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.

Mindless Television and “The Chicago Reset”

OUR WORLD:

You know it’s an especially sad state of affairs when you find yourself searching for a television show and the number one quality you’re looking for is a show “that doesn’t require much effort.” Usually, this comes after having eaten two mini-brownies, putting on the same pair of mesh shorts you’ve been wearing at night for the past two months and letting out sigh that really sounded more like “oooooof.” (Was it even a ‘sigh’ then?!?!) When the physicality of SITTING is too much if it also includes having to use your brain for more than four seconds at a time, things are GOING ON. Over the past few months, I have found myself in this position. (Sitting? Yeah, we know Jimmy.)

This thing happens when you get back into snacking, baked goods and allowing yourself to go into “fuck it”-mode, where all you want out of a television show are some bright lights, gentle smiles and OBNOXIOUSLY SIMPLE STORYLINES. I think this is why Food Network and HGTV exist, but I have found other shows that fit the bill. Thus, I give you the Jimmyschair “I’m Too Lazy To Watch A Show That Makes Me Use My Brain Even A Little Bit”-Television Show Rankings:

5) “The Voice”

It’s a show revolving around people singing, other people pushing a button that means “good singing” and a guy whose haircut changes every commercial break. “The Voice” has a hypnotic quality to it that is kicked off with that person? woman? group of people? Proclaiming “This is…THE VOICE!” every time you go in and out of commercial. It’s almost like they know they’re aiming for the people that have gotten too into baked goods recently and are going in and out of a carbohydrate daze. Every seven minutes, when they find their eyes beginning to shutter, they’re SHOCKED with a “THIS IS THE VOICE!” I’m pretty sure while watching this, I’ve turned to the person in the room with me and nodded after hearing this. Like, “hey, this is The Voice, they’re right.”

Once your set in knowing what you’re watching (thanks to the constant reminders) your lazy brain gets to scan Twitter and Instagram aimlessly while listening to contestants you’ll never see again, do their best “I’m more than a karaoke star”-rendition of “Shallow.” You’ll catch yourself thinking for a second that it’s Lady Gaga, look up to see that it’s not, and then listen a teensy bit closer so you can make some insightful critique like “got pitchy there.” (I don’t know what ‘pitchy’ means, but The VP of Ops says it and she did music stuff in high school. So…yeah, I use it.)

If you zone out while refreshing Instagram for the 856th time in the last nine minutes, and forget to listen long enough to decide whether Sally Soprano sang that Train song well enough to advance, just wait to hear the big “boooosh” sound the buttons make when the judges hit them. Did the producers know that the audience would be paying as little attention as possible? “Hey, just incase they don’t see the big buttons light up and the chairs turn around, let’s add a big, dumb sound effect!” (Thank you producers.)

If that’s not an easy enough show for you to follow, then just enjoy the hair stylings of Adam Levine. Every time the show comes back from commercial break, turn to the person next to you and say “he change his hair every time they go to break?” You’ll get a half chuckle and that’s all you’re really looking for.

4) Local News

The local news knows you don’t go outside very much. (Wait…do they have spies? WHO’S THERE?!?!) Why else do you think they make the entire show all about the weather segment? A couple quick hits about some horrible things going on not-that-far-from-where-you-are-sitting are softened because the guy telling you these things is, for some reason, smiling while reading the teleprompter. So you’re not sad, but more sure than ever that you’re in a legitimate sugar stupor (shooting is bad, but smiling is good…so….it’s okay?)

But what every local newscast is REALLY about, is the weather segment. The weather person has the most charisma of the anchors (that’s a low bar….OUCH!) and they know that the people watching have been looking out their window for hours, going “I think it’s gonna rain soon, better stay in.” So every segment teases what everyone watching is really waiting for. “Don’t worry, we’re going to tell you soon that it’s okay that you’ve stayed inside for the last 13 weeks!” I also think that’s why in the forecasts, the Weatherperson always says “with a chance of rain.” It traps the tubbos inside–fearful of even the slightest chance of being pierced with one of those water droplet things. (I’M HIT!!!!)

3) House Hunters

You’re sitting in a house-like thing (does a one-bedroom apartment count as a house?) and you get to watch people looking at house-like things while making judgements like “I really don’t like this backsplash.” Riveting and exactly what you’re looking for. Impossibly easy to follow, featuring narration by a lady with a very soothing voice and starring two people where one is ALWAYS obnoxious. (The casting director has to have so much fun telling that person, “hey, you’re the obnoxious one in this episode. Make sure you scrunch your face up and critique a carpeted bedroom at least twice!”)

If you haven’t paid close attention throughout the show–because that’s the point of watching it–don’t even worry about it! Why? Because this half-hour show includes A RECAP before the final segment. They give you a “get out of confusion”-free card because they KNOW you haven’t really been watching! “Okay people, we know you’ve gotten deep into your group text chain, so real quick, here are the 3 houses these dummies are deciding between.” Haven’t been watching? BOOM, you’re back. You get to toss out a you-can-tell-I’m-concentrating-because-my-eyes-are-squinting- “I like the one wif da pool,” before the couple you don’t like for no good reason picks the ONE WIF DA POOL! Nothing like feeling accomplished while sitting.

2) The Office

This goes for any show you’ve seen more than nine bajillion times. For me, that show is “The Office,” thus, it’s why it is the current king of “I don’t know what to watch, let’s just put _____________ on.” I don’t think I even really watch the episodes anymore while they’re on. It’s more a cover for me to scan my phone. If the TV is on and I’m able to toss out a chuckle here or there, then I can’t be accused of being addicted to my phone, right? You may not have sat down to totally dissect this phenomenon, but that’s what is happening. Other shows that fall into this category are “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia”, “Seinfeld”, “Friends”, “Curb Your Enthusiasm”, and “Parks and Rec”. These are the “If I was addicted to my phone, how would I know when to laugh?”-shows. We’re not fooling anyone…(DID THAT JUST BLOW YOUR FRIGGIN MIND?!?!)

1) Anything Guy Fieri

What is a more joyful sight than Guy’s face? He’s never not on the verge of EXTREME happiness. And what causes this EXTREME happiness? Something that we all can get inside our refrigerator!!! While a good amount of food and cooking shows, are trying to help you elevate your palate, Guy tells you that your palate is FINE AND IF YOU’RE TOO GOOD FOR A DINER, YOU CAN FUCK RIGHT OFF TO HELL! But instead of saying those exact words, he communicates that with ENERGY and spikey hair.

If you’re not watching the show, it’s okay because his voice is so excited and happy that you are subconsciously convinced that you, too, are also excited and happy. Again, you’re in a trance-like state, so when your brain processes a booming voice doling out the virtues of a trailer that serves waffle fries, it’s like you’re in that trailer with Guy and ABSOLUTELY LOVING EVERY SECOND OF IT. (I’M SO LUCKY TO BE EATING FRIED THINGS INSIDE A TRAILER PARKED BEHIND THAT ABANDONED MOTEL!)

Tip your hat to the King of Modern-Day Hypnosis, Guy Fieri.

MY WORLD:

I went to a Cubs game and sat in the bleachers on Saturday. If you’re not from Chicago, here is the literal translation for that first sentence: “I sat in the sun and drank 82 beers on Saturday.” (Just 82? Not foolin’ anyone Pal!) Anyway, I came away convinced that no matter how old you are, if you live in Chicago and are feeling the need to hit the “reset” button, the bleachers at Wrigley are where you go. (My how elaborate your drinking justifications have become, Jimmy…)

If you haven’t been to the bleachers, it’s not the same as just going to a Cubs game. It’s another world. A world where age doesn’t exist, beer is currency and the sun is that friend who keeps telling you to “just enjoy the moment!” There was a guy in his 60s with really good hair, dancing during every inning break. There were a few fights far enough away to feel safe while yelling “GET HIM!!!” There was a friend who masked sweating through his shorts by having our group douse him with water in between innings, and then feigning anger by yelling “not on my new shorts!” And, of course, there were and obscene amount of Bud Lights.

Looking to hit “reset”? Spend a day sweating on a bench in the sun, high above Sheffield Ave. You’ll wake up the next morning dehydrated, yes, but you’ll also be rid of whatever was inside you that pushed you to reach for that “reset” button. After the age of 26, you can only do one Wrigley Bleacher day during the summer, but no matter your age or circumstance, I think we all need one “Chicago Reset.”

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you wear sandals and are walking up the stairs, and your sandal catches the lip of a stair and you slam your shin into the front of the next stair. I saw this happen to a friend in the bleachers and I wanted to hold him for the rest of the game.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

DOES JIMMY STILL GAMBLE?

Yes.

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.

The VP and I Go To Ireland – Part 2 of ? – (9/18/18)

-CONTINUED-

Rumbling. The other tourists around me heard it too, but they carried on. This church, it seemed, was worth ignoring looming threats from beyond it’s walls. Something was off. Something was…coming…I sprung up out of the pew, blew a kiss to the rendering of our lord and savior Jesus Harry Christ and ripped my shirt off. This was no time for restricted movements. “Jimmy, what’s happening?!?!”–shrieked The VP from near the confessional. The walls shivered, a baby cried. Panic reigned as I reached The VP. Stained glass shattered behind me; sprinting down aisles meant for solemn processionals. The VP, slung over my shoulder (kettle bells), violently gasped “FASTER! FASTER JIMMY!” Thankfully, quiet nights spent training on Planet Fitness stair masters back home gave me that extra gear. Nearing the exit, I looked back, sweat stinging my eyes as the shadowy intruders rushed towards us. “Not today,” I said, “not today.”

Then we got outside, I put my shirt back on and we walked over to Guinness.

Having worked in beer for a while now, I was expecting a pretty routine tourist experience. I know what you’re thinking “I thought you weren’t those Americans?” Yeah, well I mean I just said I wasn’t even that excited about the Guinness tour, so we’re not. So shut up. The VP had yet to have a Guinness in Ireland yet and, even though she had tried a sip or two of mine back in the states, had no real feelings toward the product. Honestly, neither did I. Outside of some St. Patrick’s day slamming, I rarely drank Guinness. The VP did a great job of feigning excitement as we entered; an Oscar-worthy performance if I’m being completely hyperbolic (see what I did there? WINK!)

I’m telling you, though, as we started the self-guided tour it became a progression of shared looks that went from “hmmm….” to “well, I mean, that’s cool” to “holy shit! Here, come check this out!” I’ve heard people say that it’s a museum, but museums are static. This place crackled. It’s not a museum, it’s an adult amusement park (no…that sounds X-rated. Try again). The Guinness storehouse is a beer-fueled V12 engine that, amazingly, does not swerve.

The tour guides are natural performers, engaging as they walk you through how to pour a perfect pint and how to properly taste a beer that every idiot alive in Chicago takes for granted once a year. If you think wine has the romance market cornered, try drinking a Guinness in their lounge as servers, without warning, transform into dancers and the lounge transforms into an experience. Remember when I said I loved surprises? One minute, this girl was clearing tables of empty pint glasses. The next…

Guinness makes Irish step-dancing feel cool. THAT is how cool Guinness is; it makes one of the easiest targets for ridicule feel POWERFUL. After this performance, The VP and I gave each other a “should we…like…become Irish step dancers now?” Following another pint sitting next to some dorks wearing backpacks and plenty of “well that was awesome”s, we made our way up to the FINAL DESTINATION of the Guinness tour. Atop the building, they have a circular bar with 360 degrees of floor to ceiling windows. Yeah, it’s crowded, but quit being a little bitch about it. Trust, this is worth powering through a random arm graze. Growing up in Chicago, skylines became synonymous with tall buildings. You know what else is impressive? A skyline where you can see the FUCKING SKY. In the words of The VP: “What dat is?” There are clouds and stuff serving as a pillowy background for the explosive green hills sprawling throughout every one of those 360 degrees. Nature is beeeyuuful!

*Evidently, I went into a “yeah, I’ll just remember this”-haze and forgot to take pictures of these views. GREAT JOB JIMMY! So, here’s a video of a whistling oyster thing.

As nighttime descended, we stopped by a hip spot for a “hey, we’re cool young adults”-dinner of oysters and cheese. (When did cheese and crackers go from the snack your grandma gave you as a kid to a staple on every hipstery restaurant menu? I’m not complaining.) I felt compelled to take a break from Guinness because my body has been conditioned to send “you’re getting fat” warning signs to my brain whenever I drink two beers. This time, though, when I got the “cool it with the beer fatso!” warnings, I…couldn’t…stop. Yeah, the Guinness is better over there and it’s also kinda light and CALORIES DON’T COUNT ON VACATION!!! So I gave my pants button a “good luck pal”-wink and ordered another Guinness and then another and then we had to go to another place to order more Guinness.

After dinner we made our way to an area called “Temple Bar”. It’s a bar-heavy area but there’s also a bar called “Temple Bar” that we didn’t go in, but I’m curious if that bar was so great that the mayor of Dublin one day was just like “yeah, let’s just call the whole area ‘Temple Bar'”. (I don’t hate the idea of renaming neighborhoods every 4 years after the best bar/restaurant in the neighborhood. I’m sure suburbanites would have an issue being renamed “Marianos’ Rotisserie Chicken Counter,” but that’s an issue they can take up with their city council.) Continuing our “We’re not those Americans”-efforts, we skipped the actual Temple Bar for a spot our taxi driver recommended called “Palace Bar.” It was Saturday night and it was friggin’ packed. I know what you’re thinking, “but did they have Guinness?”

A packed bar in Ireland is also very different than a packed bar in Chicago. In Chicago, it seems that every dude in a packed bar is DYING for someone to bump into him so he can drop a “got a problem?” in front of a girl he’s trying to impress. (Single Jimmy LOVED acting tough in bars). Now, there are some nights where The VP and I get to a crowded bar and I go into painful Yoga poses in order to not touch all the Johnny GotAProblem?s. In Ireland, though, maybe because the drink of choice is a low abv beer and not a Red Bull Vodka, but the people seem almost happy to feel crowded. Making my way to the bar at “Palace Bar” consisted of making the “I’m so sorry”-face while also saying “I’m so sorry” about 9 thousand times. And every time, I was met with a smile and a “cheers”. There wasn’t one accidental elbow that was met with a snarl. The crowd was like one big hug. Reason #736 that the Ireland bar scene is better than America’s: I never had to come even close to acting not scared in front of The VP about a potential fight. It’s hard to enjoy a beer while lying to The VP that “I have no problem going outside with that guy.” Yeah, it’s more like “No, I’m not enjoying my beer because I may start crying if that dude I accidentally grazed actually takes me up on my offer to ‘take it outside’.” HEY GUY, I WAS JUST KIDDING ABOUT THE OUTSIDE THING! IT’S SCARY OUT THERE!

After a severe case of hiccups ruined my “it’s impossible to drown me in Guinness” demonstration, we made our way back to the hotel. These memories are fuzzy in the best sort of way. A trip to Subway was included because we’re so secure in not being those Americans that we felt comfortable ordering a late night sandy. Gah fuhbid! We woke up the next morning with zero “oh my god, what do I have to apologize for?” fears. When you wake up with a minor hangover AND a faint smile, you know it was a good night. Now, me breaking the shower door with my ass that morning did not help calm my body image insecurities, but The VP did seem to buy my “the door just like fell off”-cover. My big, destructive ass was my little secret for at least another day.

Then it was time to go back to the airport to pick up our rental car to REALLY begin our trip. The idea of driving on the other side of the road in a country you’ve never been to is nerve-wracking, but not exactly paralyzing while booking through Enterprise on my big comfy chair. When you’re in a taxi on the way to pick up the car, though, that fear not only seeped in, it wrapped it’s talons around my throat while growling “it’s NOT going to be okay, Jimmy” into my ear. The VP must have said “you’re going to do great,” no less than 92 times in that cab ride. My response of choice was a chuckle-cough; a classic way to cover up a little cry at the end of a forced laugh. By the time we got to the car rental drop-off, I had made the executive decision that the only way for me to get out of driving for the rest of the trip was to attach myself to our taxi driver’s leg while scream-crying “I’m not the man my father thinks I am!” As the driver opened my door, I zeroed in on his bulky right ankle, before looking back The VP and saying, “I have no other options.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

K bye.

*Yes, I know the videos are playing sideways. I don’t know how to fix it yet. ISN’T THIS BLOG CHARMING?!?!

Movie Trailer Reviews (Pt. 2) & I May Have to Retire from Sports (8/17/18)

OUR WORLD:

I get panic sweats from not being in my movie theater seat 5 minutes before showtime. Getting The VP anywhere on time is a struggle I fully realize will plague me the rest of my life, but getting to the movie theater and airport with plenty of time to spare is something I will never be rational about. We will be at the airport two hours before our flight. We will be at the movie theater 20 minutes before showtime. In the words of every U.S. Government Official in every action movie with terrorists: “this is not a negotiation.” Unfortunately, forceful military analogies don’t work as well as ones involving fried food when it comes to connecting with The VP of “I’m Almost Done With My Make-Up”. Along those lines, here is what I plan to tell her the next time I’m about to sweat through my shirt at the thought of missing the trailers.

Jimmy: “Can we go ye-”

VP: “I’ll be done in two minutes thank you very much.”

Jimmy: “This theater has mozzarella sticks.”

That’ll work. She may chuckle and act like that’s not going to work, but the make-up brush will go down and there will be newfound urgency to her movements. Mind you, I won’t look into whether the theater does or does not, in fact, have mozzarella sticks, but I can deal with that meltdown once we’re in the building. Yes, we’re going to see a movie, but passing up trailers is like…how can I put this in a way that The VP would understand: Trailers are mozzarella sticks; meant to be a tasty treat before the main course, but so overwhelmingly delicious that they ALWAYS overshadow the entree. Are you passing on free mozza sticks? I didn’t think so. Let’s get into Part 2…

“First Man”:

Ryan Gosling has officially entered the “if he’s in it, I’m probably going to want to go see it” tier of movie stardom. Obviously, we’re going to be interested because space movies are sweet, but seeing Ryan Gosling and…WAIT, IS THAT COACH TAYLOR?!?! DID HE TRADE IN HIS FOOTBALL COACHIN’ WHISTLE FOR AN ASTRONAUT COACHIN’…WHISTLE?!?! YOU BET YOUR FUCKIN’ ASS HE DID!

If you’re not already in on a movie featuring space, Gosdaddy, and Coach CoolDad, may I interest you in a scary sounding soundtrack? The music in the background of this trailer makes me look out of the sides of my eyes before walking slowly to the window with an inquisitive expression on my face. I may whisper something like “what in the…” before turning back to the camera before CUT!

WHAT DID I SEE IN THE WINDOW?!?! Space, guys. I saw’d space stuffs.

I do understand hesitation in buying a ticket to see a movie where you already know the ending; we land on the moon and are all like “suck it Russia!” That’s a valid argument against this movie, and the same one I use when explaining why I don’t go to Bond movies: we know he’s never gonna die. HOWEVA! The movie “Patriots Day” changed my mind on historically-based movies: there is drama involved in the details of missions we only saw the final results of. “Patriots Day” is about the Boston Marathon bombers. Yes, I knew the good guys got the bad guys, but I did NOT know what it took and it was ABSOLUTELY fascinating to see that. “First Man” is about landing on the moon. Yes, I know Neil Armstrong makes it, but I did NOT know that a certain former Texas high school football coach with a smile that could melt an iceberg was the one pulling the strings backstage. Clear eyes, full space-shuttle-gas-tank, can’t lose.

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

GOOD

“Widows”:

Pairing the writer of “Gone Girl” with the Viola Davis cry-face is a deadly combination, but I’d be lying if I told you that I wasn’t leery of an action movie led by a 53 year-old woman who appears to be in just decent shape. Is that fair? Yes, Tom Cruise is older than Viola Davis in Mission Impossible, but he’s cut from stone and is the best movie runner of all time. Have you ever seen Viola sprint down a dock with a boat burning in the background? Me neither. I know Viola Davis from being a mayor in an action movie I can’t remember and for delivering all-time cheesy lines in promos for “How To Get Away With Murder”.

I did, however, start to buy in once I saw that Michelle Rodriguez was part of the “let’s kill the guys who killed our husbands”-crew. Alright, if we have Viola Davis delivering dramatic lines with no facial expressions and Michelle Rodriguez doing Michelle Rodriguez things, you have my attention. Rodriguez has “don’t fuck with me” written all over her face and is in the kind of shape where I’d be nervous about pissing her off in a dark alley. Okay, starting to buy in, starting to buy in…then, hey! There’s another one in the crew with a shaved head and arms bigger than Bruce Willis’ in “Die Hard”! Now we’re cooking with gas!

As the tense music nears the crescendo and I start remembering how much I love Colin Farrell in everything he has been in, I begin to slowly turn my head towards The VP to give her the “let’s see this”-look when…Oh, Viola no….PLEASE!…DON’T SAY IT!

Viola: “No one thinks we have the balls to pull this off.”

She did it. I can’t believe it except I totally can because I am now convinced that Viola Davis has a clause in every contract that reads “Viola will give at least 18 dead-eye stares into the camera, and must be the one to deliver the most cringe-worthy dramatic line in the movie.” I get that women are leading action movies now and I support that, but if there’s going to be a wink-like line that the female lead has to say in every one of these movies COUNT. ME. OUT.

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

BAD

“Little Stranger”:

-Somehow, in the midst of our trailer binge, The VP of Ops stole the remote when I wasn’t looking and went straight for the British-y looking trailer. British accents and big old houses are catnip for the VP, AND SHE’S NOT EVEN A CAT, GUYS! SHE’S A WOMAN! Meanwhile, I take British accents and fancy clothes and big old houses as an affront to my Chicago sensibilities. So yes, I did spend most of this trailer giving the VP my unmistakable “you got a lotta fuckin’ nerve”-stare.

I didn’t intend to turn this trailer review into an examination into my marriage, but the fact that she picked this one is the type of selfish move that MUST BE CALLED OUT. The VP’s thought process had to have gone something like this: “Jimmy hates scary movies, and british accents, and big old houses, but mayb—Oh wait! It ALSO has no one either of us have ever heard of in it?” So then there must have been only one thing she could have said to herself, “FUCK JIMMY!” There’s no way around it, this was a stone-cold “Fuck Jimmy”-decision.

In the trailers picked thus far, have you seen anything along the lines of a documentary about Greg Norman’s 1996 collapse at The Masters? Or, wait, remember that trailer I reviewed about the 2001 NBA Draft where the Bulls took Tyson Chandler AND traded up for Eddy Curry and I was convinced that the Bulls were about to start a new dynasty? No, you haven’t heard of either of those trailers because a) they don’t exist and b) even if they did, I have enough COMMON DECENCY to not force my less-decent-than-me wife to sit through them. It would be like your allergist diagnosing you with a peanut allergy while eating a delicious Dark Chocolate and Peanut Butter Kind Bar. I don’t mean to exaggerate too much, but…it’s the way a serial killer thinks, right? Guys? I’m right. The serial killer is like “hmmm, I really enjoy murdering people, but I know this woman won’t enjoy being murdered so…ahhh, fuck her!” Tell me how that’s different than what The VP did here. I’ll wait. (Pssst, it’s not different.)

As far as “Little Stranger” goes; who sees these movies? Ooooooh a bunch of rich brits with weird facial hair are tormented by bells in their house that are ringing when they shouldn’t be. Here’s an idea guys, buy a new house without bells!

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

BAD

MY WORLD:

An update on my dead ankle? Sure, thanks for asking. It still hurts, but the brace the doctor gave me has gotten me some sympathy and gotten me out of some tasks around the house, so that’s nice. Honestly, what this injury really signals is that I’m never not going to be terrified to play any sport again for the rest of my life.

The few times I’ve played basketball over the last 5 years, I was constantly thinking about tearing my ACL because two of my friends did it. “Hey guys, can I just be the guy who makes all the inbound passes? That’s a position, right? Inbound passing guy?” But now, after destroying my ankle by WALKING, there’s no way I’m going to be able to enjoy playing any sport ever again without thinking about some catastrophic leg injury. (Catastrophic? You turned your ankle Jimmy. Fuckin’ relax.) BUT WHAT IF I CAN’T RELAX?!?! WHAT IF I NEVER RECOVER?!?!

I remember when I was in my 20s and I would hear people in their 30s talk about how old they were and how their bodies changed and blah blah fuckin’ blah. They were all drama queens who didn’t know how to work out properly. And then this shitty thing happened where I turned 33, rolled my ankle in a goddamn pothole and now I’m POSITIVE I’m never going to be able to run without my ankle exploding again. Did I have to contemplate this new reality after being invited to play soccer by a group of teenagers by my apartment last evening? No, they didn’t invite me and…well, they don’t even exist, but I have created this situation in my brain. And if this situation ever does present itself, I will be compelled to tell these teens to relish the years between 13 and 19 before dramatically lifting my right pant leg to reveal my never-to-be-whole-again 33 year-old ankle.

“And that’s why I can’t play soccer with you guys. Ever.”-I’ll say as I embellish a limp back towards my dumpy apartment building.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

GUYS! GUYS!! HEY GUYS!!!! THE NEW DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE ALBUM IS OUT!!!! I’ve had it on in the background as I wrote this, this morning, but haven’t focused on it yet. No matter, I’m sure it’s earth-shatteringly delicious. Here’s a sure-to-be hot hot track of the new album that I found a live version of!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When your dog hangs her head off the side of the couch in an undoubtable effort to make you feel guilty for not providing a yard for her to frolic and play in like all the dogs got to in the movies she saw as a puppy. Hey Belle, who’s stopping you from getting a job and contributing?

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I’m back at $0 in my account after only betting parlays for the last week. Confidence is at an all-time low. Not joking when I say that I cannot remember the last time I won a bet. I could look it up because it’s probably been about 3 weeks, but that’s a warning….THAT I’M DUE TO GO ON A REAL HEATER!!!!

(My Bovada account is currently at $0)

K bye.

Movie Trailer Reviews (Pt. 1) and I’m Getting Fat (8/15/18)

OUR WORLD:

Every few months, on a random lazy night, The VP and I will go full-on short-attention span Millennial and choose to watch a bunch of 2 minute movie trailers instead of diving into a new show. (So watching a show has become too hard for you? Says a lot.) For the sake of all of my devoted readers, The VP and I did the thing at the end of each trailer where we look at each other and either raise our eye-brows and purse our lips together, crunch up our nose and furrow our brows, or something in-between. It’s a complicated grading scale, I know, but here’s the breakdown:

GOOD = “Even though we’ll eventually talk ourselves out of it, we should DEFINITELY see that movie when it comes out!”

okay = “It’s going to take someone I trust freaking out about how good this movie is, but I’m not shutting the door.”

BAD = “That movie is going to stink worse than a VP taco fart.”

Before I get into the trailers we watched, I would like to point out that the pictures of me above were taken this morning at roughly 6:45 AM. Why did I use those? Well, you know in the swimsuit issue when they have pictures of “curvier” women to show that there are women of all different shapes and sizes? And then those women are hailed for being brave? Well, I used these pictures to show that there are men out there with bad morning hair and large foreheads that shouldn’t be afraid to SHOW IT OFF! WE’RE JUST AS VALUABLE AS HOT GUYS! If this inspires even just one guy with bad morning hair and a big forehead to head out into public without running a comb through his hair, then I’ve done my job. We can’t all be Johnny Hotbod AND THAT’S OKAY! IT’S NOT OUR FAULT!

ONTO GRADING THE TRAILERS!

“A Star is Born”

Bradley Cooper could not look cooler and is definitely making me think about trying to grow my hair out AGAIN because “maybe this is the time it looks like movie star hair!” I know this is a remake because my dad told me (Dads!) but let’s be real, none of us are going to watch the original because nobody my age cares about Barbara Streisand or Kris Kristofferson. You know who we do care about? Dave Chappelle playing a gravely-voiced wisdom-doling friend to Bradley HotHair. We should all try to find a friend who smokes, wears an old tank and tells us when our “social” drinking has become an issue.

Best line in this trailer is HANDS DOWN when Cooper drops this heater on Lady GaGa as she walks away from him:

Bradley: “Hey”

Lady: “What?” (as she turns around)

Bradley: “I just want to take another look at ya.”

MELT-ALERT! If you’re single, I would HIGHLY suggest using this line on some unsuspecting philly who may have self-esteem issues (I used it on my dog Belle this morning and it didn’t land. She just kept walking…Fuckin’ bitch.)

As far as Lady GaGa goes, here’s the deal: VP loves her and I’m iffy. She does seem like a bit of a try-hard who too easily vacillates between “elegant, sparkly dress singer lady with Tony Bennett” and “dirty shirt, dive bar every-woman”. It usually bugs me, but I’m buying her in this preview. Matta a’ Fack, this feels like PERFECT casting. When she starts singing towards the end of the trailer, The VP started crying and my body was RAVAGED by goosebumps. If you’re not tingling at the 2:06 mark, check yourself into the nearest morgue because you, my friend, are a dead person.

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

GOOD

“The Old Man & The Gun”

I want to be more excited about this than I am. When we first watched it, I def gave the “gotta see this”-face because I was trying to convince myself. Robert Redford is my Mom’s all-time crush and makes a wrinkly face look cool. He’s also a forever-star and this feels like the last time he’s going to be in a movie that allows him to be the star (felt bad writing that). Then they drop the “it’s a true story” bomb right on our big, dumb heads and we’re thinking “oh triple-fuck-yeah!”

But how interesting can a movie about an old, polite bank robber be? I love bank robbin’ movies as much as any other genre, but the best parts of those movies are the guns, chase scenes, and fiery “we’re going down in a blaze of glory!” speeches that the leader ALWAYS gives to the rest of the crew towards the end. Redford giving soft smiles and cute shoulder shrugs takes away from the “he could die!”-tension. Casey Affleck playing the cop who’s hunting Redford is a solid choice because Casey knocked that role out of the park in “Gone Baby Gone,” but even he seems charmed by Redford’s cute antics. Give me Jon Hamm getting pissed about the “not fuckin’ around crew” in “The Town” ALL DAY over Casey blushing about the note Redford left on a stolen dollar bill for him.

Redford does deliver a patented cool-guy line when he talking to Sissy Spacek about life metaphors, and says: “You know what I do when the door closes? I jump out the window.” Can anyone pull a line like that off in real life? There has to be a documentary somewhere about a real-life bank robber who tries to talk like that, but it just comes off as cringeworthy, right?

Oh, real quick, Tom Waits is in the movie and when I hear his voice all I can think about is how Heath Ledger based his “Joker”-voice off of Tom Waits. Sorry Tom, but you’re the Joker forever now.

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

okay

“Life Itself”

This movie CAN’T WAIT to make you pretend not to be crying while sitting next to your weeping wife. One hundred percent chance that you’ll look down at your feet at some point in this movie while telling yourself to “fucking get it together, you’re an adult in public.”

First off, is the “Hola”-guy fat Channing Tatum with a mustache? Once that guy hit the screen, all I could think about was “what the hell happened, Channing?” Anyway, I’m torn on this trailer because I think I’m falling madly, deeply in love with Olivia Wilde, but I can’t remember anything she has been in that’s actually good. She’s stunningly gorgeous, and ALWAYS comes off as “down to earth” because she has weird haircuts and wears college-girlfriend clothes, but is she a good actress? If she was, I’d be able to think of ONE role where I thought she was good, right? (Hey Olivia, welcome to Jimmy’s attempt to play hard-to-get. I assure you, however, that he is not hard to get at all.)

Meanwhile, Oscar Isaac has officially wrestled the “that guy who’s in everything I hear is good but don’t see”-trophy from Viggo Mortensen. He’s a good actor because he looks actory and I say “Oh, I like this guy” when I’m around other people, but I’m not positive I’ve actually seen anything he has been in. This casting is feeling like some sort of magic trick. Like, at the end of the trailer, I’m half-expecting David Blaine to just show up dangling a pocket watch in front of me while whispering “you DO want to see this movie.” I do? I DO! Wait…do I?

The voiceover dialogue is heavy handed but well-written. The song playing in the background makes me feel…emotions…and makes me want to…probably wait to watch this on demand. The dead parents joke towards the end is solid, but then immediately feels off-putting when we see beardy Oscar Isaac having a MOMENT with a Starbucks in his hand. This is the movie that your parents see and your Dad stays completely silent while your Mom assures you that it’s “INCREDIBLE!”

JIMMYSCHAIR FACE REVIEW:

okay

MY WORLD:

Should I just get fat? I have a fantastic excuse of my badly sprained ankle to put some weight on AND get sympathy at the same time. In fact, I think if I put weight on it’ll only draw attention to my horrible, horrible, “he’s tougher than me for walking on it”-ankle injury. How would that happen? Thanks for asking; people would see me, immediately think to themselves that “wow, he has let himself go,” only to be smacked right in their dumb, judgmental face with me lifting my right pant leg to reveal A FREAKING ANKLE BRACE! I’d plunge the dagger deeper with a line like, “killing me not being able to workout.” And you better believe the only shirt I’ll be wearing is my 2013 Chicago Marathon shirt that has gotten VERY TIGHT. Get ready to feel bad about your inner thoughts re: my weight.

Real talk, I have felt a little bit bigger since this horrific, horrific injury and I am getting self-conscious about it. You ever put a pair of pants on that feel tighter than they usually do, but then quickly tell yourself “I mean, they did just come out of the dryer”? Because that was me yesterday–blaming the dryer and not the fact that I’ve eaten maybe 37 mini-York peppermint patties over the past…uh…one day. Why was it hard to get to the third notch of the belt? I mean, I probably just tried to fasten the belt lower on my hips than normal. Hips are wider than waist. Obviously. I definitely pulled my pants up a few times yesterday and sucked in to be like “yeah, they’re still loose!” They weren’t loose though, guys. I repeat, not loose.

Shouldn’t my body realize that I’m not able to workout and compensate accordingly? Hey body, I’m not lying on my back while eating an entire bag of Goldfish because my ankle DOESN’T hurt! How ’bout a little help, metabolism? Maybe Mr. Metabolism could pick up some slack one fucking time.

Since Mr. Metabolism and my dumb body are too lazy to help me out and keep my waistline in check, I’m thinking I just lean into this to prove what assholes my body and my metabolism are. “Wait, so they clearly know your injured, and they’re not doing anything to help you out? And yeah, you deserve to eat chip products on your back with an ankle like that!” THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYING!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

This song came on this morning and I stopped what I was doing to just smile and bop my head around to the beat. Try it.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The street we live on is closed through the weekend for a children’s carnival. Great. I can’t wait to see how calm Belle is about getting walked next to screaming kids who think they’re allowed to pet anything that comes near them. Hey kids, if you like your fingers, I suggest keeping them away from my anxiety-ridden doggo.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I got a “bonus” from Bovada yesterday because THEY LOVE ME! and definitely not because I’ve been losing at an alarming pace and Bovada has nicknamed me “The ATM”. I’m not kidding, I can’t remember the last win I had. I am in full-on, betting only parlays mode because I need a big win to make up for recent losses. This strategy, thus far, has proved fruitless. Its gotten so bad that I have begged for picks from a guy I work while referring to him as “Baseball Guy” because he talks about baseball sometimes. Talk about baseball once in my presence? Guy MUST know how to pick games. I lost the first parlay he gave me.

(Account currently at $11.42)

K bye.

My Dog is Scared of a Dead Fly

MY WORLD:

So Belle, aka “Numbah One Pretty Gurrrr” aka “BOB” aka “BOOF” aka “I Kinda Blame You For Ruining My Ankle The Other Night When I Stepped In A Pothole While Walking You”, has started this NEW thing where she’s scared of a dead fly. This is no exaggeration. Yesterday, when The VP got back from work (I was still out working because of an ethic instilled by my parents at a young age, but that’s neither here nor there) she noticed that Belle was acting a little weirder than normal. After a few minutes, VP realized that there were one/MAYBE TWO flies in our apartment. (Does Jimmy live in a dumpster that he calls an “apartment”? Who has seen this “apartment”?) The VP reported that, quoting from her actual text, “Belle heard a fly and now she legit won’t move. Just standing completely still.” By the time I got home, The VP had yet to kill the fly because her hand eye coordination rivals that of a blind amputee, and Belle was in our bedroom, hiding under our bed. Totally normal behavior for a 56 pound dog to be TERRIFIED of a housefly. WE REALLY LUCKED OUT WITH OUR FIRST DOG GUYS!

After some tense negotiations between myself and Señorita Dog, I got her to come out from under the bed for a proper pet sesh. For whatever reason though, me telling her to “stop being a weirdo baby” did not stop her from being a weirdo baby once she spotted the fly land on The VP’s purse. Belle backed up the way you would if you walked in on Michael Myers sharpening his favorite stabbin’ knife. Going into hero-mode, I grabbed The VP’s “Shape” magazine and ended this insect’s life with the snap of my wrist. To remind Belle what kind of man her Daddy is, I grabbed the dead fly’s rotting corpse, smashed it against my forehead, and smeared it’s blood down my face while growling like a PREHISTORIC BEASTMONSTER!!!!!! This did not calm her down. Instead, she went right back into our bedroom and under our bed and has basically been theres since (as of 6:37AM this morning).

Therefore, since my barbaric display did nothing to soothe her newfound fear of flies, maybe Belle would appreciate hearing some of my irrational fears and how I deal with them. As a dogfather, I must be able to relate to Belle whenever possible. Belle, you are not alone, here are my most irrational fears:

Old Southern Men: Show me an old guy with a southern drawl who mumble-talks and you can find me locked in the nearest bathroom texting my mom to “just come get me now.” I’m not sure if they all have monster hands and a permanent limp too, but THEY DEFINITELY DO and it only adds to my crippling anxiety around them. Why? Because, like, they just seem murdery or mad or I’m not a real man or did he just ask me if I chew wood on a grass boat? WHAT’S A GRASS BOAT?!?!? Dealing with this fear consists of me either giving hearty courtesy laughs anytime they open their mouth, or just going full-on “bear survival mode” and sitting as still as possible while not making a sound. (If LeRoy can’t see me, then he can’t kill me and hide my body in that grass boat thing where he chews wood.) This fear has caused serious mental issues anytime I walk into a living room and an Alabama game is on the television. A flood of “oh jesus, there’s an old southern man nearby”-scaries takes over my brain as I collapse into the fetal position under the nearest coffee table.

“Jimmy, why are you under the coffee tabl-”

“I’m not Jimmy.”

The “Unsolved Mysteries” Theme Music: Do you remember that show about ghosts and scary stuff that was hosted by the dude in the trench coat? My parents would watch it when I was a kid and I’d get so scared by it that eventually I would run out of the room crying whenever I heard the opening theme music. I used to think that they kept doing this because they were SICK PEOPLE who thought a scared kid was funny (crying kids running is hilarious and needs to be an instagram account), but now I think it was a way for them to get me out of the room. Like, maybe my Dad really wanted to watch some sweet new Rated R movie that just came on HBO, but I was busy being all “hey Dad, let’s watch some lame bullshit show TOGETHER!” Quick-thinking Dad brain probably loved having the “Unsolved Mysteries” theme music trick in his back-pocket. He’d put that on and I’d be out of his hair; makes perfect sense. What’s even sadder, though, is that at 33 I still haven’t grown out of this. The VP thinks it’s funny and I know I should think it’s funny, but I don’t. When I told her of this fear she got her friends to send me audio texts and snapchats featuring that theme song. The VP would laugh like an idiot and I would try to chuckle but mostly think about “maybe I’m not falling in love with this evil beast woman.” And no, I won’t post a video with that song in it because I’M NOT IN THE MOOD TO FEEL LIKE A HELPLESS CHILD BEFORE I GO TO WORK!

Shopping Carts Behind Me: Whenever I hear that horrific rattling of old shopping cart wheels closing in on me from behind, I am POSITIVE that a serial achilles-clipper is pushing that cart and my achilles is next on his clip-list. Yes, a huge fear of mine is something happening to my achilles tendon, but has anyone in the history of grocery stores had theirs demolished by the bottom shelf of a shopping cart? If the answer to that is “yes,” I do NOT want to see the YouTube videos. If the answer to that is “no,” it may actually be worse because that means it’s DUE to happen sometime soon. The shopping cart record of not cutting an achilles is the DiMaggio hit-streak of grocery store records; and someday, some especially vicious cart pusher is going to make history. I’m gonna be the victim unless I start wearing my chain-link pants whenever we run out of paper towels.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Heard this song at my dentist’s office yesterday (clean teeth club) and I couldn’t wait to tell people about a hipstery sounding song that I liked. SO THAT’S WHAT I’M DOING! Wait…I’m not watching the video and it suc—-IT’S ABOUT THE MUSIC! JUST CLOSE YOUR EYES AND LISTEN!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The people who are saying that they’re ready for summer to be over. If you are one of these people who makes the argument that you’d rather have it be 10 degrees than 95 degrees outside, then you should wear a helmet around me because I will hit you in the head with a metal baseball bat for being a DUMB.

AM I ACTUALLY A BAD GAMBLER? OR, IS MY LUCK ABOUT TO TURN AND QUITTING NOW WOULD BE LIKE SELLING APPLE RIGHT BEFORE THEY CAME OUT WITH THE iPOD?

Fresh new deposit into my account and IMMEDIATELY on the following golfers for the PGA Championship: Tiger Woods, Patrick Cantlay, Jon Rahm, Jason Day, Marc Leishman, Daniel Berger, Aaron Wise, Thorbjorn Olesen, Joaquin Niemann. I’ve never heard of Niemann or Wise, but that’s the sign of a good gambler…you trust the odds. Oh also, real quick, my gambling-confidence is at an all-time low and I’m positive I’m going to lose every bet I make for the rest of my life and I still won’t stop. I’M NOT ADDICTED. (My Bovada account is currently at $12.60)

K bye.

How I Actually Hurt My Ankle & “The Bachelorette” Finally Ended!

MY WORLD:

Do you remember when you were younger and the rough-housing you were doing with your siblings or friends came to an abrupt end when one of you got ACTUALLY hurt? No one questioned how you got hurt because you were always surrounded by people who saw you smash your face into a hammock pole while running a post route in your friend’s front yard. One second you’re all laughing, the next, you’re flat on your back with a panicked look, while saying “help, help, help, help.” Reminiscing about those “help, help, help, help” moments is hysterical, until you find yourself on your back again. Only this time, it’s in a Chicago alley at 11:30 PM and you’re saying those words to your dog; who’s more interested in that bag under the dumpster next to you. As I have come to find out since late Saturday night, when I took my numbah one pretty gurl for what should have been a nondescript walk, the difference between childhood and adulthood injuries is stark; childhood injuries are funny, adulthood injuries are suspicious.

I took Belle for a walk on Saturday night, stepped in a pothole in the middle of an alley we were walking down, and destroyed my ankle. That’s it! That’s the story! (I’ve never trusted these “pothole” stories). I crumpled to the ground, not knowing exactly what happened, aside from the fact that my right ankle felt like it exploded, and laid on my back trying not to cry. (If anyone has video of this, I’m sure it would go viral. “ManBaby almost cries alone on back in alley.”) Belle was sweet and kinda sniffed my face while also being like “dang that sucks ’bout yo leg, but lemme check out what’s under this dumpster!” I get it, dumpster searches and barking at minorities are Belle’s top priorities.

After hobbling up to my apartment, three flights of stairs that felt like ten billion flights of nail-crusted stairs, I told The VP that my ankle was dead. DEAD. DONEZO. FINISHED! She helped lay me down on our stupid, shitty couch that we took from our friend’s trash pile 2 years ago (not a joke) and got me long socks to wrap my grapefruit of an ankle with. Why socks? BECAUSE WE’RE THE ONLY ADULTS IN THE WORLD WHO DIDN’T HAVE A GODDAMN ACE BANDAGE IN THEIR HOUSE. Anyway, with my ankle wrapped in my V fashionable Nike knee socks, I started contemplating what the next few days were going to entail: constant leg pain, an obnoxious trip to a nearby x-ray room, and, most importantly, having to convince everyone that this wasn’t a “Jimmy was hammered drunk and did this”-incident. I could already hear the people in my head responding to the pothole story with “yeah, but what really happened?” I STEPPED IN A POTHOLE. THAT’S IT! (Pretty defensive IMVHO)

Now, I won’t lie, was I totally, completely sober? No, I was not. GOD FOR-FUCKING-BID I ENJOY AN OFF-DAY WITH A FEW ADULT BEVERAGES!!! I was a few beers deep when I took Belle on this fateful walk, but it’s not like I was challenging people to race me down a fire escape after my 14th shot of “whatever’s cheapest”-Tequila. First off, I don’t even really like tequila, so that’s hole number one in your “you had to be smashed argument”. (I do like margaritas, but we’re talking shot-wise here, folks. STAY FOCUSED!) Second! Wouldn’t you think I could come up with a cooler sounding story than “I stepped in a pothole” if I was actually trying to hide the fact that it was a drunken escapade gone wrong? I’m a writer (amateur) for chrissake! But still, the first two friends I texted about my injury replied with, essentially, the same responses: “how drunk were you?” There wasn’t a “oh, that sucks, I’m sorry,” or “ouch!” or “let me know if I can help while you’re UNABLE TO WALK AND PERFORM BASIC HUMAN FUNCTIONS.” NOPE! JUST BLATANT DISTRUST OF THE BACKGROUND SURROUNDING MY INJURY. BLATANT. DISTRUST.

Therfore, since it has become apparent that my “friends” will not believe the “ACTUAL STORY” regardless, I would like to put forth another scenario in which my ankle may have gotten injured…I will leave it up to the reader to decide how my ankle actually became the size of a grapefruit:

The Second Dunk Attempt Story:

So The VP and I were walking back home following a lovely meal we had just enjoyed at a local Italian eatery. Naturally, I had a salad and water because I don’t eat food for enjoyment, I simply eat for sustenance. You don’t put unleaded into a diesel engine, nah’mean? During our stroll, we encountered some local ruffians whistling and hooting and hollering at my lovely wife. Being the secure, masculine man that I am, I simply smiled and waved, as if to say “thank you, I agree.” Unfortunately, however, a member of said ruffian group, named Burt, misinterpreted my gratitude and decided to confront me.

“Think you’re better than me?” Asked the menacing Burt.

“Sir, what is your name? I would like to address you properly,” I responded as The VP attempted to pull me and my huge torso muscles in the opposite direction.

“My name is Burt,” he said–which is when I knew “this guy’s name is Burt.”

“Hi Burt, my name is Jimmy, I’m not sure if I’m better than you. However, I certainly was not meaning to imply that with my wave and toothy, picturesque smile. To be honest, I might be better than you at some things, but worse than you at others. If we spend the time tallying up everything, well, Burt, that would take days.”

“I’m talking about that,” Burt said as he pointed to the nearby basketball court.

Following some negotiation, Burt and I decided that we would decide who was better at dunking a basketball. The VP, never having seen me dunk before because I’m humble and don’t like to show off, pleaded with me to “just let it go.” But I couldn’t let it go; not with my wife’s honor at stake. So I tied my casual, yet fashionable Levi’s loafers extra tight and followed Burt to the basketball court.

Using the manners that my parents taught me when I was a young boy, I allowed Burt to go first. Burt grabbed the ball from one of his ruffian friends, pounded it twice on the ground to show that he was strong and ran towards to hoop. As he took off, he put the ball in his right hand and began a tomahawk-like motion as he neared the rim. His legs splaying through the air, he whipped the ball forward and…right into the front of the rim. Failure washed over Burt’s face as he landed. He missed his dunk and, even worse, pulled away from me when I tried to console him.

Now it was my turn. Unfortunately for you, the reader, I don’t want to get into too many details regarding my dunk because I’m so humble, but let’s just say it was a 360 windmill between the legs that left the ruffians stunned and my wife so proud that she immediately called her Mom to revel in what an amazing athlete she had married. But I don’t want to get into it further than that.

“Beginners luck!” Burt snarled as he whipped the basketball into my chest. “Do it again, or I won’t admit that you’re better than me at dunking!”

Not wanting to highlight Burt’s lack of intelligence by dispelling the faulty notion of “beginner’s luck,” I obliged his infantile request. However this time, while gliding through the air like a Peregrine Falcon approaching his unsuspecting prey, I noticed Burt sticking his leg under the basket, directly where my right foot would land post-awe-inspiring-dunk numero dos. Thankfully, my eye-body coordination is so stunningly fast, that I was able to adjust my landing immediately after throwing down yet another rim-rattling 360 windmill between the legs dunk.

Once landed, with my right foot narrowly missing Burt’s maliciously placed leg, I didn’t say anything to his now despondent-looking face. Instead, I simply winked at him and then blew a kiss to my adoring wife. That’s when Burt took the handgun out from his waistband and pistol-whipped my right ankle.

And that’s how my ankle got hurt.

OUR WORLD:

Last night, this season of “The Bachelorette” came to a merciful end after a 3 hour show that included about 6 minutes of interesting television: when Blake almost had a heat stroke while getting dumped, and when Garrett tried to explain that Instagram’s “Like” feature is too complicated for him to grasp. We can all agree that this season sucked because Becca has the personality of a plastic spork, and the only guy with charisma, Jordan, was probably a paid actor. So we move on and hope that next season they make Chad “The Bachelor”. But there is one thing that stuck with me throughout last night’s episode, that I just can’t shake…Chris Harrison SUCKS.

How is it that someone with no discernible talent becomes the face of the most popular television franchise on ABC? I understand the need to cast a “straight man” opposite some outlandish character in a buddy comedy, but why cast one to host an ultimately, mean-spirited reality dating show? When Blake came out last night and everyone was watching how sad he was about getting dumped in front of a gajillion people, Chris could’ve cut the tension with a little joke, or asked an insightful question about where he goes from here, or….ANYTHING OTHER THAN ASK “HOW DOES WATCHING THAT MAKE YOU FEEL?” That’s the question that people without functioning brains are wondering. “Hey Blake, when you watch that time you got kicked in the nuts while wearing a suit in 120 degree heat, does that make you feel good?”

Remember too, that this episode is Chris Harrison’s chance to shine. It’s the Super Bowl of his season where he is one of the main characters in the show and he comes to the table with the “how did that make you feel?”-question?!?! An ABC executive should have come out on stage at that very moment and stapled an oversized dunce cap to his dumb head while informing him that he has been sentenced to life in prison for “being a horribly stupid dating show host.” NO POSSIBILITY FOR PAROLE!

Quickly, here are my top 5 suggestions for people to replace Chris Harrison:

Dave Chappelle
Amy Schumer
Dr. Phil
O.J. Simpson
Barack Obama

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

My Mom posted a video about this dog on Facebook a few days ago and he’s now my second (maybe even first) favorite dog in the world.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Chris Harrison.

JIMMY GAMBLES…

I’M AT $0 AFTER THE CUBS WON BY 2 LAST NIGHT EVEN THOUGH I BET THEM TO WIN BY 3-4. COOL GUYS!

K bye.

My Farewell to Planet Fitness and Your Remote Control (8/2/18)

MY WORLD:

The past few weeks have included a lot of introspection for me. Quiet times and deep exhales and staring off into distances while silently wrapped up in my brain. What has caused this? God, I can’t believe I’m going to admit this, but this blog is nothing if it’s not honest; the cause of this introspection has been Planet Fitness. (I knew it.) When I was at a red light and an old woman wearing a cape was crossing the street, I was thinking “is she on her way to my Planet Fitness?” When in a dirty gas station bathroom while out on the road, I was thinking “does this Shell station outsource their bathroom cleaning jobs to Planet Fitness?” When dreaming about running into Anna Kendrick on a quiet street, working up the courage to ask her out and as she’s about to say “I’d love to” she spots the Planet Fitness tag on my keychain and starts vomitting violently while screaming “I NEVER TOOK YOU FOR ONE OF THEM!!!” Well Anna, your sweet baby Jimmy has some news for ya: I am no longer a Planet Fitness man. That’s right, I told the judgment free zone to kick rocks and maybe LEARN HOW TO USE A FUCKING MOP!

Between “the people” and “the smells” and “the facilities” and “the employees”, I feel like I’ve been withstanding a slow waterboarding at the hands of Planet Fitness since I joined. “ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE OKAY WORKING OUT NEXT TO A MAN WEARING JEANS AND A COWBOY HAT WHILE ON A PURPLE TREADMILL?!?!”-Said the Planet Fitness manager as he slowly dripped water into the towel covering my squirming face. For all of you out there who are thinking that $10 per month is too good of a deal to pass up, take heed: you get what you pay for, and 10 dollars gets you a gym that smells like a 2 day old Chipotle burrito bowl.

With Green Day’s “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” playing in the background, I’d like to take a trip down my Planet Fitness memory lane. I promise you, all of the following mini-stories, while maybe slightly exaggerated, are true.–TAKE IT, BILLIE JOE! “It’s something unpredictable, but in the end it’s right, I hope you had the time of your life.” (*I did not.)

SO TAKE THE PHOTOGRAPHS AND STILL FRAMES IN YOUR MIND

Now that I’ve escaped the purple hellscape that is Planet Fitness, there are certain images, still frames if you will, that come to mind when I think of my time there. Some of these include:

–The walls on the inside of the changing room: After a while, I realized that changing into my gym clothes in the locker room was a daily test of whether or not I suffer from claustrophobia. The locker room was small and overcrowded and dusty. However, this being a “judgement free zone”, I discovered that there were private changing rooms that nobody seemed to notice or use. I could go in there, change at my leisure and not accidentally brush up against 8 dudes who live a “showering is optional”-lifestyle. For a while, my private changing room time was nice and vital to my sanity in this gym. I’d escape the crush of the locker room, change in peace and prepare myself to power through the workout I was about to embark on. It was therapeutic, really. Then one day, I walked into MY private changing room, closed the door, and…”holy fucking shit, there are black hair shavings all over the white wall.” It was as if Planet Fitness had caught on to my changing room bliss and called a meeting to address the situation. “This fuggin’ guy is only paying $10 a month, we can’t let him enjoy the cleanly solitude of that changing room. Who has any ideas?” That’s when a close relative of Sasquatch himself, must have walked into the meeting room with an electric razor and a smirk. I’m not kidding, it looked like they shaved a gorilla and then came in with a fan to make sure all the shavings stuck to the white walls. So my private changing room time was ruined forever because all I could think of when I went in there after that was that there HAD to be little hairs still all over that place.

–The unfinished woodworking station that sat in the corner of the “stretching area”. Nothing says “take a deep breath!” than a pile of uncut wood and stacked cans of paint! Don’t believe me? Here’s a screenshot from an insta post I made about this corner months ago.

pfit

–The handicap bathroom stall door on the ground. For as big as this Planet Fitness is, they only one men’s room that had only 3 bathroom stalls. Now listen, public pooping isn’t fun for anyone, but it’s a necessary evil that all adults must come to terms with; ESPECIALLY, at the gym. When solo rooms with locks and one toilet don’t exist, then we have to rely on stalls and…lets be honest, we’re all hoping to sneak into the handicap stall when no one is looking. Yeah, that’s me slithering in and out of the handicap stall when I don’t hear any footsteps in my immediate surroundings. So, obviously, I would try to do this here as well. BUT, yet again, the Planet Fitness Fairies must have caught on to my sneaky sneaky plan because basically every week the door to the handicap stall was somehow broken and just left on the ground. Seriously, just laying on the ground. After about 4 straight days of seeing this door on the ground, I asked an employee if they were going to fix it and the employee said “yeah, like, I think we have the door on order.” Who knew Planet Fitness imported their bathroom stall doors from Egypt?!?!? Then, whenever it would arrive, via crawling camel from Egypt, the door would be up about 14 minutes before some neanderthal asshole would break it again and put it on the floor.

IT’S NOT A QUESTION BUT A LESSON LEARNED IN TIME

–When you walk into most gyms, the front desk people will grab your keycard, swipe and give you a “thank you!” or a hearty “have a good workout!” It’s nice. At Planet Fitness? You walk up to the front desk, hold up your keycard and are met with mouth-open, eye rolls from staff members eating pizza while reclining on computer chairs. After an awkward few seconds, one of these very hungry staff members will flay open their hand towards the scanner. This, in lazy person speak, translates to “scan your card yourself.” After a while, I knew that reactions like this were coming, but I’d still try to force my card towards them as my form of protest (when’s the march?) I DON’T WANT TO SCAN MY FUCKING CARD! YOU DO IT! Seriously, why are they there? They’re not cleaning the private changing rooms, fixing the handicap bathroom doors OR scanning membership cards. Are they actually getting paid to wear a purple sweatshirt and eat Little Caesar’s near a bunch of smelly people sweating?

–As the calendar turned to summer months, I started noticing that my Planet Fitness was doing its best surface of the sun impression. A box with a wall of windows facing west is an issue when those windows have no issues and, you know, THE SUN SETS IN THE WEST. This means that every day during sunset, also known as the most popular time in the day to go to the gym, this PFit was SCORCHING hot and you were staring at the sun while on your dumb purple fucking treadmill. Okay, they may not have shades, but they have AC, right Jimmy? THANK YOU FOR SEEKING CLARIFICATION! That’s what I thought because I saw thermostats and big AC looking units on their roof when I’d drive by. Then, one day I went for a normal run at a normal pace on one of those purple treadys. About two miles in I felt like I was sweating like Patrick Ewing in his prime (look that reference up. It’s funny, I swear.) Being the stubborn bitch that I am, I forced myself to finish the run; bypassing all of the warning signs of heat stroke along the way. Tough boys like me don’t have heat strokes so…I was in the clear. When I got off the treadmill, I checked the thermostat and it read 86. So I went to the front desk, asked for the GM and asked if there was an issue with the AC or if this is just how it is in Planet Fitness. His response? “Hmmm, I don’t know.” And that was it. He smiled like “I gave your question thought, gave you an answer, and I am now completely satisfied with how this interaction went.” As all of the muscles in my body tensed (so many muscles guys…so many!) I ran some mental math: hairy walls + broken bathrooms + rude employees + no air-conditioning = $10. Essentially, I was paying to be EXTRA miserable while working out. You know why most people at Planet Fitness aren’t in good shape? Because it’s already hard enough to go to a nice gym and force yourself through a workout. Imagine trying to get through a productive workout in your Uncle Larry’s “secret woodshed”.

That day, I decided that not only was I done at Planet Fitness, but that I was going to DEDICATE THE REST OF MY LIFE TO EDUCATING POTENTIAL CUSTOMERS OF THE HELLHOLE THEY ARE ABOUT TO SIGN UP FOR. If I can spare one young soul the horror of those purple fucking machines, my plight will have been worth it.

FOR WHAT IT’S WORTH, IT WAS WORTH ALL THE WHILE

It most certainly was not.

OUR WORLD:

Football is back and so is negotiating for television time with your wife. If you, like me, had kind of forgotten that football was right around the corner, you still have time to ensure that football is on your main television ALL SATURDAY AND ALL SUNDAY starting at the end of the month, when the real games begin. It will take sacrifice and strength and CHUCKLING AT THINGS YOU MAY NOT FIND FUNNY. Here are the steps fellas:

For the next 3 weeks, whenever you are home, give the remote to your wife and say “I don’t care what we watch.”
She will be caught off-guard and start suggesting shows. This is a test. Don’t say “yes” to every show. Instead, wait until about the 4th show she suggests and act SUPER EXCITED about that show (whether you are or not).
Project genuine interest in this show that she has picked for every episode you watch. Ask questions, laugh at her insights, point out plot holes. THIS MUST SEEM LEGIT GUYS! THERE’S NOT ENOUGH TIME TO PLAY AROUND!!!
In 3 weeks, when college and pro football start, grab the remote first thing Saturday morning to put on Gameday. When your spouse says something that The VP would say, like, “how long are we going to watch this?” You need to respond by gently reminding her that you have watched HER SHOW for the past 3 weeks. After like two weekends of 48 straight hours of football on television, she’ll give up and probably go to her friends or maybe cheat on you and end your relationship BUT AT LEAST YOU’LL GET TO SEE IF MITCH TRUBISKY HAS TURNED THE CORNER!!!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

FOOTBALL HYPE VIDEO SEASON!!!!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Dear Planet Fitness,

JIMMY GAMBLES

Am I betting on the Bears in the Hall of Fame game tonight? YOU BET YOUR ASS I AM!!!

k bye.

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

golden

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

K bye.