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.

Common Drunk Mistakes and Not Going to the Gym (7/10/18)

OUR WORLD:

I didn’t drink yesterday! I’m planning to not drink today too!!! (Planning is an interesting word, Jimmy). Sobriety is one slippery serpent around summer holidays (and stressful workweeks, and Fridays, and Saturdays, and winter holidays, and football Sundays, and…people I work with/for may be reading this so GIVE IT A REST, PAL!) but that mutant Wednesday holiday was a real jolt to my drinking equilibrium. Is anyone REALLY mad if we just start celebrating Independence Day on the first Friday in July? Lets give everyone a 3 day weekend and cool it with the midweek hangover. Am I the only one who felt like last Wednesday was a test? Paranoid-Jimmy sensed judgmental bitches out in FORCE on Thursday, taking stock of everyone wearing sunglasses and eating McDonald’s out of paper bags in their cars while parked outside suburban dialysis centers (you just got too specific there, Jimmy. They know it’s you now). I could almost hear these people saying “I guess SOMEBODY couldn’t control themselves on a midweek holiday. REVOKE HIS ADULTHOOD CARD!” Before I go off into a real tangent, I would like to propose that all McDonald’s drive-thru attendants begin each order by telling the person in the car that “everything is going to be okay. Now, what can I get you?” The amount of anxiety those simple words would help ease in the world could lead to the end of anti-depressants ALL TOGETHER. Exaggeration? Well duh, but how many people going through the McDonald’s drive thru are really just searching for someone to tell them that “everything is going to be okay”? My educated guess would be 100%.

Now, to the issue at hand. Over the past week-ish, through observing and participating in some alcohol-fueled escapades, I’ve begun assembling a list of mistakes that all of us drinking folk make time after time after time. We’ll tell ourselves that we’re going to make sure we do this or make sure we don’t do that, and then we have beers and shots and FUN and start thinking “EVERYONE LOVES EVERYTHING I DO!” They don’t. My initial goal of this piece was to help us to learn and better ourselves, but I’m no fool. For the vast majority of us, this may simply be a therapeutic exercise in communal immaturity. Here are the drunk-person mistakes that all us drinkers make and will continue to make because drinking impairs our decision-making abilities. Or, as I like to call it, the first edition of the “Oh, I’m not the only who gets drunk and”-list of missteps.

Makes extravagant plans with friends about “finally putting a group trip together!” only to never talk about that trip until the next time you’re all very drunk.

I’ve agreed no less than 28 times to start planning a group trip to Michigan or Wisconsin or some other moderately priced, drive-able location while out drinking with friends. It always happens when someone in the group just got back from a trip. They have a tan and are happier/less stressed than normal because they just returned from “a relaxing few days.” Everyone around them is jealous and saying things like “but I wanna!” to their significant others. Natural progression includes the person who just returned from vacay proposing that the whole group goes to where they just were. “Yay!” is usually what I think and ALWAYS what the VP actually says out loud. Aside from the two friends at the bar thinking they’re taking “secret” shots even though everyone can see them, everyone agrees that this trip is something that MUST happen.

This is when trouble begins to arise. Who is going to take the lead on planning this? NOBODY in the entire universe wants that responsibility. Hey Friendo, when you’re done with work and walking your dog and paying your bills and cooking your dinner and doing your laundry and parking on the street in the city and going to the gym and apologizing to your wife for losing the iPhone charger, would you mind corralling a group of functioning alcoholics to all agree on which weekend they should all spend more than really want to, to go to some place in Wisconsin they haven’t been since they were children? TYSM!!!

So what ends up happening is…uh….nothing. And most of the time, honestly, I’m relieved. I have heard of people going on their phones while IN the bar and making reservations THAT NIGHT. While I applaud the immediate follow-through, I’ve gotta admit that if I were part of that group I would IMMEDIATELY start thinking of potential excuses to drop a week before the actual trip. Yes, friend trips are fun, but agreeing to spend a bunch of money while you’re already drunk and already spending a bunch of money at the bar? Folks, that right there is the origin story of most panic attacks for 30 year olds (surprised you didn’t know that. Also, if you’re over 30, like me, referring to yourself as a “30 year old” is a nice cheat-code to feel younger.)

Orders shots for all the people you’re with and immediately regrets having to pay $48 for 6 Fireball shots and a sure-fire hangover.

I love thinking about how shots must’ve been invented. You know some drunk guy named Terry was out one night thinking “I love drinking beer, but I want to get drunk faster. Liquor? Yeah, but I hate the taste. What if…someone could like shoot something into my mouth REAL quick to get me drunk and I could go back to drinking beer? SHOTS!” Once Terry’s friend, Lorenzo, heard of this idea he joined in the fray and asked the bartender to just add a bunch of sugar to his “shot” to also help mask the taste. Said bartender then, one late night, tired of feeling like candy dealer, put on a bowtie, grew a mustache and invented simple syrup. “It’s actually not sugar, it’s a cocktail ingredient known as simple syrup,” said the first ever douchey Mixologist. Boom, I just gave you the evolution of alcohol. (I have done no research into that, but I don’t want to know if it’s wrong. I don’t care what anyone says. No chance someone other than a dude named Terry invented shots. NOW GET BACK TO THE FUCKING POINT, JIMMY!)

The point is that now, age thirty tuoeiwe, shots are but an illicit daydream while out at the bar with friends. No one is really going to ask the crew if they WANT shots because nobody wants to be met with the “you have a problem, don’t you?”-looks. The way around this, however, is to just show up to the table with a tray of shots. It’s a risky move because the majority of the table is going to be pseudo-pissed at you, but that’ll fade. The people that are excited, though, will think of you as their Dark Knight of fireball for allowing them to use the “it would be rude NOT to take this”-excuse. In the words of Chief Gordon, the Dark Knight of Fireball endures the ridicule “Because he can take it, because he’s not a hero. He’s a silent guardian, a watchful protector, a Dark Knight.”

Are you, like me, one of these Dark Knights of Fireball? Let’s talk. Like me, I bet you told yourself before going out “no shots tonight.” I bet once you got to the bar and had a few POPS you started laughing and having an absolute ball. You’re doing some dance moves by yourself to the faint Top 40 songs playing on the speakers (excuse me DJ, can you please play some Steve Winwood? Yeah, I’ll settle for Katy Perry.) Next thing you know, you’re in the bathroom thinking to yourself “I’ve got my lady here, my friends here and just pulled off a killer flossing routine in the middle of the bar, how could this night get better?!?!” That’s when you slowly look up from washing your hands and catch yourself in the mirror…”Shots.” It’s exciting in the same way that the idea of smoking a cigarette is. (Look cool and get a little extra buzz in the process!)

You’re in full-on “ignoring consequences”-mode until directly after you put down the empty shot glass. Fireball isn’t cheap, but you can’t close out your tab right this second because…uh…I STILL WANNA HAVE FUN! So now you’re panicking as you run through all the times you bought fireball shots in the past trying to figure out how much it’s going to cost. The “oh no”-face begins to take hold of you, but you have to play it off when your wife asks if everything is okay because NOBODY likes the “can we split that tray of shots?”-guy. (Honestly, I’ve never seen one of the Dark Knights of Fireball ask to split the cost afterwards, but I’m POSITIVE they all think about asking.) So you’re now stuck in the bar trying to do math (legally impossible after beer #7) while pretending that you’re still having a good time. On top of that, you broke your “no shots” rule and you’re thinking about it now because panic spares no potential suitor. When it begins, the panic zombie-goblins come back to life and begin feeding on any potential fear-inducing topic. 2 hours later, when you finally do close out your tab and sign your check, you nearly hyperventilate while thinking about your bank account, tomorrow’s hangover, and how your pants are going to feel after you DEMOLISH late-night pizza. Everything is, most certainly, not okay.

Thinks that no matter where you are, walking home is a good idea.

I don’t care if I’m at a bar in the middle of the goddamn ocean, the second close out my tab I’m thinking “walkin’ time!” There are so many reasons for this, but the top one has to be that walking home allows for the possibility of stopping at a late-night eatery for some delicious delicious treats. (I’ve gotta do a list of “Best Late Night Eats” at some point.) Asking an Uber to go through a drive-thru includes feeling ashamed for involving a stranger in your excess (this is our little secret!) AND ALSO risks the driver messing up your order when he asks what he should say into the drive-thru speaker. If you’re walking, you get to play the “well, I mean, McDonald’s is right there” game of chicken with your spouse. Saying ‘no’ to McDonald’s after midnight is the type of self-control that is written about in books that smarter people than me read. Whenever I’m late-night walking with The VP and toss out the “McDonald’s?” she shrugs in an effort to mask how OVERWHELMINGLY EXCITED she is that I was the one to suggest it. (The Dark Knight strikes again).

Unfortunately, when you live in a city like Chicago, with tons of stories about drunk idiots (me? are you talking about me?) getting mugged, walking home is NOT. SAFE. When I’m going out without The VP, she actually makes me promise her that I won’t walk home. Little does The VP of Ops know that my toes are crossed when I make this promise and YOU CAN’T GET MAD ABOUT CROSSIES!!! YOU CAN’T! If I simply plan to speed-walk home while zig-zagging down the sidewalk, “tough to hit a moving target”-style, I should be fine (I’m legit V nervous that I just jinxed myself.) When I’m descending into panic-mode following my OUTRAGEOUS bar spend, skipping the $13 Uber ride is going to make me feel just a little bit better. And at that point of the night, every little bit counts!

Finally, I don’t care what kind of shape you’re in, everyone loves breaking into the “I just want to be home right this second”-drunksprint and we’re ALL convinced that our drunksprint is faster than any car ever put on this earth. The next “Fast & The Furious” movie should really be about dueling drunksprinters.

MY WORLD:

I’ve taken the last week off from working out because during my last run I felt some crazy pulling on my hamstrings. I told myself that I needed the rest, which I probably did, but I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t A BILLION PERCENT THRILLED to have a legitimate excuse to not go to the gym for a little while. The downside of this MANDATORY vacation, however, is the guilt associated following every meal. Some of the things I’ve considered to combat this fat-guilt I’ve been experiencing, include:

-Shaving my beard: Shaving makes your face look thinner. I’ve had a “beard” (stop laughing Dad!) for a few months now, so if I shaved it, I think people would be like “whoa, have you been losing weight?” Tricked ya!

-Cutting my hair: I need a haircut and have been wearing a hat for about 5 weeks straight now to hide this fact. Along the same lines as the beard thing, if I get a haircut, it could distract people from my widening torso. If I got a SUPER new haircut, like a buzz or one of those cool hipster/hitler-youth haircuts, people would def not notice that I’m wearing my “the diet is not going well”-jeans.

-Embracing being bigger: I just don’t think I’m tall enough to pull off “big guy”. It stinks because I feel like there are taller guys who are overweight, but they wear it well so they can just be “the big guy.” I wanna be “the big guy”! When I gain weight, I’m stocky and NOBODY wants to be “the stocky guy”. Is there any other way I can embrace the inevitability of getting bigger? I’m open to suggestions here.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

My Dad sent me the link to this song last week. I remember when I told people that I hated country music. I do not feel that way anymore. This song is fabulous.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you bring your car in for an inspection and the body shop guy comes into the waiting room because he “needs to talk to you about something.” GREAT!

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Been really up and down lately. Hit big on some World Cup bets last week but also learned the hard lesson that betting the moneyline in soccer means your team has to win by the end of regulation. I realized this while celebrating my Croatia “win” and assuring my gambling partners that Bovada must be malfunctioning because it hadn’t paid us out yet. After about 19 page refreshes, The VP googled “soccer gambling” for me and broke my heart while reading the moneyline regulation rules. If I would’ve known gambling involved reading and learning, I never would’ve gotten into it. Today I’ve got Belgium because I bet on them before the tournament started and don’t want to start rooting against them now even though I’m TERRIFIED of that fast French dude MBappe.

(Current balance at $31.87)

K bye.

The 4th of July Stinks and My Dog is Making Me Feel Fat (7/3/18)

OUR WORLD:

One of the best things about this big, smelly country is a little thang called “freedom of speech,” mmmkay? So check me out exercising this freedom when I say the following: the 4th of July stinks. STINKS, FOLKS! (Dear ICE, you know that Jimmyschair guy? Can you chop his head off please?…Why not?) A day during the hottest month of the year that we HAVE to spend outside in front of grills that are making the cheapest of grilled meats all leading up to sitting in long grass and getting mauled by Zika-ridden Mosquitoes to watch 8 minutes of fireworks. Oh, and the best part? It’s on a Wednesday this year, so you have the option of blowing a vacation day on Thursday or showing up to work in your best hangover disguise, holstered with the “my allergies are horrible!”-excuse as you try to stop dry-heaving in front of your boss. You know why people call this holiday simply “the 4th”? Because it’s the 4th best summer holiday (That’s not true, Jimmy. SHUT UP MOM!) Give me Memorial Day, Labor Day, and MY FRIGGIN’ BIRTHDAY AKA FLAG DAY, a trillion times out of a trillion over “the 4th”. (Point Jimmyschair.)

Now, does the 4th stink compared to a typical day? Do I look like a stupid idiot? Of course it’s great compared to your typical July workday. We’re talking compared to other holidays here, try to keep up JERKS! (I didn’t mean that and feel bad about lashing out). Lets go through why, compared to other holidays, the 4th STINKS:

Fireworks are overrated: I can’t believe this is that hot of a take, but I’ve never been a big fireworks guy. Even as a kid, I remember wondering when the whole “show” would end so I could go back home and play video games. Before television, I’m sure I would’ve thought fireworks were cool, but now I’m supposed to bypass getting to watch 2-3 episodes of “Southern Charm” (The VP and I have been binging this and DADDY LIKEY!) Colorful explosions in the sky < Did Craig take the bar yet? (TeamCraig stand up!) Even if you’re not in the midst of a “Southern Charm” binge, please do not even try to tell me that watching fireworks is preferable to watching a TV show of your choice while on a recliner in an air conditioned room. Firework shows last 18 minutes tops? And how long did it take you to get to your friends backyard or rooftop or local…uh…field? Probably AT LEAST 20 minutes each way, but it’s not like you can just show up for the fireworks and toss up deuces (PEACE!) the second after the finale. NO WAY JOSE! You’re getting there early, bringing some mayo “salad” and you’re staying after for at least one “I’m too tired to drink this and then drive home”-beer.

*Quick breather: I’m aware I sound like the ultimate Debbie Downer. To play my own Devil’s Advocate for a second, it is ALWAYS fun to hang out with your best friends and get drunk. However, with the 4th landing on a school night this year, this will be like the first NFL Sunday of the year where you get drunk with your friends and then silently freak out at night about how hungover you’re going to be at work the next day. Whenever you’re playing the “I’m going to be hungover at work tomorrow”-game, you’re playing with fire and DEFINITELY worrying about it every time you open a new beer.

BACK TO HATE-CITY! I touched on this last week, but when you live in a big city, for the week leading up to and the week after the 4th, there are CONSTANT random fireworks going off throughout the night. When you live with a wife who has been mugged and a dog who gets stressed at the sound of a sneeze, these sounds are not exactly comforting. I took Numba One Pretty Gurrrrllll Belle out for a walk last night and felt like I was an extra on the set of “Saving Private Ryan 2: Escape from Chicago”. This is why when I’m never sad when I hear stories about people blowing off their fingers setting off fireworks. THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR SCARING ME AND MY PRETTY PRINCESS BABY BELLE!!!

It’s too hot to be in front of a grill or hanging outside all day: The 4th is the number one day for making people feel guilty for wanting to stay inside. As someone extremely sensitive to guilt-trips (are you mad at me?) this is my nightmare. Why do we have to feel guilty for not wanting to spend the entire day in stifling heat and humidity? Hard to get a beer buzz when you’re sweating through your friggin’ eyeballs! If you told your friends or spouse, that you were planning to spend the 4th under a blanket in your air-conditioned coldbox of an apartment watching reality television all day, you’d immediately be slapped with the “it’s too nice to spend the day inside”-guilt trip. Fuck. That. I’m all for spending nice days outside, but the majority of my Independence Day memories include sticking to my chair and slapping at the mosquitoes treating my legs the way I treat corn on the cob. (Not coming up for air until that corncob is raw!)

How many times can I get excited about hot dogs and hamburgers? I like grilling as much as the next Joe Blow (I don’t even know ONE Joe Blow, Jimmy!) but how many times can I get excited about cheap meats that are, most likely, poorly cooked by a half-drunk “grill master”? If you’re blessed enough to go to a spot that’s cooking up steaks or fancy chicken then you win; but most of us are stuck with Uncle Larry and his technique of smashing burgers on the grate until they’re hockey puck tough. “Have you seen my ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron, guys?” Is this dinner or a hack-job comedy routine where everyone pretends their dinner doesn’t SUCK?!?! (Can you drown in ketchup?)

*Related, I can’t wait to buy a “Kiss the Cook” apron. I plan to wear it every single night of the year just to make that joke to The VP so many times that she goes into therapy. “The thing is, I don’t want to kiss the cook. Matta’ o fack, I’ve developed a deep seeded hatred for the cook and his stupid fucking apron!”

Having to be around people who don’t work the next day when you do: Every year there’s the group of your friends at the party who love reminding everyone that they don’t work the next day. You’ll say stuff like “wow, I’m jealous” and then play it off like it’s not that big of a deal. In reality, though, you want to go to the bathroom and cry while looking at yourself in the mirror. (My life isn’t as good as their life!) The impromptu “whose job has the most relaxed vacation day policy?”-competition is never fun for the losers. So you’re left either sipping on a lukewarm Coors Light while your besties get blackout without a care in the world, or you throw caution to the wind and sign up to be MISERABLE at your desk the next morning. What an option! I love watching the person who does work the next day get progressively drunker and sadder as the night goes on. The whole “I’m going to get drunk and not even think about the consequences” act is impossible after the age of 30. It’s a game of chicken that, even after 30 beers, you know you’re losing. (This person is usually me btw).

Can’t wait.

MY WORLD:

My dog Belle got a real short haircut on Sunday because she had mats and it’s super hot outside for a big FLOOF dog. She looks so much thinner! I was calling her “Chubba Bubba” before this cut, but now she looks like the Nicole Kidman of dogs so I’ve re-nicknamed her “Nicole Belleman” (not my best, but The VP chuckled). Anyway, this haircut and the effect it has had on her looks has got me thinking…do I need to get a buzzcut? It feels like Belle has a newfound skinny-dog confidence, and is kinda’ judging ME for not being as skinny as her. I think that she thinks that she’s better than me!

I’m currently mired in the phase of hair-length where I wear a hat every single day because I’m too lazy to properly style it in the morning. And maybe this length/lack of styling is making me appear fatter than I am? (That’s what I’m going to tell myself, at least. The fact that all my shorts feel outrageously tight MUST be tied to my hair and not my recent diet of cookies and craft beer!) Like, I’d love to show up with a new haircut and have people think “wow! I had no idea Jimmy was that skinny!” That could happen! It happened for Belle! In High School I got a buzz cut and looked a little nazi-ish, but that was like forever ago which means it wouldn’t be the same, right? If I do get a buzzcut I would have to worry about my hair growing back AND if it would highlight me getting thin on top. Plus, if I get a buzzcut, I can’t cover it up with a hat because bald guys with hats make EVERYONE uncomfortable. (Seriously, I’d feel more comfortable next to a drooling tiger than a bald guy with a big loose hat sitting on his dumb head.) As you can tell, I’m in a real pickle here folks. I want to shock people with how thin I can suddenly appear, but do I risk being the Nazi-lookin’ bald guy who’s making everyone uncomfortable with his ill-fitting hat? You’re never in a good place body-image-wise when you’re jealous of how skinny your dog looks.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Bet you didn’t think I’d like this song…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Getting into your car when it’s super hot outside and feeling the life get sucked out of you while waiting for your AC to actually get cold. It’s a race against time that I’m convinced will be the death of me.

GAMBLING UPDATES ARE STILL ON HOLD. I AM CURRENTLY WORKING ON A STRATEGY THAT WILL ALLOW ME TO NEVER LOSE AND ONLY WIN BETS. BLUEPRINTS, REPORTS AND STACKS OF PROPOSALS ARE INVOLVED…

K bye.

THIS BACHELORETTE STINKS LIKE POOP-AND-WHY I’M NOW A CLUB GUY (6/12/18)

OUR WORLD:

I’m close to being out on this season of The Bachelorette, guys. When the episode started last night, I was having too much fun cooking shrimp tacos and drinking a beer by myself in the kitchen that I just told The VP to let me know if anything crazy happened. The tacos were actually done and I just kept stirring the shrimps while sipping my DEEEELISH beer and making “AHHHH!” sounds after ever sip. After a few, “Oh my god”s coming from the living room, though, I felt it was my duty to soldier on through this episode (salute my sacrifice!) Unfortunately, after toughing my way through that 2 hours of GUCK, I felt even closer to being out. Let’s go over some reasons why:

1) Becca is the definition of “Meh”: The VP does not think she’s hot at all and I go back and forth on it. She dresses like a dickhead, and when Jimmy Fashion is calling out your outfit choices, you KNOW there’s an issue. We get it, you have a flat stomach. Now, how ’bout you act like the near-30 year old you are and wear a full shirt. (Grandpa Jimmy’s getting his gun! RUN!!!) Aside from debating about her looks (Which I didn’t even want to do because that’s superficial and stuff. The VP goes into mean-girl mode and drags me down with her. SHE MAKES ME DO IT!) She’s not interesting or funny or villainous or….ANYTHING EXCEPT “MEH”, though. Has she said anything that has made you close to laughing? She had the perfect opportunity to dunk on Jordan with a joke about his tinder stuff and, instead, she gave a super awkward, passive-aggressive high-five. Look, Jordan is a tool (I actually don’t totally hate him FWIW) but maybe Becca could break out something better than her best ABC Family joke? When she did that and then tried to calm Jordan down by saying “I was just trying to lighten the mood with a joke” I almost drove to the bazooka store to buy a bazooka5000 JUST to shoot my 11 year-old Vizio flat-screen to FUCKING BITS! Next time you’re trying to lighten the mood, make one person in the entire world at least chuckle.

I also think that Becca took acting classes taught by a former construction worker recovering from the “look out for that huge steel beam!”-moment. Are producers telling her to ham up every minor difficulty? Sure, but that’s where anyone who ISN’T an AWFUL actress, just bites their lip and shakes their head while saying “I just don’t know…” Becca, on the other hand, tries to force tears any chance she gets while saying things like “I have nothing left.” She actually said “I have nothing left” when Clay told her he had to leave the show. Really Becca? Clay, while a nice enough dude, was about as charismatic as a used paper towel and had ZERO chance of actually winning this show. Walgreens not having your favorite flavor of KIND Bars is more emotionally devastating than Clay leaving the show. Meanwhile, Becca is clawing near her eyes to wipe away her nonexistent tears. I’m no eye-makeup expert (please do not bring up my college emo phase thx!) but if a woman who wears GOBS of eye-makeup, like Becca, started crying, wouldn’t SOMETHING run down her cheek? IT’S LIKE SHE TAKES US FOR FOOLS!

2) Who are we supposed to be rooting for? I think the answer to this question is Colton, but how hard can you root for a virgin football player? (Jesus, Jimmy’s banging on the virgin again….YOU BET I FUCKIN’ AM!) Seriously, you’re one WHOPPER of a DOOF if you can’t parlay being in the N-F-FRIGGIN-L into one. sexual. encounter. Lying about playing HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL got me laid; this dude has NFL YouTube highlights and can’t get past first base with Tia. I’m sorry, but when you’re a guy who’s just a little too sweet and nice and cute…you enter into Creepsville. Colton seems to be on a mission to Creepsville, USA.

So who else? Garrett? Oh, you mean the douche who supports the theory about David Hogg and the Parkland students being crisis actors? Yeah, I’m gonna pass on this Alex Jones fanboy. If you haven’t read up on the tweets and instagram posts that Garrett liked, do yourself a favor and google it. The VP had tried telling me about it throughout the first few episodes but I wanted to ignore it because trashy TV isn’t supposed to be political! But…uh….this dude is just an asshole. In a sick way, I’m hoping he wins and Becca has to spend the entire reunion show explaining how she doesn’t support making fun of the trans community, tossing immigrant children over a wall, and bullying high school kids who had their friends murdered in front of them. Because Garrett, that fun-loving, gun-toting outdoorsman who just wants to show Becca a good time, enjoys all of those things. Who else would love getting to see Chris Harrison squirm as he asks Becca what she thinks of Trump’s barbaric immigration policies? (Here’s a link to the tweets/instagram posts that Garrett liked: https://twitter.com/AshleySpivey/status/999755526257954816/photo/1)

The one guy who is worthy of rooting for is the stuntman Leo (SWOON ALERT!). The dude with the preposterous hair who makes me laugh in his 48 seconds of weekly screen time, however, has about the same chance of winning as my great great grandfather which is funny because HE’S DEAD! (Yikes, that was dark.) Barring another “he fell off the top bunk”-situation, the final 3 look to be Garrett, Colton, and Blake. A triumvirate better known as “Who gives a shit?”

3) The villains aren’t “villain-y” enough: The VP does seem to genuinely hate Jordan, but how seriously can you hate a guy who talks the way he does? His whole “my professionality is my personality” diatribe was just plain silly. The guys around him were kinda laughing and that’s not what villains engender. You remember Chad? Guys were peeing their pants around him because he was so scary. If one of them would’ve made the “I’m trying not to laugh”-face that all the dudes were making during Jordan’s spat, Chad would’ve torn their heads off their necks and snacked on their brains. LITERALLY, GUYS! And Jordan’s nemesis is weasel-faced David who isn’t coordinated enough to SLEEP without sending himself to the ICU. Also, real quick real quick, in the history of “The Bachelor” and “The Bachelorette” has a tattle-tail ever won? When David ran to tell Mom, I mean Becca, about Jordan’s tinder stuff he might as well have just left the house. Is Jordan a tool? Of course. But, David is a rich kid with that permanent “You obviously don’t know who my father is”-smirk. Did you see any of the SNL skits this year where they’d have Don Jr. and Eric Trump acting like petulant, idiot babies? DAVID IS THE SNL-EXAGGERATED VERSION OF ERIC TRUMP:

If you want me to hate a character, as ABC obviously does with Jordan, you’ve gotta give me a better adversary than the “where are the railings on the top bunk?”-guy.

MY WORLD:

I went to kind of a club place a couple weekends ago, and I think I’m a club-guy now! (Jimmy NOOOOO!!!!!) Let me know explain. The VP had some super cool Southern friends in town (Southern girls > Northern girls. FACTS ONLY IN THIS BLOG!) and they wanted me to meet up with them after a work thing I had. It wasn’t just me and the gals as there were some boyfriends there too (don’t hate the juicy goss I get to hear when it is just me and the gals TBH) but they were at some place in downtown Chicago I had never heard of. Place I haven’t heard of PLUS downtown Chicago definitely means it was clubby. Knowing this, I decided NOT to change my outfit following my work thang. This meant that I showed up to a club in dirty shorts that are no less than 7 years old, high-socks, gym shoes, and a backwards hat. The VP was mortified. My entrance was a success.

Being the worst dressed male on the disastrously douchey rooftop, and making The VP incredibly uncomfortable in the process, turned into the most fun I’ve had in a club maybe ever? Looking like a high school gym teacher in a sea of hair gel and vodka sodas wasn’t enough for me, though. I would only be drinking canned beers and would NOT be shy about throwing out some painfully uncoordinated “sway-like” dance moves while standing next to The VP. Whenever I’d feel her getting some separation from Coach Me, I’d throw my chin up in the air and belch out a thick Chicago-accented “hey babe, where you going?!?!” I never call her “babe” and I never talk in a thick Chicago accent. I was on a mission to be THE COMPLETE OPPOSITE of every other guy on that rooftop.

While some may say this whole charade was simply a weak attempt to mask my insecurities, I would say…yeah, that’s probably right. In all likelihood, I was in the bottom 11% of guys on that rooftop in terms of looks and bank accounts. If I’m being completely SUPREMELY honest, there were some guys up there who I’m pretty sure were male models. They were tools, but one of them danced with a friend of The VP and all I could think was “thank God, Captain Delicious didn’t ask The VP for a dance” because he was way bigger and better looking than me. If, after a few “hey, I’m just casual”-canned beers, Captain Delicious would have hit on The VP, I would’ve said something like say “Hey…can you not do that?” while simultaneously praying that this dude didn’t feel like showing The VP how far he could throw me. Thankfully, the adonis I referred to in my head as “Captain Delicious” danced with The VPs friend a few yards away from me; allowing me to whisper cutting remarks about his DUMB HAT in the VPs ear. Yeah, I’m one tough hombre.

Following this near-death experience, though, I went back to making The VP uncomfortable while earning a beer buzz in a place known for low-cal libations. The music was silly and thumpy, but different enough that me yelling “how about some Incubus?!?!” at the DJ earned a few chuckles. (Real talk: who wants to open an Incubus-only bar with me? Incubus on the speakers, and a menu that only consists of nachos and cheap whiskey shots. GET READY FOR FUN!) Clubs are supremely uncomfortable for non-douchebags when they’re single. However, 6 years later, when these non-douchebags are now married, clubs are a bastion of inadvertent comedy. Now that I’m married and in my 30s, I’m a club guy. CATCH ME ON THE DANCE FLOOR!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Getting a chocolate chip cookie from Potbelly at lunch because it’s your birthday week and calories don’t count that week.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Getting sleepy at work 2 hours after you ate a massive sandwich and chocolate chip cookie from Potbelly during your birthday week.

K bye.

Car People and Tight Shorts (6/6/18)

MY WORLD:

A few years back, The VP of Ops and I got in a big fight about me being wrong and not admitting it and then getting madder at her for pointing that out and it turned into a real THING. Mind you, our fights usually consist of me being in some sort of mood (Shut up to all the people saying “such a Gemini”-in their head rn) or The VP just absolutely refusing to admit when she may have been wrong. It’s the same routine most times where we’ll get mad, kinda snap without yelling, make exchange some cutting remarks in the guise of “being funny”, give each other the silent treatment for a few hours and then gently start to make gentler jokes about the fight as we wait for the other one to apologize first (spoiler alert: IT’S ALWAYS ME BECAUSE GAH FUHBIH SHE EVER ADMITS THAT SHE WAS WRONG!) Anyway, this particular fight a few years back, was ratcheted up a few notches because it happened later in the evening after we had entered HAMMEREDVILLE, USA. You know those drunk fights where halfway through you catch yourself in a sober flash thinking “wait, why am I mad? Uh oh…I have no idea…DOESN’T MATTER, KEEP GOING!”? It was one of those. This night, however, my power move wasn’t just a silent treatment, but it was to retreat to the only place I can truly be myself: my car. (Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to drive anywhere. The plan was to sleep in my car…then I realized the backseat was supes uncomfy so I waited another 11 minutes before slithering back into our apartment. Uh….yeah, I think she got the point!)

We’re different people in our cars, right? Maybe I’m saying that because I’m in mine a lot and I act like a borderline mental patient in mine, but where else are you alone in a soundproof box with windows? It’s as close as we’ll ever come to being invisible in public (hey inventors, get off your asses and prove me wrong!) and I don’t know about you guys, but I relish this pseudo-invisibility. WHO’S WITH ME? Here are some of my classic “I can do this because I’m alone in a soundproof box”-moves:

-Front-seat Dancing: Singing is obvious and I can be one basic bitch so, yeah, I sing too, but the seated dance moves I’ve developed are nothing short of…well, probably disappointing. BUT! While I’m doing them, my brain is flooded with “remember this move next time you’re being looked at on a dance floor!” (Can someone also have a chair ready for me?) If you’re curious about what these moves are (WE ARE! JIMMY! WE ARE!) close your eyes TIGHT and think rolling shoulders mixed with pointing fingers that SOMETIMES curl back into air drum routines. Mind you, these moves are more likely to come out on Thursdays and Fridays as JGT (Jimmy Good Times!!!) nears his weekend entrance. And the bands/musicians that bring these hotsex seated dance moves out? We’re talking CHVRCHES, Steve Winwood (JGT’S FAVORITE), and maybe some cool-guy “I’m a rapper when I’m alone in my car”-moves for Old Kanye. I will warn you, however, that if you play any of this music while in the car with me, you will not see these moves. They are strictly for Alone-In-The-Car-Jimmy. I have made eye contact with random drivers mid-move, and I immediately stop and look up and away kinda’ like how Michael Cera did during the awkward moments in “Superbad”.

-The “I’m Pissed” Arm Toss: Middle fingers are so 1999, guys. When I get mad, and I’m either in front of or directly behind the car that made me mad, I toss my arm up like I’m flinging a frisbee through my sunroof. Here’s the thing though: there is no frisbee, and I have no sunroof. You just got hit with the Jimmyschair patented “I’m pissed” arm toss. And if you’re not feeling guilty for what you and your FUCKING car just did to me? Then I hope you rot in hell. Now I will say that this move is NOT restricted to Alone-In-The-Car-Jimmy (let’s call Alone-In-The-Car-Jimmy; JimE cuz it’s edgy but still sounds like my name!) The VP was introduced to the “I’m Pissed” Arm Toss early on in our relaish (what hip lingo doesn’t Jimmy know?!?!) after some pisspants cut me off. I don’t remember her exact reaction, but it was along the lines of a dripping-sarcastic “wow, my hero!” I always use my right arm because it’s stronger (thus, more intimidating) and there are no less than 4 tosses per day. JimE’s thinking? Chicago traffic is bad because there are too many guilt-free drivers not realizing the damage they’re causing by SWITCHING LANES WITHOUT A GODDAMN SIGNAL. The “I’m Pissed” Arm Toss slings guilt from my Chevy Equinox the way a Catholic Priest does during his sermon. Should we start calling my right arm Father Arm O’Tossahand?

-Talking to myself: The invention of speakerphone has provided the perfect cover for talking to yourself in the car. Even if you’re caught by a red-light neighbor, you can shoot the “I’m on the phone”-look (there’s a look for that? YEAH DUMMY!) Whether it’s preparing for an upcoming presentation; or running a “mock argument” that I’m anticipating later that day; or pretending that I’m being interviewed by a late-night talk show host, there is no shortage of my voice in my car. What’s weird about talking to yourself is that if you do in front of people, you’re obviously a LOON. BUT! I would also posit (nice word) that if you don’t do it while you’re alone, you are simply a different breed of LOON. Are there actually people who never talk to themselves? Is that the origin story of every socially awkward person? (Jimmy seems to really want to convince us that talking to yourself is not only not crazy, but normal. Hey Jimmy, PLEASE START TAKING PILLS PRESCRIBED BY A LICENSED PSYCHIATRIST!) This morning, for instance, I have about an hour-long commute, during which I plan to hold an interview where my current-self asks my future-self all about why it took so long for me (us?) to break into Hollywood’s writing scene. I can’t wait to give humble answers.

OUR WORLD:

Hopefully, you haven’t been like me lately and eating copious amounts of cheese dips. My summer bod is taking a hiatus that my shorts from last year were NOT prepared for. Therefore, I am entering a “I’m going to try to eat super healthy during the week, so I can pig out on weekends without having to buy all new summer clothes”-diet. If, unfortunately, you are like me and are looking to enter a similar shorts-saving campaign, here is what I have eaten and plan to eat for the rest of this week’s dinner. I give you, some healthy meals that don’t suck:

-Baked Chicken Wings: As long as you don’t coat them in flour or use butter in your buffalo sauce, I think we’re pretty gucci here. On its own, buffalo sauce ain’t that bad for you according to my brain when it looks at the nutritional info on the back of the Frank’s Buffalo Sauce bottle.

-Turkey Tacos: Lean turkey meat with taco seasoning is FINE, and I’m pretty sure if you use corn tortillas, it’s basically like eating corn…which is a vegetable and, therefore, GOOD FOR YOU. Skip the sour cream, but allow a little cheese. Atkins allows cheese and it’s kinda’ Atkins-y, so the cheese is okay.

-Skirt Steak with Chimichurri and Asparagus: Chimichurri is like limey pesto and errbody knows I love me some pesto. Skirt Steak is protein and protein is good because muscle guys talk about it a lot. The asparagus makes your pee smell weird which is a sign that you’re keeping your body on it’s toes with this new healthy-you. Watch out bod, things are a changing!

-Grilled Chicken and Broccoli: I’m not gonna lie, this is a boring-ass meal. However, you need to throw in one super healthy boring meal a week so you have something to truly brag about to your friends this weekend. Get ready to drop health-bombs on them like “it’s so nice not having to have another chicken and broccoli dish this week!” All your friends will get quiet and think to themselves “shit, what did he mean by another? I didn’t even have ONE chicken and broccoli meal this week!” That’s cuz you’re not as healthy as us, SUCKER!

And then Friday night comes and everything goes to hell. GOOD LUCK TO ME AND US AND EVERYONE WITH LAST YEAR’S SHORTS! (Or in my case, shorts I think I bought at least 6 years ago.)

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When your dog starts barking at a sound they hear in your apartment building, but before you can yell at them to be quiet, they run over to “protect” you. There’s part of me that kinda’ hopes that one day someone bursts through the door and calls Belle’s bluff.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Shaving. I’m putting it off because it’s never NOT annoying. I feel bad that girls can’t grow leg beards and, like guys, just be like “it’s a new look I’m trying out.” Of course they can, but like…maybe don’t. Please.

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

K bye.

Something We’ve Been Wanting To Get Off Our Chest…(5/30/18)

WHERE HAS THE CHAIR BEEN?!?!

A relatively young man, boy perhaps, scared of an actual battlefield, was presented with an opportunity to prove that courage was not among one of his seemingly countless allergies. The roach scaled the wall the way a veteran climber would during a storm; deliberately. Each step was carefully placed, making sure footing was stable before pushing off onto the next. The older couple’s ignorance remained intact while squint-scanning a pasta menu. Little did they know that their favorite restaurant was just like every other establishment they turned their noses up at; food, servers, and roaches. There wasn’t time to react. There was only time for courage in the form of a bare hand. Without hesitation, the server opened his closed fist, as if he was high-fiving the wall in slow-motion, and nonchalantly pressed his splayed palm into the bug; smashing it between the wall and his naked hand. He held the pose for 11 seconds, tricking the couple into thinking that he just needed a casual lean at the end of a long shift. After answering the final menu questions they had for him, he pushed himself off the wall, making sure to scrape all the roach gut remnants from the wall with his murderous hand. There could be no evidence of this. The couple went back to bickering about what they should order. The server calmly walked to the kitchen sink in back, roach entrails lining the inside of his now-closed hand. As he washed the evidence from his hands, he caught himself in the mirror. Things were different now.

Once, when I was a server, I smashed a roach with my bare hand. (Would’ve been nice if you saved us all the hassle of reading the above paragraph…) It was probably the bravest thing I’ve ever done. That’s not much of an exaggeration, either (no one was doubting that, Jimmy, but thx!) Squealing like the scared baby that I am was not an option in a crowded restaurant, so killing this roach without hesitation was the only way to avoid making a real scene. I still can’t believe I actually did it when what I really wanted to do was make a cry-face, say something like “oh my god EW!” and run over to a bigger, stronger ANYBODY while screaming “HELP!!!!!” Nobody knew it happened! If it sounds like I’m SUPER proud about this moment, it’s because I am…GLAD THAT’S COMING THROUGH!

I’m sorry I didn’t write last week, but I was busy being taught what actual bravery looks like.

About three years ago, I found a lump in The VPs boobie. Boobs are supposed to be fun and that WAS NOT FUN! We went and got it looked at and the docs told her to just come back every 6 months so they could keep an eye on it. Didn’t seem like they were overly concerned, so that was nice. The VP would go back every 6 months a few times and they’d basically tell her the same thing. But then life got like supes distracting, y’all! We got married, she got promoted, I got really incredibly good-looking after I rededicated myself to the gym and…The VP and I kinda’ forgot that she had a lump in her BOOBIE (my hope is that by capitalizing the word “Boobie” it makes this subject matter a little lighter…IS IT WORKING GUYS?!?!)

Then, one day, I thought my tooth exploded while eating a burrito. Thinking I was due for a root canal and major scary teeth stuff, I forced myself to go to the dentist…for the first time in like 5 years. Is that gross? Yeah, probably, but dentists are terrifying and everyone knows you don’t have to go until something hurts. RIGHT?!?! I’M A BABY, REMEMBER?!?! Something hurt, so I went. And, guess what? It wasn’t THAT scary. One cavity filling later, bravery street cred at an all-time high, I reminded The VP to get that lumperooski checked out again.

Hospitals are stupid scary and it’s not the smell or the art or the tile floors. If all hospitals had your favorite band playing live, for free while giving away beers and backrubs, you’d still hate going to the hospital. That’s why we should all be allowed to hit the person who says “I just hate hospitals.” NO SHIT! EVERYONE HATES HOSPITALS! And, spoiler alert, there are some parts within these hospitals that are scarier than others. The VP’s appointment was in one of these scarier areas. But, I got a cavity filled so I could talk to her about being brave. (Ever look back at something you did and are so embarrassed that you think about legally changing your name so you can just start from scratch? That’s me looking back at this.)

In early May, The VP and I went to the Breast Cancer Screening wing at the hospital to get her lump checked out again. The car ride there was the kind of quiet you get when trying to act casual in a stressful situation. Funny thing about not acknowledging stress is that it doesn’t go away. And when I say “funny thing,” you know I mean “a thing that’s not funny at all and just weighs you down,” right? Good, glad we’re on the same page. The VP was so cool, guys. She made a few jokes about my stupid sunglasses and kept asking if it was okay that I was missing a couple hours of work that morning to go with her. She talked about where we should get breakfast when it was done and what shows we should start watching that night. I believe The VPs itinerary that day read: wake up, have a coffee, get boob lump checked at the scary wing in the downtown hospital, take a pee, join the military, stop a carjacking in process, dance on the ledge of a tall building, have some eggs. At least something along those lines. She was fine: a fucking badass with a southern accent and a ponytail. They called her name and she was off into the back.

I got to watch an episode of “The Price is Right” in the waiting room. The jumping and screaming of strangers on the television didn’t settle my nerves. So I scanned Twitter and tried to watch funny Instagram videos without the volume because I didn’t have my headphones and you’re a psycho if you have the volume up on your phone in public. (I’M NOT A PSYCHO!)

It didn’t really work, though. The other horrible thing about hospitals is that your mind goes to the darkest places way too easily. And when you have the internet at your fingertips, those darkest places seem inevitable after a simple Google search. My mom has been through cancer twice, really rough both times, and I learned the lesson of not going to the internet…and, yet, I still went to the internet. If you don’t think internet addiction is a real thing, then do me a favor and get the hell away from me because YOU DENY THE WORLD! So with The VP in the back, my brain and heart volleyed between forceful optimism and paralyzing fear of the unknown. Drew Carey’s annoying voice and stupid fucking glasses played the soundtrack.

The VP walked out of the exam shrugging her shoulders and walking kinda’ fast. When I asked how it went, she gave me a “it’s fine. It’s fine.” When I pressed for details, however, she told me that we had to wait to talk until we were outside. This is also known as the “oh, fuck”-moment. She was repressed manic at this point. I hope I’m not saying that to normalize how I was feeling, but I think it’s accurate. As we got away from other people waiting on other results, she told me that the doctors wanted her to come back for a biopsy: the lump had shown “substantial growth” and may be breast cancer.

The next available appointment for a biopsy was 22 days later.

Which meant that the next three weeks were for worrying, pretending everything is fine while at work and in front of friends, and then distracting ourselves with television and alcohol. I would do check-ins and ask how she was feeling about stuff every few days and she would almost always respond that she was “okay.” There was not a truly enjoyable day in those 22. It was about managing fears and staying positive in the face of the unknown and the goddamn, unrelenting internet.

My job, which consists of a lot of alone time behind the wheel (wait, is Jimmy a tire fixer?!?!), wasn’t great for these few weeks. For me, alone time means imagination time and, normally, that equates to daydreams centered around “what if I had REALLY dedicated myself to golf when I was younger? Could I have been pro by now?” Imagination time, alone in the car, is when I get to picture my life being WAY better than it is now: cooler car, better hair, bigger bank account…maybe less insecurities? But for these weeks, “imagination time” morphed into me thinking about how lucky I am to have the life I do with The VP of Ops and how scary and SUCKY any other life would be for me.

“Game of Thrones” helped. Remember when I wrote about how we had gotten into that show? THIS IS WHY! I knew we needed a HIGHLY engrossing show to distract the both of us from the upcoming biopsy, so it was time to dive into the world of dragons and war and….like, a lot of nudity. (Quick aside: anyone else get a little uncomfortable watching all the sex scenes in “Game of Thrones” with your significant other? We’re not prudes, but I feel like I’m back in high school watching these scenes next to The VP. Sometimes, during the middle of one of these RACY scenes, I’ll catch her looking at me out of the corner of my eye and I’ll just blurt out “NOTHING! I JUST CARRY THIS TEXTBOOK WITH ME BECAUSE I LIKE READING IT SOMETIMES! NOTHING!”) Between Khalisi and Drago and Ned Stark and Joffrey (WHAT A DICK!) and allowing ourselves that extra glass of wine or scotch; we were somewhat able to distract ourselves.

When the day of the biopsy finally arrived, we had settled into a new normalcy of drinking a little too much and staying up a little too late watching “GOT”. Not knowing what was going on with The VPs lumperoni was normal, and somehow after 3 weeks, the not knowing had become somewhat comforting. If you don’t know something bad is going on, then maybe nothing bad is going on? I went into coach-mode throughout, giving her pep talks that I believed 1000%…and then I would call my Mom for a similar pep talk directed at me. The power of positive thinking was always something I sneered at as a sarcastic college kid. Then my mom got sick and all she asked was that we surround her with positivity. It fucking works, guys.

On the way to the hospital on biopsy day, The VP was nervous. There were tears the night before. She blamed the tears on a fear of needles. Belle and I did our best to give her hugs and calm her down. It wasn’t panic on her part; it was more of a plea to any higher power that may be listening her desire to go back to living a normal, underpaid but well-loved life. I take it back, not knowing was never normal; it was awful. How the hell was The VP having to stare cancer in the face when she has never had a cigarette or chewing tobacco or…worked in a coal mine? It should be me: the guy who smoked through college, but justified it by “only doing it when I drink”…only to move on to chewing tobacco, but justifying by “only doing it when I golf…or am with friends…or am away from The VP.” ‘God Damn It’ is a term I thought of a lot in these few weeks and then immediately apologized for because we needed all the help we could get. Religion and believing in things that are bigger than you are easy targets for humor, I get it; I’ve done it. But when the chips are down, you’re fuckin’ right I’m talking to someone that I pray has more say than I do. I talked to God and my dead Grandma every single one of those 22 days; never more than I did while in the waiting room later that morning.

They came to take The VP into the back right when we got there. Let’s rip this band-aid off. I told her that she wouldn’t feel a thing and reminded her that all of the awful things she had been through up until now prove that she is tougher than she gives herself credit for. There was the time she broke her leg and the time she got mugged and the time she split her ankle open and the time she moved to a completely new city without a job and made an entire life for herself. She could handle a big, dumb needle to the boob. Then she went in back and I started talking to people in my head.

I made deals in my head about things I would never do again and other things I would stop putting off. If these were true negotiations; I wouldn’t have said no to anything if it meant this biopsy didn’t hurt the way The VP feared it might. (Thankfully, God didn’t ask for my flat screen television…) “The Price is Right” wasn’t on this time; instead, I was treated to “The Today Show” on the waiting room TV. Granted, I wasn’t in the best of mindspace at this point, but that Hoda lady is insufferable. Can’t we just put videos of animals doing cute things on waiting room televisions? I went back to the scary world wide web in hopes of finding stories where biopsies felt good and always came back showing no signs of cancer. (Thanks for nothing, internet.)

The VP of Ops bopped out from the back about 45 minutes later with big eyes and a bigger smile. The biopsy didn’t hurt! They didn’t have immediate results, though. We’d have to wait another “1 to 2 days” for them to call her with the results. More waiting was okay because you celebrate small steps when dealing with health issues. She had gotten through a big, hollow needle in the boob with a smile on her face. Time to go celebrate with pancakes (she actually got quinoa cakes for breakfast, but “celebrating with pancakes” sounded better than “celebrating with quinoa cakes.”)

She chilled at home for the rest of the day and I went back to work. Neither of us had told anyone what was going on this entire month aside from our parents. I definitely wanted to, but “I’m scared my wife may have breast cancer” is a tough conversation starter. We had another 1 to 2 days of keeping this secret before it would either go away or become another scarier thing entirely. We stayed up REAL late that night watching “GOT”.

We both went to work the next day not knowing when “the call” would come. I was in charge of training a new employee and The VP was to manage an admin staff and book flights for bosses because booking your own flight is too fucking stressful for some people apparently. I imagined her listening to higher-ups complain about how stressful their travel schedules had been that day and got angry at my desk just thinking about it. I may have planned exactly what I’d say to these people the next time I got to see them. You could say I was handling this stress AGGRESSIVELY.

At exactly 1:25 PM, The VP called to say that her doctor had just given her “good news.” No cancer.

So we got to go back to breathing again. I let out the most heartfelt “FUCK YEAH!” I’ve ever said and my eyes welled up. She giggled a little because I guess you can’t yell “Fuck Yeah” when you work in a tall office building. I told her how proud of her I was, and am, and we talked about the power of positive thinking and the AMAZING PEOPLE THAT WORK IN HOSPITALS. Holy crap, those people are a higher breed than human. The VP will have surgery to get the lumperooski removed and that won’t be the most fun time ever, but she’ll be fine. And we’re thrilled to go back to living our normal, boring, well-loved lives.

I’m sorry I didn’t write last week; this was why. And I meant to post this yesterday, but it ran long and I wanted to make sure I wrote it the way I wanted to.

I wanted to write this because when we were in the midst of waiting and being scared and getting trapped in the panic room of “imagination time,” I would search the internet looking for an uplifting story. Maybe this can be that for some people. The whole thing sucked because stress stinks and hospitals are scary. But, I got to see my wife act like a brave, grown woman in the face of an adversity that would bring me to secret tears in public bathrooms. She bit her lip, nodded and carried on. I got to see this with my Mom during her two bouts with cancer, and it’s the absolute most inspiring thing you can ever see. As much as it sucks to be going through, getting to see understated, everyday courage in those closest to you is amazing. It deepened my love and appreciation for my Mom and it has done the same now for my wife.

Someday, this big scary world wide web will allow our kids to read about how their Dad wanted to cry when he saw a roach and how their Mom laughed after a biopsy. And I couldn’t look more forward to being outed as the wimp in our boring, too-small, but well-loved home.

I love you Erin.

Sleeping W/Out AC and Chicago Renters Pt. II (5/2/2018)

MY WORLD:

If you are looking for a way to guarantee waking up in an AWFUL mood, I would suggest breaking your air conditioning unit on the first hot day of the year and trying to sleep when it’s 80 degrees in your apartment. Thankfully, I, personally, don’t have to break my air conditioning unit because The VP and I are lucky enough to rent an apartment that SUPPLIES malfunctioning units without us even having to ask for it! It’s almost as if the landlord read our minds when we signed our lease “I bet these two LOVE when the AC doesn’t work and they get to break a sweat while lying in a bed…oh, have I got a surprise for them!” Well done on keeping that surprise a secret for 8 months!

Honestly, it’s hard to overcome a shitty night of tossing and turning in your own sweat. I got up at like 3AM just to stand in front of my open refrigerator. And you know what makes me feel even softer, is that it wasn’t THAT hot outside. Unfortunately, we cooked last night (resourceful adults, whatever) and used our oven. It was only after dinner when we realized that the AC wasn’t working. So we basically hotboxed ourselves/turned our apartment into a makeshift sauna (hotbox is a weed smoking term that I have never done but it sounds SCARY!) Let me be the first to warn you guys, cranking your oven up on a hot night and turning your 1 bedroom apartment into a homemade sauna is NOT going to relax your muscles.

Then, as if it wasn’t bad enough on us, our numba one pretty gurrrrllll was panting because she’s overdue for a summer cut because we’ve been lazy dog parents lately; so I felt hot AND guilty. If Belle could read this, I feel like she’d roll her eyes and say something along the lines of “YOU were hot? Try wearing a full-body fur suit and only getting to cool of with room temperature water in a dirty bowl. Pussy.” (She would be correct.) I will say that last night, I put some ice cubes in her water bowl and felt like the hero she deserved; she took sips and huffed out a very sarcastic sounding “woof.” So now my dog and I are in a fight.

Then comes the part where I let my building know (are you bored with this yet? Yeah? I don’t care, this is somewhat cathartic for me so just leave. You wanna leave?!?! WHO’S STOPPING YOU?!?!? GOD I’M IN A MOOD!) Where was I? (Thanks for interrupting!) Right, so then comes the part where I let my building know and I get to hear back from like 7 different guys who must ALL have degrees in “Trying To Hide The Fact That I Have No Idea When The HVAC Guy Is Coming.” Then. THEN! When they do actually get here, I have to lock Belle in our bedroom and convince the HVAC repair people that she’s not able to bulldoze through the door to maul them because she sounds like a PSYCHOKILLER LUNATIC! I’ll make some “doesn’t she sound sweet?” jokes, but they won’t really laugh because hearing what sounds like your maker on the other side of a thin bedroom door does not create a fun-loving atmosphere. And you know they’re not going to be able to fix it the first time they’re hear, so The VP and I are looking at 2 more nights MINIMUM of trying to sleep in our own sweat. Isn’t that just GREAT?!?!

Knowing me, I’m going to convince myself that this awful night sleep that I got is a valid excuse to eat something really shitty for lunch; an effort to make myself feel better in the short term. This will, undoubtedly, lead to me feeling extra tight in my new J.Crew jeans and hating myself for the rest of the afternoon. Optimism is at an all-time low in the Pomerantz household right now. (If you can’t tell, one of my strong suits is staying composed in adverse situations.)

OUR WORLD:

Today’s Part II of “The Life of a Chicago Renter” may have a slight edge to it based on my current mental state (re: My World). I just wanted to put that on the record because…nobody cares about the record and whenever anyone says that it’s basically an excuse to act however you want. Right? It’s the same as saying “That being said…” and along the same lines as “No offense, but…”

Wicker Park/Bucktown/Logan Square: (Age 28-32)

I like to refer to this as the “I’m not a hipster, but if I live near them I may get hit with some of their street-cred shrapnel”-phase. You start to become more interested in drinking things other than beer and vodka sodas, and you’re DONE living in places with window-units and no dishwasher. These west-side HOT SPOTS have exploded in popularity over the past decade, which means what? GRANITE COUNTERTOPS Y’ALL!!! And in-unit washer/dryers, dishwashers and fancy modern sinks. A big bowl sink feels like luxury when you’re used to decades worth of Heineken stains in your old-timey sink with the faucet that pops off.

There are more dog parks, so now is the PERFECT time to get a doogenstein and join the “I’m sorry, she was adopted”-crew. Side note: whether you actually adopted your dog or not, the perfect excuse for a poorly behaved dog is to drop a “yeah, she was adopted” in there. Immediately, you’re a selfless hero and your doogensteeglestein is a victim of a rough upbringing. Once in Wicker/Buck/Logan, you’re surrounded by young families, dogs and people that aren’t quite done partying, but do it in a way that it’s not SO obviously destructive. They’re professionals by this point, which is why brunch becomes SUCH deal. Nothing like hiding binge drinking with eggs and toast; it’s not destructive or a “problem” if it’s done in the light at a breakfast table. Remember that.

Then there’s the hipster versus bro civil war that has been simmering for the past 5 years as the bros have infiltrated hipster-land. What’ll probably happen with you, is what happened with me; you’ll claim allegiance to the bro side of the war when you’re around your bro-ier friends, and then you’ll claim allegiance to the hipster side of the war when you’re around your hipster-ier friends. No shame in playing both sides here because both sides kinda stink equally. It’s also fun to sit in restaurants and bars and see the two sides glaring at each other from across the bar. The hipsters say things like “wow, sweet khakis bro” and the bros say things like “wow, sweet fingerless gloves pal”. It’s a duel totally devoid of actual wit, that’s easy to identify and fun to watch.

Ukrainian Village/River West/West Town/West Loop: (Age 32-DEATH)

I’m 32 now and I live in Ukrainian Village. That’s really all the experience I have so…I assume I’ll just stay here till I die, right?

Good section, Jimmy!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I need some good-times music to help make me feel better about the whole AC sitch. SING TO ME STEVE!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Being in a bad mood for a reason so slight that anyone going through anything that’s ACTUALLY difficult would hate you.

MY BOVADA PICK OF THE DAY THAT I AM GENUINELY CONFIDENT IN BECAUSE I DESERVE GOOD THINGS TO HAPPEN TO ME AFTER GETTING REAR-ENDED BY A GUY WITHOUT A LICENSE:

I talked my gambling crew out of taking the Pelicans last night because I was POSITIVE the Warriors would blow them out with Steph Curry returning. It seems, in the face of all the evidence I had, I have yet to crack the NBA code. Back to the drawing board, but I’m like that little kid in the deep end who’s about to panic that they’re drowning. Give me some fucking waterwings or something here! The Jazz are 11 point underdogs tonight and, they have more pride than that. Right? So much pride to take them on the moneyline? YUP!

(My account currently at $88.07)

K bye.