I’m Still Married!

OUR WORLD:

How many more times are people going to write the “Exercise is the Best Distraction!” article during quarantine? We get it, working out is good for you. Yet these writers and trainers and celebrities wearing sports bras and cool jogging pants, can’t wait to share this “discovery” with anyone who has a pulse. You might as well write an article entitled “Shooting Yourself in the Head Does Not Increase Life Expectancy”.

I do hope that this HISTORICALLY SIZED ordeal leads to a more empathetic and compassionate society, but…can we not turn into dopes who nod at every BLATANTLY OBVIOUS suggestion thrown our way? If the only people outside of our family that we’re directly interacting with are Peloton trainers named Hannah, I’m worried we’ll all become amateur motivational speakers who confuse ambiguous platitudes with wisdom. Yes, I checked dictionary.com to make sure I was using ‘platitudes’ correctly and that’s exactly the kind of unfiltered honesty we need right now! That’s why you’re here! That’s why I’m here! THAT’S WHY WE’RE IN THIS RIDE TOGETHER NOT ALLOWING OUR INNERSELVES TO TELL US TO STOP RIDI–Wait. Did you…Did I…Jesus Christ you guys, I’m starting to talk like Peloton Hannah.

Yes, exercise is the best distraction right now. I’m not arguing that because I agree with it and because I bought an exercise bike and the Peloton app and I really wanted to tell you that. BUT! How about some real-life, salt of the earth, HONEST other “best” distractions? Remember, the point is to distract your brain for the sake of your mental health. Let’s bend the rules a bit, and prioritize honesty, shall we?

GETTING IN ARGUMENTS ABOUT SOMETHING SMALL AND BRINGING IN PAST DISAGREEMENTS AND OTHER UNRELATED ISSUES TO MAKE IT BIGGER

(Right when I started to write this section, I took WAY too big of a bite of a banana and now I’m thinking that mondo-sized banana bites are a top-tier corona distraction…PUSH PAST THIS, JIMMY! DIG DEEP!)

Allow me to paint a picture: You’re cooking dinner for your sweet, sugar baby on a Tuesday night. Seasoning raw chicken with your bare hands is gross but you do it because you love your cutie pie, sugar baby. Cutting vegetables you aren’t even excited about eating with a purple knife that isn’t sharp enough. Talking yourself out of adding potatoes to round the dish out because you’ve eaten 6.7 pounds of pretzel rods over the last 36 hours. “All I really want is chicken and vegetables,” is ALWAYS a lie, but it’ll make you both feel superior to the rest of the world for one meal, so that’s the plan.

Midway through prep, cleaning while you cook so the love of your entire life doesn’t have to lift a finger even afterwards, you notice an old paper grocery bag has reappeared…next to your newly purchased $100 garbage can. You’ve seen this arrangement before, but she vowed to retire it once you agreed to the $100 stainless steel trash can purchase.

“Sweetheart? What is this?”

“What is what babe?”

(Now with a hint of an edge) “This,” you say as you remain “calm”, but point.

She lets out an audible sigh (aka the couple fight’s starting whistle) and heads over to the kitchen. When she arrives to see her HUNK of a husband standing in place while pointing at a paper bag on the ground, she knows what he’s pointing at, but MUST ask once again.

(With a distinctly annoyed tone) “What?”

This is where the fight begins and GOOD GOD is it a delicious distraction! As you smack your lips in anticipation, remember NOT TO HOLD BACK! NOW IS NOT THE TIME TO SLOW DOWN! (Peloton Hannah would be so proud!) Nope! Bring up the thousands of makeshift “grocery bag garbage cans” you’ve had to clean up in all of the years you’ve been together. Make special mention of how now that you live in the suburbs, you can’t simply throw an open bag into a dumpster, before reminding her of the SOLEMN OATH that she took the day you agreed to put your CC # in the space below the ONE HUNDRED GODDAMN DOLLAR GARBAGE CAN SHE PICKED OUT ON LOWES.COM!

Was it an honest, no-big-deal mistake on her part? A thoughtless, harmless error? Uh, that doesn’t fucking matter, guys. We’re trying to preserve our mental health by engaging in “distractions.” So dig in, embrace your initial testosterone fueled reaction, and say something grand, like, “It’s fine, I’ve just resigned myself to having to pick up random trash bags wherever you feel like setting one up FOR THE REST OF MY GODDAMN LIFE!”

This is when she’ll be sure to point out that you are overreacting. (Thanks Sherlock!) And, like she’s reading the line from a script that never had a chance of being bought, she drops a “calm down” like the sledge-hammer those two words are.

Your move Jack!

“Oh, calm like you? Like how you were the first time you met my ex? Okay, yeah, I’ll be calm like you!”

And boom, enjoy the next few hours of not having every thought in your brain begin with, “wait, when was the last time I washed my hands?”

ROAD RAGE

If you haven’t been on the highways during quarantine, you are missing an opportunity to fear for your life from something other than THE INVISIBLE ENEMY. Nope, on these roads the enemy is very visible, in the form of a 2009 Nissan Altima with tinted windows that just swerved in front of you going 97MPH in a driving rain. THIS IS WHAT WE TRAIN FOR!!!!

Normally, the move would be to throw that invisible frisbee through the roof of your car and blurt out a panicked “Jesus!” before calming down by talking to yourself about how there should be an IQ test to get your license. But not now. This ain’t normal times! Now, you should speed up a little. Maybe even a lot, while laying on the horn. Widen your eyes, open your capillaries and allow the rage to coarse through your entire body.

Do you have a gun? Wave it!

Now, because it’s an Altima, you’re not going to want to pull even with it. Let’s be real, Nelson and his Tinted Windowed Nissan ALSO has a gun. But, he’s not going to be able to shoot you if you stay behind him. So that’s all you have to do. Get close enough to where this piece of human waste for driving faster than he should, can see you doing the Macarena with a pistol in his rearview. THAT’LL TEACH HIM!

On the off off off chance that a cop pulls you over, just explain to him that you were looking for a worthy enough distraction to preserve your mental health, and Nelson’s Nissan was the exact tonic you were searching for! If that doesn’t work (which it most certainly will not) well then you’re fucked and will probably be brought into the Police station. But, if you’re charged with whatever people are charged with for waving firearms while driving, at least you’ll have something other than your last meal to talk about on your next Zoom call.

ZOOMING IN ON EVERY PICTURE TEXTED TO YOU TO FIND, AND CALL OUT ANY IMPERFECTIONS

In this one group chat I’m in, any time someone sends a picture, the rest of us zoom in on every other part of the picture that’s not THE FOCUS of what the sender intended. Picture of their kid holding up a book? We’re all frantically zooming around the rest of the frame looking for something…anything…that doesn’t look the way that it should—GOT IT!

“What’s with this?” is sent right below a zoomed in screen shot of a beer can in the upper right corner of said picture. This will be followed by a barrage of hyper-critical texts along the lines of: “Wow, drinking already?” “Does your wife know you’re drinking?” “How many is that?” “When’s the last day you didn’t have 9 beers?” “Mix in a water!”

Before Dad of The Year knows it, his innocent baby picture has turned into a shame fest, devolving from sarcastic jabs, to pleas to change the subject, to finally, a legitimately angry “I’m not drinking!”

It’s never not fun.

MY WORLD:

Three years ago today, I got married to the VP of Ops. To commemorate our 3^rd anniversary on a blog that brings in zero dollars and has caused a few tiffs (wait, you’re seriously mad that I wrote about how you wear the same black shirt like 3 days a week? Oh…yeah, slam the door! REAL MATURE!!!) I’m going to write about what I remember about our first date: on May 3, 2013.

It was a cold, dark night. A baby’s cry in the distance. A beggars cup rattled in between the hurried footsteps of guilt-ridden businessmen playing deaf. “What a world we live in,” I grumbled as I lit up a cigarette under a dim moonlight. Wait. Shit, sorry. Wrong night. That’s right, the night before our first date I was probably about to get smashed on 9 IPAs or something, when my roommate, Mike, asked if I wanted to go to a concert with him, his new girlfriend, and HER roommate.

“She a girl, right?” I slurred. Upon confirmation that “she a girl,” I quickly accepted the offer in my head, but had to do the thing where I acted like I had to think about it for a second. I did this by looking up and saying “uhhh….” (ACTING!) Actually, turns out that I was the 2^nd choice for this date. My other roommate, a whiny little bitch of a human, who I’ve made cry multiple times in fights, called “Daaaaaaaave” , was asked before I was and turned down the offer. (Years later, Dave loves to remind me of this and how I basically owe my marriage to him. In response, I bring this up to the VP and she reminds me how much better looking I am than Dave. So, now that’s in writing.)

Anyway, upon accepting, I asked for a scouting report on the roommate from Mike, he said “she’s super fun, really cute, but I won’t lie, she’s kinda boy crazy.” I’ve told The VP this and she gets mad every time. She assures me that she wasn’t “boy crazy” (is “boy crazy” the delicate way of saying “slutty”? We’ll never know!) Instead, she reams Mike out and talks about how she would “like go on dates, but I wasn’t boy CRAZY.” Who do I believe? What do I believe? I don’t know, who cares? Honestly, the “boy crazy” thing didn’t really faze me. I was too busy looking through her pictures on Facebook and trying not to say things like “she’s too hot for me”-out loud. Because, that was the thing, my confidence was still a minor issue back then (back then? Jimmy, you asked Erin how you looked yesterday after meeting a middle-aged neighbor for the first time. It still ain’t great!) but seeing a bunch of hot girl pictures from her college sorority days definitely rattled my nerves. I wanted to ask Mike if he thought I was pretty enough for her, but Mike and I were in the beginning stages of our friendship so…I COULDN’T LET HIM KNOW THAT I WAS AN INSECURE BABY YET EITHER!!!

The 24 hours leading up to the date consisted of me going for a long run because I used to be able to do that without stopping after 13 minutes to use my “bad ankle” as an excuse. (“No, it’s not the fact that I drink too much and enjoy dessert every night, it’s this damn ankle!”) After the run, I did what back then was about the bravest thing I could do…I decided to wear the J.Crew hoodie that was a little too small on me. I’ve always SUCKED at buying clothes, which means that I normally only have one “hey, is he a cool guy?”-outfit available. This J.Crew hoodie (that my mom probably bought for me years prior) hadn’t gotten much wear because it was the “is this guy in good enough shape to wear something this fitting?”-size. But this hot-girl-date-night called for me to at least pretend like I could pull off this snug hoodie. Looking back, I pulled that hoodie OFF! (Allow me a few seconds to be sad about how much worse looking I’ve gotten in the years since…Hey! Looks aren’t everyth—goddamnit, yes they are. They are. They’re everything, and I have none of them and…I have nothing. I am empty.)

The plan was for Mike and I to go to the girls’ apartment in Lakeview, have enough drinks for me to feel not paralyzed by “Excuse me girl, am I hot enough?”-thoughts and then go to a concert at The Metro (cool person music venue by Wrigley Field that I had never been to before, but I definitely didn’t admit that, that night. I’m sure I said something along the lines of “Metro? Love the Metro!”) As we walked into their garden-level unit, I did that acting thing again where I pretended like I didn’t need to guzzle rubbing alcohol to feel comfortable. The VP was still getting ready, so I had time to settle on what pose I should be in when she entered the living room. The VP’s roommate, Amanda, put on some music and gave Mike and I NOT NEARLY ENOUGH BOOZE! Mike and I waited in the living room with Amanda, which meant that Mike and his new girlfriend, Amanda, made eyes at each other while paying enough fake attention to me to temper the bubbling awkwardness.

Finally, after what must have been more than 4 MINUTES, The VP entered the living room with a spin. I’m not joking, she walked in, waved and before introducing herself, she just spun around. It was so fucking cool. As I scrambled to say something interesting after introducing my DUMB self, the song “Mirrors” by Justin Timberlake came on. Mike and Amanda were being all gooey with each other across the room, leaving all the pressure in the world on me to say something at least MILDLY entertaining. (Has anyone mentioned your tiny sweatshirt yet?)

“You know, I don’t care what anyone thinks, this song fucking rules.” That was the first sentence I said to my now-wife. And she FRIGGIN’ LOVED IT! Honestly, I could tell in real-time that she thought, “whoa, this guy is secure enough to say that he loves a Justin Timberlake song on a first date.” Two things on that: 1) I wasn’t, but 2) You have to remember that back in 2013, Justin Timberlake wasn’t super cool yet. He was still “that boy band guy,” so it wasn’t the coolest thing for a guy to freely admit that he was into “that boy band guy.” My gamble paid off. Now, she thought I was secure enough to be with her “I know I’m fine as hell”-ass, AND she thought I was funny because who says that out of nowhere? THIS GUY DOES!

From there, the drinks were a flowin’! JIMMY IN HIS EL-E-MENT BABAYYYYY! (So, your element is drinking? Cool, I bet her Mom is so happy she found you!) By the time we walked over to the Metro, I couldn’t have cared less about who we were going to see. I was going to talk to The VP through the whole show and not give A CARE what was going on on-stage. Seriously, Jon Lenon could’ve been resurrected for a one-night only Beatles reunion show that night, and I wouldn’t have taken an iPhone pic. Now, it didn’t help that the band we were seeing was called “Purity Ring”—a band that neither The VP nor myself had ever heard of. What did that mean? You guessed it, WE ‘GON BE TALKIN’ THROUGH THE ENTIRE SHOW!!!! Yeah, legit fans of “Purity Ring” were about to HATE us…and they did.

Midway through the song about being pure or wearing rings or whatever, I got “shushed” by a (do I say what I really thought? Even though it’ll make me sound like a meathe–) dude who looked even wimpier than me in my tiny J.Crew hoodie. So you bet your ass your ass I responded to his “shush” with a hearty “go fuck yourself!” Yeah, I did! Listen, if you’re not drooling at the opportunity to show a girl who’s WAY hotter than you that you’re tough, as early as possible, I don’t know what to tell ya! Trust me, I did the whole sensitive guy thing throughout high school and you know how many dates that got me? ZERO! ZERO DATES!

From there, I reveled in being public enemy number one at this show. Now, if this were a Metallica show, would I have been so excited to be hated by everyone around me? Absolutely not. In fact, I would have been quite scared…maybe even cried. But this wasn’t a Metallica show. This was a “Purity Ring” show, a band that’s following primarily worked as freelance graphic designers who can’t wait to talk about their “disgust with consumerism” at every family gathering. It was the perfect setting for a fake tough guy (Me) to act tough. And while The VP will say that she hated it and hates tough guys and likes sensitive guys and blah blah blah. She loved it. I could tell, she loved that I told that guy to “go fuck himself.” She was impressed in that way you get when you’re uncomfortable but thrilled that you’re not next to the “shusher.”

When the show ended, The VP and I realized that we hadn’t listened to one song throughout the entire set (like I said, we were the worst people in that concert. Hand up, we were “those people.”) We met up with Mike and Amanda, and decided to all take a picture together. This is my favorite picture ever. I remember looking at it the next day and thinking “I actually pulled off the tiny hoodie! And…I think I really, really like this girl.”

VP, I love you enough to act tough when I’m really not; to dress cool when I really can’t; and to…care for a psychopath dog that I bought for you to get out of momentarily “forgetting” your birthday ONE TIME! (I didn’t REALLY forget it and that’s final and I will go to the Supreme Court to prove my innocence!)

Honestly, I’m looking forward to my first suburban tiff with a guy I think I can take, because no feeling is better than the one I get impressing you.

Happy Anniversary. I love you.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

This song still kicks LIKE A MULE!

K, bye.

Can You Put Out a Fire with Alcohol?

MY WORLD:

I now regularly eat hot dogs for lunch. What used to be a once or twice A YEAR treat at a baseball game, is now an almost DAILY dietary staple (Almost daily means not every day! That’s a victory!) A few days back, I sent a picture to my friends of my hotdogs in the refrigerator and said “sometimes I just like to watch them sleep.” Yes, it was a joke…but, was it though? There have now been multiple days where I open the fridge around 11:45 (don’t lie, you know you consider lunchtime 11am now) and I just look at the hot dogs in my fridge. Am I smiling creepily while humming “Rock A Bye Baby” in the direction of my Ball Park Franks? No! (Is that a victory for you at this point?) But I do look at them…and…yeah, dream of how good two of them would taste at 11:13AM on a Tuesday? YEAH, MAYBE I FUCKING DO!

Peak levels of stress now include the phrase “only about a week’s left of relish in there.” There’s a guy across the street from me who just sits in his window now and looks outside, and while I was eating a lunch dog (no need to say “hot dog,” THERE’S JUST NO TIME!) I caught eyes with him and raised my hot dog up to him like a “cheers!” Yeah, that’s right. I cheers’d a stranger across the street at 11:13AM on a Tuesday with a hot dog. THEN! When he didn’t nod back or show any form of acknowledging my dog cheers in any way, I got offended. And you know what? I just….

Guys.

Jimmy stop.

I made up the hot dog cheers’ing thing.

I didn’t make up the lunch dogs infatuation, but my brain is becoming so warped, that midway through writing about my lunch pups (is that funnier than lunch ‘dog’? Yeah, it is. Stick with it!) I actually did catch eyes with the guy across the street who looks out his window and I thought “next time I have a lunch pup, I’m going to cheers him with it. That’ll brighten his day!” So I will do that next time and report back re: his reaction to the lunch pup cheers. (And you thought you had nothing to look forward to!)

Aside from lunch pups and asking the VP of Ops to waterboard me with IPAs, I figured that buying a house in the middle of a global pandemic/economic meltdown, while my job skates on ice thinner than that picture of you from high school, was a prudent financial decision. (Just googled the word ‘prudent’ to make sure it meant what I thought it meant, and IT WAS CLOSE ENOUGH!) The VP and I closed on our first house on Friday, while my heart attempted to close on my body simultaneously.

What should have been an exuberant, exciting moment for us, felt more like a red carpet event for the premiere of “Jimmy’s First Stroke in the Citywide Title Office.” When asked by those nosey paps who she was wearing, The VP of Ops smiled and said “the same leggings I had on while eating Munchos this morning!” Meanwhile, I carried her purse and used it to hide the grease stain on my 2007 Cincinnati Bearcats sweatpants. It was quite the affair, indeed. Fortunately, or unfortunately (who knows right now? Stay positive though because the super negative people are awful to be around…but it’s so easy to just…STOP!) I did not suffer my first stroke while signing the closing papers to our first house.

Instead, I kept my big leather winter gloves and big puffy winter coat on the entire time we were signing a BAJILLION pages while constantly reminding myself to NOT TOUCH MY FATTER-BY-THE-SECOND FACE. If you have never signed closing papers on a house before, here’s what it’s like: ten million pages are put in front of you and you have to go through them, one by one, slow enough that the guy thinks you’re actually reading them, but you’re really just looking for the lines with your name under them so you can sign there and feel a momentary sense of accomplishment. (I found my name! Mom! Dad! I found my name on the page!) On page nine thousand, four hundred and seventy six, you’ll look to your spouse with blurry eyes and say something like “I no read,” before drooling and then slamming your head on the table while scream-crying “I DON’T THINK I’M MATURE ENOUGH FOR THIS MAGNITUDE OF A PURCHASE!” (That did not go over well with the guy in the office but, thankfully, he yelled at me to get ahold of myself while staying 6 feet away.)

Then, once you’re done signing page four gajillion, you’ll sit alone in a lame office while hearing the office person dude mumble things like “are you sure?” into the phone on their desk. (Is who sure? Do I want them to be sure? I’m not sure! Should I tell him I’m not sure?! SIR! I’M ALSO NOT SURE!) Eventually, he will come back into the room, still wearing surgical gloves, remind you to take the pens with you, and congratulate you in a way that sounds more like “can I finally go home now and cry into my pillow about the future of our country?”

Closing on our first house in the middle of Shitstorm 3000 felt like trying to celebrate a birthday in New York on 9/11. “Uhhh…yay!” As hard as I was trying to stay positive and act excited, all I felt was this overwhelming squeeze of the unknown. (Squeeze? Strangle?) But while I drove back to our city apartment with The VP of Ops, I kept telling myself one thing over and over and over: “we’re all in this together.”

And it’s true. How many times has there been a situation that you’ve dealt with where LITERALLY EVERYONE YOU KNOW IN THE UNIVERSE is dealing with the same thing? As terrifying as this is, no one is exempt. And the ones that you’re thinking aren’t worrying about it because they seem the same as they’ve always been? They’re just better at acting than you are. I’ve never felt more connected to everyone than I do now.

I’ve also never enjoyed hot dogs more than I do now.

OUR WORLD:

We’re all living in an excruciatingly elongated moment right now that will change the world forever. The way we look at World War II documentaries and the Civil Rights movement and think “Jesus, I can’t believe that actually happened!” is what smelly fatsos will be thinking about the movies about Coronavirus that come out in 2056. And while I’m sure those movies will focus on the most terrifying aspects of what is going on right now, I’d like to note some of the other byproducts that will probably be overlooked by PBS’ 2056, Six-Part Docu-series “Covid 19”.

Hangovers were confused for coronavirus

I was going to write something about how internet is officially the best invention ever, but then I was like “but what about booze?” The person who invented or discovered booze had to have done so in the middle of some terrifying episode in human evolution.

I’m imagining it was some woman with a broken leg who just heard from her friend that dinosaurs exist. “What’s a dinosaur?” she asked, before hearing a T-Rex roar and squeezing a bunch of grapes harder than grapes had ever been squeezed before. Then, because Mrs. ‘BoutToBeEatenByMegaYoshi didn’t want to waste the only juice she’d be able to reach until her bum leg became unbummed, she started sucking the ground where the grape juice ran for days on end. By day 6, with her broken leg throbbing, she sucked the ground harder than ever before and…felt some relief. A bit of the spins and, finally….peace! Then she heard a rustling in the bushes and went back to freaking out that she was about to be dino feed.

Anyway, that’s basically how alcohol is working for me right now. As day turns to night, and stressors multiply to the point of swallowing me, I pour a beer. And then another beer. And then an old fashioned. And then a pilsner because now I’ve got to cool down. And then just a smidge of whiskey because I don’t need the sugar. And then I’m snoring on the couch in the middle of the sixth episode of “Mad Men” we’ve watched tonight.

Mornings then become a fun little game of “hangover or Corona.” The first few hours of every day are now set aside for chugging water and coffee and telling yourself not to google corona symptoms for the nine thousandth time this week. By the time 3PM rolls around and you’ve come out of the hangover enough to realize that maybe you don’t actually have this terrifying virus, well, there’s only one thing to do: Celebrate.

Home workouts that lasted more than 8 minutes were treated like Olympic training sessions

Not to brag (but maybe a little bit? Fine, yeah. Check out this shit!) but I ran a marathon not that long ago! I wasn’t a hardcore “look at me I go to the gym”-guy, but I did go to the gym and didn’t shy away from mentioning that if it came up naturally in a conversation. “Oh, your mother got a haircut? Weird you mention that because I had my personal best incline bench yesterday!”

However, since this whole “You should stay home and use this as the ultimate excuse to be a blob”-order has come down, working out has fallen to the back of my priority list. I’m sure I’m not alone in this either. Yes, it’s true that moving around and exercising makes your brain feel better, but when your job is hanging by a wet fingernail, you have asthma and YOU JUST BOUGHT A FUCKING HOUSE, getting a sweat in doesn’t exactly register as “something I should focus on getting done today!”

This means that completing a sponsored Instagram ad showing you how to do a 15-minute at-home workout without equipment, is the equivalent of completing a Michael Phelps training session. I came across one of these smiley Instagram trainers imploring me to “stay active indoors!” yesterday and thought “he’s smiling, so maybe I should listen to him.”

So I followed his “workout”. This was the kind of workout that I would’ve made fun of in my physical peak, but now I got two minutes in and thought “could The Rock do what I’m doing right now?” (Yes Jimmy, The Rock could do Jumping Jacks for 2 minutes and 14 seconds). When I finished the “workout” 11 minutes later, the thin layer of sweat on my forehead might as well have been an Olympic Gold Medal. I went up to the VP of Ops acting more out of breath than I really was and said stuff like, “just finished a little workout” hoping she would swoon and ask if it was okay to tell her friends about her husband’s physical accomplishments.

She didn’t do that.

Employees at restaurants are fucking brave

I think we’ve all maybe thought this for a while, but if this whole ordeal doesn’t drive home the fact that people working at our favorite “I’m getting something that makes me feel good”-institutions, are brave as hell, then get your dumbass brain examined. Seriously, if you’ve been through a drive-thru or ordered delivery over the past few weeks and enjoyed the dopamine rush that comes from eating your favorite foods, make sure you take a second to think of the people that went outside, in public, around others, to make that thing for you and get that thing to you.

Fucking restaurant people are awesome.

PODCAST:

The Bill Simmons Podcast with Pearl Jam from last Thursday.

MUSIC:

The new album from The Weeknd and all of these Instagram Live concerts that bands are doing. Here’s The Weeknd from SNL before the world blew up:

TV:

Watching “Mad Men” for the first time. If you’re looking for EVEN MORE inspiration to drink, start watching this show.

MOVIE:

The VP and I watched “Catch Me if You Can” yesterday. It’s worth it because it’s Leo and Tom Hanks, but was I blown away? No. I was not blown away.

K, bye.

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.

Best Drink of the Week and Travel Talk (4/12/18)

OUR WORLD:

My friends and I had a discussion a couple weeks back where we tried to rank the best drinks of the week. Keep in mind, this is not a ranking of the best drinks of your life, like after some crowing achievement or overcoming some adversity, simply the best drinks of a normal boring-ass week. While my friends, nicknamed “Thunder” and “Cash Out”, had differing opinions (that I don’t remember because we were on martini numero tres at this point in the night), I believe that the following list is THE definitive drink of the week ranking….er, list….YOU GET IT!

I’m gonna count down from 5 to 1 because I’m a storyteller who likes to build suspense…

5) Tuesday night, at about 6:41 P.M., the Double IPA you drink as you prepare dinner. Your Monday nightmare is but a distant memory now, and having made it through Tuesday as well means that you’re back in your weekly routine. Tuesday was a long day, but you’re in full-on “weekday work-mode” now, so it’s okay. You got off work, went to the gym and took an extra long run because the Monday workout was more about ridding weekend toxins, than actually improving your health. Tuesday at the gym is about proving to yourself that you’re not the fat piece of shit that your thighs say you are (sitting in a car while wearing jeans that just came out of the drier puts me under the deepest of deep depressions when I look down at my thighs and pray that they don’t burst through my pants. I swear I could hear my thighs screaming for help.) So you ran far enough to sweat through your dirty hat, and you got home in time to make a meal that takes just long enough to enjoy every little sip of the Double IPA that you so rightly earned on the treadmill. It’ll be your only beer of the night because it’s high ABV, but you’ll savor every. single. sip.

4) Sunday morning, at about 10:24 A.M., the Bloody Mary you drink at your favorite comfort-food brunch spot. Sunday mornings can be rough, and this is no exception. You stayed out too late the night before and snuck a cigarette with your friend who smokes when your spouse was busy making fun of you behind your back (or, in my case, you vaped like an absolute fiend because you’ve convinced yourself that vaping is kinda healthy…) Your mouth tastes like desert garbage and all you really want to do is curl up in sweatpants and wait for the Sunday night depression to hit. BUT! You told your kinda-friends two weeks ago that you’d meet for brunch, so you have to shower and wear a shirt that doesn’t have late-night salsa stains on it. Your spouse asks if there’s any Advil left. There is, but there’s only 2 and you’re holding the bottle so you lie and say “no”…then close your bathroom door and pour the last 2 into your hand slow enough that it doesn’t make that bottle-rattle sound and blow your cover. The walk or uber to brunch is all about convincing yourself that you’re “not actually that hungover,” but you are. The Bloody Mary at this place has some fun cheese and meat things that come in it, but you’re kinda scared to order it because alcohol is the devil. You order it, though, because you’re not a NARC and it IS the weekend. You’ll really really enjoy the first half of it as it washes over your hangover and brings you back to the “kinda loopy and feeling not hungover”-phase of being drunk. It’s the last truly enjoyable buzz of the weekend because nighttime is far enough away that you can pretend it’s not coming.

3) Saturday late-afternoon, at about 4:17 P.M., the I.P.A. you have to set the base for the rest of your AGGRESSIVE night. (I’m realizing that there are people reading this who have kids and, I just want to say that I’m sorry that I’m still in the aggressive Saturday night drinking phase of my life. Am I ashamed of it? Slightly. But, by the time Saturday afternoon rolls around, I’m so excited about going out that I tuck the shame away in my “I’ll deal with this on Monday”-dresser drawer.) Plan is to meet up with friends at a shitty-in-a-good-way bar a little after 5. You’re ready and your spouse is in the shower, so it’s time to put on some sporting event you don’t really care about and to properly enjoy a good beer before you dive into the “get me whatever you’re getting” bar orders for the rest of the night. Now is the time to use your favorite, most beer-snobby, fancy beer glass. Be sure to pour it slow and make sex noises after your first sip; this is the last time that you’ll be truly enjoying the taste of what you’re drinking for the rest of the night. This beer will also be a quick topic of conversation early on in the night, when you try to prove to your friends that you have taste by talking about a beer they’ve never heard of.

2) Friday lunch, at about 12:21 P.M., the margarita you get with your co-workers at the Mexican restaurant by your office. The morning meetings are over, and you still have to send a few e-mails out, but you’ve effectively made it to the weekend. It’s time for chips and salsa and marg(s) (stick to one marg, guys…once you go for the second in front of co-workers, you’re known as THAT lunch-drunk-guy). Bitching about the job is ALWAYS the topic, and this is the most acceptable time and place for it. Get all the bitching out now because your spouse has heard ENOUGH throughout the week, and if you bring more of that shit into the weekend SHE’S GONNA LOSE IT! (Can we make a cool looking medallion that says “No Work Talk” that we all wear around our necks from Friday night through Sunday night? Feels like a piece of jewelry a hipster would wear and not admit that they got it at Urban Outfitters…”Urban Outfitters? No, I only shop at thrift stores.”) Get ready for a lot of deep exhales and “we made it to Friday”-headshakes. They’re gonna feel good and earned and your co-workers are gonna nod at you overtime you do one because they know…they know…

1) Thursday night, when you’re alone at about 7:02 P.M., the martini that you carefully measure out and make like you’re a bartender whose rent depends on the tip you’ll get from this one drink. This is a special time that was great when you were single and now only happens when your spouse is out of town or out for the night at a work event. Does it mean you don’t love your significant other? I mean, maybe…like, why are you with them? (To the 4 people reading this who are in bad relationships, now is when you look at yourself in the mirror and think about sad stuff…we’ll wait…) You’re not in a relationship crisis, but getting to celebrate heading into Friday by crafting a nice cocktail by yourself is simply exhilarating. There is no need for you to put music on or anything while you do this; the sound of almost-Friday silence is melodic and able to perfectly harmonize with the sounds your shaker makes while chilling your gin martini or old fashioned or some other drink they serve at the restaurant you only go to on your birthday. If you have a dog, they’ll come over and you’ll say something to them like “we did it.” Do you normally take pictures of your meal when you go out to eat? Of course not, those people don’t read this blog. But, maybe you take a picture of this drink you just made. You don’t need to send it out, but there should be a record of it somewhere. Next time you do this, toss a 5 dollar bill on your kitchen counter because you deserve a tip.

*In case insurance people or doctors or my in-laws read this, I would like to state that this is a hypothetical week and does not mean that I imbibe in all of these drinks every week…not, every week…IT’S HYPOTHETICAL! THAT MEANS, LIKE, NOT TOTALLY REAL-LIFE!

MY WORLD:

*Every once in a while, I’m going to need to throw a George Costanza-style rant your way. Today is one of those days. Please indulge the following:

The VP and I had the new “Jersey Shore” show on in the background while she cooked dinner and I looked at my phone like a slob last night. We weren’t really watching, except to comment about JWoww’s newly-mangled face (wrinkles are better than plastic surgery-face) and The Situation being sober and…why is he on the show, then? Anyway, during the show or maybe in a commercial or something (I was busy being an instagram slob, guys!) I heard someone say, “you know, you should really travel more.” What an obnoxious thing to say.

When I heard it, I walked into the kitchen to rant at The VP about how mad it made me. Is there anyone ALIVE who thinks to themselves “I’m glad I don’t travel”? You know what? “I’ve got the next twelve years off and a ton of zeroes in my bank account, but this couch is pretty comfy and I love not knowing anything about life outside this country!” The reason people don’t travel more is because…hmmm….let’s put on our detective hats…oh wait, it’s BECAUSE TRAVELING IS EXPENSIVE! Would you ever tell someone “you know, you should really make more money”? NO, because you’re not trying to set the world record for being-an-asshole. Aside from the ludicrous content of this message, it’s always made worse because the person saying it is thinking they’re some Advice God selflessly gifting wisdom on the uncultured alley rats of society. Get da fuck outta’ here with that shit!

I wish I could say that made me feel better, but I’m still mad that people think saying “you should travel more” is not only acceptable, but needed advice. GOD THAT MAKES ME SO MAD!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Uh oh, is Jimmy suggesting a song that hipsters might like? Giddy up! This is a perfect song to listen to when you’re getting stressed out and wondering if it’s time to cry alone in your car.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

BuzzFeed can go straight to hell.

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:

Good thing I didn’t listen to my advice and bet on Milwaukee over Philly last night. Philly won by seven billion points, if you missed it. It’s time for me to huddle with my crew and figure out NBA playoff futures. At first glance, I don’t hate Cleveland getting +650 to win the title. However, that means I’d have to root for LeBron and that sounds awful to me…The East stinks, though, and once they’re in the ‘ship you never know what kind of injuries Houston or Golden State could be dealing with. Who’s gonna talk me out of this?

(My account currently at $256.83)

K bye.