “Our World”. You live in a world that I am not a part of, if you’re good at being single. For me, and I believe many of us, the world of being single sucks, and here are the parts that suck the most:

Feeling compelled to talk to strangers at bars: Obviously, I can only speak to this from a guy’s perspective, but going to bars while single and hoping to meet a future LOVAH! is a terrifying prospect. What happens is you stand around with your friends trying to not look like you’re scoping everyone out, but you are and it’s SUPER obvious when you keep missing the straw to your vodka soda (you are watching cals BIG TIME when single). There will be the mega babes who are WAY out of your league, but you’ll spend about 9 minutes trying to come up with a snappy one-liner to level the playing field. Something along the lines of “hey…uh…getting to date you would make my dad real proud of me.” Unfortunately, Babe-a-tron 5000 doesn’t know how reluctant your dad is to offer praise, so that’s gonna be a swing and a miss.

What’ll happen most of the time, is that you’ll just stand around your dumb friends, not approaching ANYONE of the opposite sex. Instead, opting to just get progressively drunker until somebody gets a text from a girl they know that is at another bar. “She have friends?!?!? HAS TO, RIGHT?!?” Is what you’ll be thinking, but you’ve gotta play it cool, so you’ll act like “sure, guess I’ll go with you.” Then you’ll get to the next bar, realize that the girl does have friends, but those friends are not impressed with sarcasm OR outfits from Old Navy’s Spring, 2011 collection. It’s okay, though, because by this time you’re drunk-STARVING and ready to eat your feelings away. THEIR LOSS!

Having to explain to your grandparents why you’re not married with kids yet: I swear to god, once you hit the age of 22, all grandparents expect you to be married with a kid on the way. Old days were a wild time, during which, I guess everyone was married with 3 kids and a big house by the time they were able to rent a car? That’s the way they friggin’ act at least. Every family dinner when you’re single will include the “why are you still single?”-portion of the meal with your grandparents quizzing you on what exactly is going wrong. It’ll usually be a potential critique wrapped in a compliment, like: “You’re a handsome, smart kid, you should have no problem finding someone.” Unfortunately, when you’re single and, therefore insecure, that sounds more like: “The problem must be your personality.” Seriously, how are you supposed to respond to that? “Well thanks Grandpa, but I do have problems finding someone because I’m now out of college and approaching women in bars, or grocery stores, or gyms makes me so scared that I literally think about KILLING MYSELF!” WARNING: Grandparents do not find humor in suicide jokes.

Playing the 3rd Wheel: The main reason that playing the third wheel sucks is that you’re almost like the unpaid entertainment for the couple that night. I always felt the need to go a little harder, be a little funnier, be a little extra-er when I was the third wheel. Like, the couple had to be thinking: “if Jimmy bores us at any point in the night, we can just bail.” Your couple friends will ALWAYS assure you that “you’re NOT the third wheel,” but…uh…you are because you’re the third person there and your pants are a little tighter than normal because you ate a big sandwich for lunch so you feel ROUND, LIKE A WHEEL!

Then will come the part of the night where you’ll kinda’ glance at someone across the bar and the couple you’re with will see this, and convince you that you NEED to approach this person. Funny how everyone in a relationship IMMEDIATELY forgets how much of a no-go that proposition is when you’re single. They’ll give you a “what’s the worst that could happen?” or “I think she just looked at you, too.” They’re lying. Trust me, they’re lying about this 100% of the time. All they want is some free entertainment; getting to watch someone strike out with a potential mate IN PERSON is something I would pay to see. In fact, there should be a viewing section at the biggest single bars in the city. Wouldn’t you pay to go to one of these massive, DJ-booth, single meat markets, and sit in like in the security camera room? They could have a charismatic storyteller, narrating the pick-up attempts going on throughout the club, and you could just watch it and be thankful that it’s no longer you as the star of this horror-show? There really should be a channel called “Single People in a Club” which just shows security-cam footage of clubs around the country on Friday and Saturday nights. I’d vote for someone like Hannibal Burress to narrate the scenes (I really wanted to say Louis C.K. for the narrator but…like…he can’t come back yet, huh? We sure? Okay. Okay!)

MY WORLD:

I know today is supposed to be the “A Time I Made Myself Laugh By Making The VP of Ops Mad or Uncomfortable”, but since I’m not an ABSOLUTE monster with endless stories of me pissing off my wife, I’m going to write about the haircut I got on Sunday. (Calm down! Calm down! YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT!)

As you know by now, I get my hair cut at a salon because I am a fancy boy who likes STYLE! Or, mostly because I want to get my head massaged by a professional head massager person. So I’ve been going to this hip place called “Fringe” for the past couple years where I may be the only male client. (I’m sure this isn’t true, but anytime I’m in there, I’m the only guy there so…maybe it is true? YOU DON’T KNOW!) Now, I only get my haircut like 2 to 3 times a year because I’m lazy and try to convince myself that I can pull off long hair a couple times throughout the year. Normally, around like month 3 post-haircut The VP of Ops will toss a “your hair!” my way one morning when I wake up with especially sexy bed head (sexy or, as The VP would put it “gross and not sexy in the least). So I’ll wait another few weeks before the VPs jabs start to actually hurt and then, finally, make an appointment.

For the past 2-3 years I had been getting my haircut by this girl named Tori at Fringe. She was good, not great, but whatever, I wasn’t that picky. Until last time when Tori wasn’t available, but it being a hair-emergency, so I just went with whoever was available. A woman named Leah was assigned to my mangy head, and lemme tell ya’, WE CONNECTED! She gave a top-notch head massage while washing my hair (during which I made a joke about how close to purring I was that she took in stride and even gave me a courtesy laugh for!) She then gave me a killer haircut and was just a DELIGHT to converse with. Not too much talking, but enough that I didn’t feel drown in any awkward silences. I left thinking about two words in regards to Tori: SHE GONE!

After wearing a hat for most of the past 2 months, I finally made a second appointment with Leah this past Sunday. Unfortunately, I did not plan ahead and ask if Tori was going to be there. So when I walked in to “Fringe” and Tori was sitting at the reception desk, I had to make a split-second decision. “Hey!!! Our system is down, so I didn’t know you were coming in!” said an excited Tori. To which I responded, “Yeah, my name is Jimmy and I’m here for a 12:30 with Leah.” My split second decision was to act like I had no idea who Tori was. I barely made eye contact with her as she responded: “Oh, okay…yeah, I didn’t know who you were with.” It’s one of the coldest, meanest things I think I’ve ever done.

She went and got Leah, and a funny thing happened; I didn’t feel a thing. I was expecting to be knocked over with a wave of guilt but, instead, I felt nothing. It was exhilarating in the darkest of ways. This must be what the Joker felt the first time he upset the established order. As I passed Tori on my way to get my hair washed, I almost wanted to whisper in her ear “I’m an agent of chaos.”

Does this mean that Joker Jimmy is a newly discovered side of my personality worth exploring further? That the weird-astrology people were right when they take about Gemini’s having split personalities? Quite possibly. Tori’s heartbreak at not getting to cut a relative stranger’s hair (me) was a sacrifice necessary for me to find my inner darkness. A darkness that could lead to me never settling on one hair-cutter person for fear of an awkward interaction. A darkness that could lead me to finding the perfect hair-cutter person; one who would be able to give me the volume and shape necessary to hide my thinning crown. A darkness that could put an end to me having to use a blow-dryer. As Tori watched Leah cut my hair from afar, she must have felt the thing about chaos…fear. And maybe that fear that she’s not good enough, will drive her to become a better hair-cutter person. You’re welcome, Tori.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Me in the salon on Sunday…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Anyone watch Ariana on “Vanderpump Rules” last night? She got mad at Tom for leaving to hang out with Jax after the break-up because she wants Tom to “commit” to her being first in her life. HOWEVER, she still refuses to even consider marrying Tom. Get out Ariana, nobody likes you.

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:

Well, Russ Westbrook proved that I’m stupid. That’s fun. Thankfully, I did also bet on Houston last night, so it wasn’t a total wash. For tonight, I like Miami (+10), the Milwaukee moneyline and San Antonio (+11.5). 10 and 11.5 are a lot of points for teams that play hard and have proud vets, and Milwaukee seems to have figured out how to beat Boston. BANK OPEN?!?! YOU BETCHA!

(My account currently at $180.40)

K bye.