Tag: humor

The Clubs I Would Like Entry Into

MY WORLD:

Mike Jones is a Houston rapper who rapped something about saying “Mike Jones? Who?” years ago and there are people my age joking about people who don’t know who Mike Jones is.  Confused?  If so, you better be careful, or you’ll end up like I did–sitting in a car laughing nervously about this “joke” while praying that the other people in the car didn’t turnaround and go “please explain this Mike Jones joke to the class, Jimmy!!!”  I have no idea who Mike Jones is, still, but the people who do know who he is sounded very cool and current and alternative and COOL!  So like, can I become one of those people?  Can I become a “I know about cool rap stuff”-guy?

There are little groups bonded around things I don’t know about, that I’m jealous of.  If you think that jealousy ends when you graduate from High School, try spending a weekend around people who know about things like Mike Jones and it’ll take you right back (tell them the story about how you used to hide in the library and eat your lunch!  That’s a fun one!)  While sitting in the back of a car resisting the urge to say “this Mike Jones character sure sounds spunky!” I started thinking about things, activities, and topics that I, as a 34 year old MAN, think I would like to get into at some point (unless I’m like not allowed to because that group is already full and they just can’t fit one more person into it.  I mean, it’s fine, I don’t even really care.  I was actually not even really interested to begin with, so it’s like, whatever.  Okay…I’m gonna go back to the library now!)

Here is the Jimmyschair list of “Things I Think I’d Like to Get Into Maybe?  If it’s cool?  If it’s not cool, though, that’s fine.  I’m just like, chill, whatever.  That hat is really cool by the way.  So we’ll talk later?  Or not.  Whatever.”:

HIKING:

Did hiking exist before Instagram?  One of nature’s great unknowns, huh?  It feels like a large group of the people I follow on THE GRAM (make sure you keep saying cool slang like that so people know you’re not a cop!) got together one morning and were like “alright, does everyone have their big backpack, short shorts, and sporty brown hiking boots?  Nobody tell Jimmy about this!  DANIEL?  YOU DIDN’T TELL JIMMY ABOUT THE BIG COOL BACKPACK STORE DID YOU?!?!?! DANIEL!?!?!”  Then Daniel was all “I haven’t talked to Jimmy since the Mike Jones incident,” so the group started up the hill, taking beautiful pictures meant to clog my instagram feed and make me feel VERY EXCLUDED (maybe if your thighs weren’t so big, you’d be invited to the cool, tiny shorts store!)

I don’t even know what hiking really is.  Like, if I eat a Cliff Bar and then walk up a big hill in my old Brooks running shoes, did I just go hiking?  I’m pretty sure rocks have to be involved on some level, so what if part of that hill walk includes me going over a gravel driveway?  And the tiny tan shorts with a lot of pockets?  Those are necessary for a hike, right?  Like, if I wear my big white Indiana University mesh shorts while doing this uphill walk, it doesn’t count does it?  DAMNIT!

At some point over the past few years, I think a professional Hiking Judge saw me buy a Cliff Bar at a 7-11 and ruled that I was guilty of “buying a Cliff bar as a treat, and not for sustenance during an Instagram-worthy trek uphill,” before sentencing me to “not a legit hiker”-jail for life.  It was a tough sentence, but looking back, I understand.  Why was I buying a nearly 300 calorie bar when all I was just going to be sitting in traffic for the next hour on my way home?  Stern, but fair.

But is there any opportunity for parole?  I’d love to find my way out of “not a legit hiker”-jail, so I, too, could be in a picture while wearing a big backpack at the top of a beautiful hill.  What a feeling that must be!  (And the Instagram likes!  MY GOD, THE LIKES!!!)  I imagine once you’re accepted into this group, you get some really cool perks like getting to eat a Cliff Bar and not having the 300 calories count because your body knows that you’re a hiker and need that stuff to push through all the rocks you’re gonna have to awkwardly step on.

Dear REI Store Worker,

Next time I walk in, I promise to pretend to know what kind of boot I’m buying and to not ask “which one do you think looks cool, though?”  It’s all about utility, I get it.  Looks? Don’t even care.

SNEAKERS:

A good amount of my friends talk about online sneaker releases, secondary markets for sneakers they bought a few months ago, and the basketball shoes that some non-mega-star has coming out that are “amazing!”  I have no idea what they’re ever talking about, so I’ll throw in cheap jokes meant to throw them off my insecure scent.  “You guys see the new ‘Gary Levinson’s’?  No?  They’re the new Brooks running shoes for suburban dads who can’t really run anymore because of their knees.”  

BUT!  They sound pretty cool talking about the “New Kawhi’s” and the new “Paul George” shoes and…I don’t even know if I’m supposed to fucking call them shoes or sneakers.  I feel like a gym teacher from the 80s calling them sneakers, but then I swear I’ve heard a DJ on Hip Hop Radio Station use the word “sneakers” and sound cool so…What is it?!?! SHOES OR SNEAKERS?!?! GIVE ME A SIGN, GOD! GIVE ME A SIGN!

These guys are also able to pull off the new basketball sneaker/shoe with skinny jeans look, and that’s kinda unfair when I’m having a hard enough time pulling off the running shoe with relaxed jeans look (you’ve got the “suburban surrender”-look down pat!)  Whenever I’m around someone NAILING this look, all I can think about is “aren’t you scared of getting those dirty?  And how have they not gotten ONE SPEC OF DIRT ON THEM?!?! DO YOU HAVE SOMEONE FOLLOWING YOU AROUND WIPING YOUR SHOES WITH DISINFECTANT WIPES!?!?!”  Also, do you play basketball in those shoes too?  Or is that like a lame thing to do?  I’m pretty sure there is one set of basketball shoes meant for skinny jeans, and then another set of basketball shoes meant for…actually playing basketball, and if you mix the two up, you’re kicked out of the sneaker guy club forever.

Last time I played basketball, I wore Brooks.

SCARY MOVIES:

I’m just tired of feeling the compulsion to blurt out “they give me nightmares” anytime the topic of scary movies comes up around me.  It’s not a cool look.  I’m also pretty sure that the people around me are annoyed that they can’t talk about some make-believe monsters because the 34 year old dude next to them, wearing Brooks and a small backpack, will get scared when he goes seepy at night if they do.  (Here’s an idea: quit being a fucking baby, Jimmy!)

So can I just decide to stop being a baby?  Is there a pill I can take that will cause me to enjoy scenes where teenagers get stabbed by a guy wearing a mask at a cabin in the woods?  The people that seem to really enjoy scary movies, REALLY FUCKING ENJOY SCARY MOVIES AND LOVE TALKING ABOUT THEM!  Hey guys, I love talking about stuff!  Being able to talk about brutal murders while smiling also connotes a brand of “bad-assery” that I wouldn’t mind being a part of.  It’s a high-wire act between bad-assery and “hey, do you think Eric liked that torture scene a little too much?”  Once you master it, you’ll be as cool as Nick Wallenda walking in between skyscrapers (minus the weird family stuff going on there…)

There has to be an age you reach, where you’re just like “I pay bills and talk about politics with relatives, I can watch ‘Scream’ without softly whimpering into my pillow later.  Is that age 34? CAN IT PLEASE BE 34?!?!

OUR WORLD:

I’m going on an impromptu, not-fun road trip to Kentucky today and so, of course, I will be allowed to cheat on my diet because road trip calories don’t count.  Here are the Top 10 “Road Trip Treats”:

  1. Gardetto’s Snack Mix
  2. McDonald’s breakfast
  3. BBQ Pringles
  4. Chick-Fil-A waffle fries with Chick-Fil-A sauce
  5. Teriyaki Beef Jerky
  6. Honey roasted peanuts
  7. Gummy worms
  8. White chocolate and macadamia nut Cliff Bar
  9. Diet Mountain Dew
  10. 7-11 Coke Slushy

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you get that feeling in the back of your throat that means you’re about to get sick, but you’re not TOTALLY sick yet.  It’s like walking around with a bomb strapped to your chest AND YOU CAN’T GET THAT TICKING SOUND OUT OF YOUR HEAD!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I don’t know this person, but…

cheering young woman hiker open arms at mountain peak

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I’m at $0 right now and feeling lost.  I want to gamble on something but I’m tired of baseball and I think I’m really bad at this thing.  But…what if I’m not?  What if I just need to…yep….STAY THE FUCKING COURSE!!!

K, bye.

 

COMMERCIALS ARE THREATENING OUR LIVES!!!

OUR WORLD:

When did television decide that 98.91% of all commercials should serve to scare the ever-loving shit out of the viewers?  I was watching the boob tube (cool guy term for “television”) with my Dad last night and a commercial came on featuring a home video of a guy singing karaoke.  Immediately, I knew this guy died.  How did I know that? (Because…YOU KILLED HIM AND HAVE BEEN CARRYING A HEAVY CONSCIENCE EVER SINCE BUT IT’S TOO LATE TO CONFESS NOW, SO YOU’VE DECIDED YOU WILL BE BURIED WITH THIS SECRET!!!) No, I knew this guy died because the stakes in so many commercials have been raised so high that if you don’t do the thing that said-company wants you to do, then the penalty is death.

Yes, they’re normally for good causes.  It’s not like “Hey, if you don’t use these Clorox Anti-Bacterial wipes, we’re going to have you put on our secret serial killer’s ‘who’s next?’ list.”  It’s ads like this one where Joe BlueCollar is singing karaoke until the screen goes black and we read that “This is Joe B.”—more singing, then black again, “And he was struck by a car and killed in a work zone.”  I think it was like the Illinois Department of Transportation trying to get people to drive more cautiously around work zones.  Listen, I, too, am against innocent road construction guys getting murdered by cars but…does that mean I was pro-car-murder before seeing this ad?  And that’s not even the point, I know, because it raises awareness subconsciously and blah blah blah.  I KNOW!  But, I’m trying to make a joke about how fat I’ve gotten to my Dad, in between innings of a Cubs game, and now I feel like a dick for using this poor guy’s eulogy as the soundtrack to my “boy, is my tummy big”-bit.

Now, if this were some rogue “let’s make the viewers think about death in a jarringly real manner”-ad, then maybe I’d have more tolerance.  But no, it was followed by a commercial starring a smoker in a hospital bed, with a hole in her neck talking about how she regrets ever starting smoking.  After that, while praying for some lightness with one of those fucking “can you hear me now?” spots, you’re uppercut with a ‘Cancer Centers for America’ commercial telling you that they’re “here for you” when that stupid fucking disease knocks on your door.  WHAT THE FUCK EVER HAPPENED TO THE BOWLING CAVEMEN TALKING ABOUT INSURANCE?!?!

Again, these are all great causes; that is impossible to dispute.  But, are we not allowed to just…I don’t know, escape the real world for a couple hours at the end of the day?  It’s not like I was tuned in to the “Get Ready To Be Freaked-The-Fuck-Out About Everything In The World”-channel (GRTBFTFOAEITW isn’t quite as catchy as NBC).  Can there be an option put into our televisions that allow us to opt-out of these incredibly heavy commercials that make us think about the very things we’re trying to forget for a few hours before we go to sleep?  (Hey Zenith, want to become a relevant television company again?  INVENT THIS!)

You know where I don’t see all of these “careful, an invisible murderer with a big, sharp knife is under your bed”-commercials?  Instagram.  Facebook.  Twitter.  Maybe that’s why we all find ourselves staring at those screens instead of our televisions?  Sure, it’s easy to make fun of Big Brother and those personalized ads, but wouldn’t you prefer seeing an ad for a watch you were talking about 6 seconds prior to seeing an ad reminding you that jumping off a tall building without a parachute usually results in death?  Tapping into my phone’s microphone > Tapping into my worst fears.

MY WORLD:

The VP and I are moving for the six-bajillionth time in a couple weeks and I’m already regretting it.  A few months back, it rained really hard in Chicago and the window frame in our living room started leaking like crazy.  Brown water came through and ruined some shit we really don’t care about, but, when it happened, we both acted like that water landed on our life savings and then burst into flames.  We sent picture texts to each other of stained curtains and lamp shades and side tables like “HOW WILL WE EVER PROCEED WITHOUT OUR BLUE CURTAINS?!?!”  It was all dramatic and we probably got wrapped up in the moment because it’s really exciting when you’re presented with a legitimate opportunity to get mad at someone other than yourself.

So I got really mad at our buildings management company.  I demanded being reimbursed for damages and when they pushed back in the slightest, I lost my brain and threatened legal action.  (The only thing I know about legal action is that you “threaten” it when you’re really, really pissed off and don’t know what else you can say to back up your argument.)  At the time, I’m sure our 39 year old building manager read my e-mails like “do they think I ordered God to send the worst rainstorm in Chicago history?  They’re aware they rent a dumpy apartment in a mediocre neighborhood, right?”

The VP and I continued along with our misdirected-anger rampage until we reached the very measured, logical conclusion that the best way to exact revenge on our management company was to move out at the end of our lease in July.  (Good luck finding tenants who never clean the inside of the oven and have a dog that tries to bite neighbors!!!  THAT’LL SHOW EM!)  Our management company probably held a company-wide champagne toast when we notified them we were bailing.  While mid-level employees that we’ve never met were getting champagne-drunk on some random Tuesday, The VP and I were busy patting ourselves on the back for standing on principle and volunteering to do one of the most stressful things someone can do: move.

Since we made this principled decision, in between shaking hands at the rallies held in honor of our courageous stance, we’ve found other “back up” reasons for why we had to move.  These included things like: needing to be walking distance to a Dunkin Donuts; needing to have an office that allows us to escape each other under the guise of having to “work”; and, cuz.  A comprehensive list it was, tough to argue with the logic there.

So I picked out all of the other neighborhoods we’d prefer living in, looked at Zillow and Craigslist on my phone until my eyes stung, and….quickly realized that we couldn’t afford to live in any of those other neighborhoods.  (Um….management company? ‘Member all that stuff I was threatening?  That was just like a goofy laugh-joke.  Hahahahahahahahaha help me I’m in too deep now.)  It was too late, so I checked out an apartment about 6 blocks from our current place, walked through it one time without paying all that much attention and said “clean wall! shiny floor! sign lease!”  (Master Negotiator Jimmy up to his old tricks!)

Two nights ago, we got the keys to our new place and walked through it with our still-not-calm dog.  It’s a fine apartment, that’s bigger than our current spot, but I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t go home after, think about the reality of moving, look into the mirror and dramatically whisper “what have we done?”  Since maybe sharing my anxiety will help me cope with it, here is what I’m MOST not looking forward to with regards to this move:

  • Talking to Comcast for no less than 9 hours and, somehow, ending up with a cable/internet package that costs exactly the same as the one we have now.
  • Doing the whole “I know I’m never going to wear this again, but I’m still going to pack it because this moving box is closer than my garbage”-thing.
  • The VP sending me an endless stream of texts about new couches that she wants to get and then ignoring my texts asking her “have you Venmo’d me your share of next month’s rent, yet?”
  • Having Belle snap at our new downstairs neighbors and me trying to laugh it off while saying “she’s such a fake tough-guy!”
  • Trying to assuage the guilt I’ll feel watching movers by offering them Gatorade…then realizing that the Gatorade I just bought for them was off the shelf, and not from a cooler, so I’m handing them room temperature Gatorade and they’re pretending to be grateful.

I can’t wait.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Still, the “Most Annoying Commercial of All-Time” GOAT

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

My all-time favorite commercial

WAIT, SO YOU DO STILL GAMBLE, RIGHT?

Yes, and I need to pick out my British Open winners soon SO LAY OFF!

K, bye.

 

 

FEAR #1 ABOUT HAVING A BABY

MY WORLD:

For the past two years, whenever a friend of ours or someone we know (who has not EARNED our friendship yet!) announced that they’re having a baby, the VP and I would look at each other with the “but we’re still having so much fun doing whatever we want!”-face.  Now, while we can’t do WHATEVER we want (laws are like so dumb omg) we have really enjoyed each other and the freedom we have.  The whole making-sure-a-tiny-human-stays-alive responsibility hasn’t been exactly something The VP and I have been itching for.  “Babe, I know this trip to Ireland is fun, but what if…now hear me out…instead, we were at home pretending like we didn’t want to cry while dealing with a screaming newborn?”  I can feel the parents reading this either snarling or relating to it so much that they’re feeling guilty, and let me tell you, I’M DOING BOTH NOW!

I guess when you get older your priorities change and whatever this is dumb, I think we want a kid now.  Why? I don’t know, and I’m not asking for all of the new parents around my life to text me about how rewarding it is.  I’m sure that it is, but, for me, hearing a new parent talk to you about how their life has changed with a kid is like hearing fireman talk about rescuing a family from a burning building, “yeah, sounds hot and scary!”

I think The VP and I are ready to care about  another person as much as we care about each other.  That’s fun, right? Like, caring about someone?  (*If I was a Cowboy, I’d definitely say something like: “I only care about the whiskey in my flask and the open road..”  I’m not a cowboy.)  But while caring about someone or something (my chair!) is fun, it is also really really scary (what if my chair breaks?!?!)  So as the VP and I begin to attempt to maybe, sorta’, kinda’ start a ChairFamily, I’m going to start writing about some things I’m scared about related to this whole “having a kid”-thing.

Here’s the first:

The VP, and most of our friends, being proven right that we HAVE to spend a lot of money on a stroller.

First off, there’s a difference between being cheap and just being…ya’ know, not rich.  We fall into the second category (AND THAT’S OKAY!).  Like, when we go shopping for wine, we’re not buying the big “Jug O Grapey Alcohol” on the bottom shelf, but we’re also not buying the bottle that “needs to be properly cellared”.  So in the initial discussions The VP and I have had about important baby things (toys!) I already feel a LARGE gap between what I think is a reasonable amount to spend on a stroller and what she feels is a reasonable amount to spend on a stroller.  No, we haven’t written numbers on folded pieces of paper and slid them across our negotiating table, but she has dropped a few “when it comes to a stroller, we cannot skimp”s on me.  Guess what babayyy?!?! I THINK WE CAN!

It’s a goddamn seat on wheels that will NEVER go over the speed of 1.6 MPH or down the side of a mountain.  We’re not in a Jeep commercial, we’re in a developed city with sidewalks–I’m pretty sure that the same stroller that my parents used with me would work JUST FINE.  And I’m also pretty sure that, that stroller is still somewhere in the depths of my parents’ house, so…guess what?  FREE STROLLER BABAYYYYY!!!!

And this is where my fear comes in because I’ll die on this hill…AND I DON’T WANNA DIE!  What if I somehow, someway make it through countless fights with The VP where she says stuff like “you’re cheating out on our first child’s safety!” and I’m all “trust me,” and then…it happens.  I’m pushing our 1985 stroller down Division St. on a cool, late September, Saturday morning.  The VP is wearing a hoodie and we’re debating what bullshit, hipster coffee place we should get ripped off from this week.  Little BabyChair is drooling in his vintage stroller, but not crying, so we’re not going to touch him.  Then, as we turn the corner, I feel a little rattle from the front, right wheel.  I don’t move my head, but I do dart my eyes to see if The VP saw anything…she didn’t, it’s fine, it’s fine.  “Stroller just had a little cough, probably allergic to the autumn leaves! Nothing to worry about!”  So I keep pushing until I momentarily forget about that rattle.  Unfortunately, as we approach the “$37 Latte Store,” I don’t see the slight crack in the sidewalk…

The front wheel of our Prince-era stroller plunges into the 3-inch-deep crevice, making a slamming noise that sounds like a T-Rex footstep. The VP’s mean eyes shoot down RIGHT AS THE WHEEL EXPLODES, sending a little rubber shards screaming towards her already-pissed off face.  BabyChair is screaming, but like, still sitting because we were walking very slowly.  That is, until The VP loses her balance, on account of the rubber shards barrage, and steps on the back wheel of our very delicate stroller.  Not having lost the baby weight yet, The VP’s misstep OBLITERATES the back wheel, and sends BabyChair flipping through the air towards the front door of the “You Should Really Try Almond Milk, Latte Store”.  As the VP tumbled toward the sidewalk, I am faced with a choice…and I choose my seed.

Thankfully, my ankle has recovered enough by this time, that I’m able to lunge over the stroller wreckage in time to catch BabyChair, twist mid-air and land on my back.  BabyChair, cradled gently yet securely in my arms, would land on my chest and think that he was just put down in bed without ever knowing the full catastrophe his supremely athletic father just disrupted.  And then I would look up from the ground, as a crowd of people tried their best to upload my heroism to the “Amazing Dads Doing Amazing Things” instagram account, The VP would rise.  Brushing the wrecked shards of sidewalk from her back, she would step over me and look down.  Imagine lying on your back and being straddled by a Killer Whale who, somehow, has legs and can walk on land.  That’s me, here, now.

“I told you we needed the $14,000 stroller,” the SeaLand Creature will bellow.

Next thing I know, I’m sipping a $37 latte while in the “Stroller Section” at a Tesla dealership.

OUR WORLD:

People are still setting off fireworks around Chicago.  Was your Monday night THAT great?  Really?  How long do the people that have leftover fireworks get to set them off before someone with a bazooka is allowed to fire a missile into their living room?  Fireworks set off by cities and communities between July 2 and July 5 are cool and fun and whatever.  Fireworks set off by women named “Terry” between July 6 and the rest of the year are obnoxious and scary.  One day, I hope all of the dogs in the world band together to find and harm all of the women named “Terry” setting off fireworks after July 6.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The selection of movies in theaters right now.  WOOF TIMES A BILLION!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Heard this song yesterday and lurvvvved it.

I STILL GAMBLE, YES, BUT THERE’S NOTHING INTERESTING GOING ON WITH MY ACCOUNT RIGHT NOW, SO I’M NOT GOING TO WRITE ABOUT IT:

That about says it all.

K, bye.

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.

HOT CHICAGO RESTAURANT REVIEW #1

OUR WORLD: 

You know those restaurants that you hear about, for what seems like years, that you always tell yourself “I gotta check that place out!”?  I’ve gone to some of those recently and I want to tell you about them in a very honest, borderline dumb, way.  If, like me, you hate Yelp because you used to work in restaurants, I’m here to offer some guidance for the HOT Chicago Restaurant Scene.  Whenever I ask my friends about a restaurant, I’m not looking for a poetic, Bourdain-like breakdown of flavors and the social injustices that went into creating the circumstances necessary for said restaurant to thrive.  I’m basically looking for a caveman-esque answer to “Eat there? Should I?”    I give you the first Jimmyschair “Hot Chicago Restaurant Review for Cavemen”

Au Cheval:

You’re going to wait.  This is the number one issue I hear from people who have been here and want to be Johnny Contrarian by talking about something other than the show-stopper burger.  Why complain about something you KNOW is going to happen?  Do you complain about getting wet when you take a shower?  “I had to wait 3 hours!  For a burger!”  Okay…and hasn’t everyone you’ve EVER talked to about Au Cheval told you about the wait?  If the answer is ‘no’, you’re either lying or from planet ‘Yeah-Probably-Just-Lying’.  Either way, that excuse doesn’t fly anymore because I’m outing all of you “I had to wait!”-crybabies.  If you don’t want to wait, go to a shitty restaurant that nobody wants to go to.  Problem solved.  If you want to eat the best burger you’re ever going to have?  Grow up, shut up, and have a few pops after putting your name in at Au Cheval.

Here’s an overlooked positive to SURVIVING the wait at Au Cheval: you’ll get to tell your friends a dramatic tale of enduring hours spent sitting and drinking beers next door before getting in.  If you’re looking for a way to jump into your story of heroism, feel free to steal this starter: “Technically, I was never in the military, but…”  By the time you get that magical “your table is ready” text from the Au Cheval host, you’ll have a comfy buzz and a new chapter for your memoir, entitled: “Overcoming Adversity.”

Once inside, you’re in a comfortable diner that is more effortlessly cool.  The servers know their shit and are nicer than the gatekeeper hosts and hostesses–probably because they’re tipped more.  Also, when 94% of your customers are just going to order a burger, how hard is it?  (I say this as a former-server, which means I’m allowed to say this.  If you haven’t served before you are never allowed to critique servers.  EVER.)  It’s dark enough in there to hide how fat you’re going to feel after the meal, and lit in a way that will disguise your double chin with shadows.  It’s a magic trick that adds to the experience; a burger place that protects you from the shame associated with eating a burger and fries.  WHAT A CONCEPT!

Are there other things on the menu?  Sure, but who gives a shit?  You’re going here for the burger.  Oh, the drinks!  I heard they have craft beer!  Yeah, they do and I love beer, but that’s not why you’re here so don’t fill up on anything other than the burger.  (This is a concept I’m just coming around to in my early-30s.  Drinking beer fills you up and, therefore, takes away from the enjoyment of the meal itself.  CALL ME JIMMY COLUMBUS AFTER THAT DISCOVERY!) Get the single with the egg on it.  I think the double is too much, and the bacon distracts from how amazing the burger is by itself.  You’ve had good bacon before, you haven’t had a burger like this.  I don’t care about overhyping it or whatever excuse you want to find to sound different after eating here.  It’s the best burger I have ever had.    And the fries?  They come with a garlic aioli dipping sauce that you’ll think about leaving    your wife for.  “Honey, I’ve realized that you can never make me as happy as the garlicky dipping sauce at Au Cheval.  It’s okay, you can take the kids.”

I don’t remember or care if they have dessert.  Probably.  Whatever, you’re so euphoric after the burger and fries that you just want to go home so you can go to sleep and dream about the meal you just had.  The only thing that makes it better is when you see the check.  Look, it’s not cheap for a “burger place,” but not all burger place’s are created equal.  I compare the feeling after eating here to the impressed feeling I get after eating at a fancy steakhouse.   Unfortunately, that steakhouse feeling is quickly murdered by the   steakhouse check–“do you offer payment plans?”  Here, the check is manageable enough that you can pay for you and your wife without secretly hating her for the rest of the night.

CAVEMAN REVIEW = Food good.  Price good.  You happy.  Go.

MY WORLD:

So I’ve gotten fat again.  It has been a slow process, but I did it.  I’d like to credit my late-summer sprained ankle for giving me the excuse I needed to not work out.  When I did get back into “working out,” I made the decision that running is really hard and so I was gonna not do that.  The way I framed this decision, however, was more “I’m going to start lifting.”  My thinking was that if I could make my shoulders and arms big enough, it would make my growing stomach look smaller in relation.  What I didn’t account for, stupidly, is that bigger arms don’t mask a puffier face.  AND!  I’m not secure or rich enough to buy all new clothes.  Unfortunately, when you get bigger, your clothes get tighter.  It’s actually bullshit, if you ask me.

Now I’ve gotta do the thing where I run more and eat less.  IT’S NOT FAIR!  I hopped on the treadmill last night and wanted to stop after three seconds when I saw a fat dude next to me going into mile 6.  Not working for him!  Running sucks, no question.  But, you know what sucks more?  Worrying that your thighs are going to explode through the legs of your pants while at work.  (That was me, yesterday.)  Or, when you’re sitting with friends at a bar and you’re wondering if you can unbutton your pants without anyone noticing.  It’s a tricky maneuver that risks looking like you’re playing with yourself in public.  Have I pulled it off before?  Of course, but then I was faced with the fear of having to get up with the possibility that my pants could totally unzip and fall down.  Was this an event on “Fear Factor”?

Anyway, I’m gonna eat like a lame for a while now and get back into running.  Great, can’t wait for my legs to hurt every morning.  Shocked that I got fat after reading me write about about how I’ve thought about leaving my wife for garlic aioli?  ME TOO!  Last night I ran and didn’t have a beer, though, so I may be thin again.  I’ll keep you posted.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The first two episodes of the new “True Detective”!!!  Mahershala Ali is putting on an acting performance for the ages (if you’re watching it, you get that ‘pun’, right?  Yeah, I’m proud of it.)

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

“The Bachelor” and “Vanderpump Rules” are off to very ‘meh’ starts this year.  I’m still watching kinda’, but I’m close to bailing.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I zeroed out my account last weekend.  Betting against the Patriots at home was something that I regretted the second I made the bet.  It was also really fun that Andrew Luck showed up with a dead arm in Kansas City.  Thanks guys!

(My account is currently at $0.00)

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.

I’m Not Exercising, but It’s Not My Fault

*Quick disclaimer: Remember when I wrote about how I was shot in the head by the Chicago Bears starting kicker?  That was like so so long ago that I can’t even remember it! Tehehehehe!  I just want you to know that I’m okay.  Unfortunately, due to doctor-patient legalese that I don’t want to bore you with, I can’t get into specifics like if I was actually shot in the head with a gun by Cody Parkey.  Just know that I’m going to be okay and I WOULD get into it, but I don’t want to be tied up in court cases for the foreseeable future.  Lawyers, amirite?!?!  

OUR WORLD:

For most of you, now is the time of year you’re getting back into shape, looking in the mirror and saying things like “this year’s gonna be different”, getting more serious about your career, and showing off all the new clothes you got for Christmas.  What a hopeful time!  But then, there are people like…well, me.  The kind of people who went to the gym yesterday, realized they forgot to pack gym shorts, and used that as a very very acceptable excuse to then go home without working out.  Do you live 2 blocks from the gym too?  Did you also then drink a beer while watching “The Bachelor” on DVR?!?! MY PEOPLE!

In an effort to help all of my fellow Chairmen out there (whoa, who wants to start a “Chairmen” fan club?!?!) I wanted to help you out with things you can watch and listen to while you’re at home and not at the gym but only because you forgot to pack your shorts.    Don’t worry, we all know had you packed your shorts, you’d be pounding that treadmill like all those try-hards clogging your Facebook feed with their #NewYearNewMe selifes.

THE JIMMYSCHAIR “DAMN, I FORGOT TO PACK MY GYM SHORTS, AND I CAN’T WORKOUT IN WORK PANTS, SO I’M HEARTBROKEN TO BE FORCED TO JUST GO HOME AND DO THIS INSTEAD” LIST 

WATCH THIS:  “Bodyguard” (Netflix Show)

The first half of the first episode of this show is, quite possibly, the most exciting first half of an episode of television I have ever seen.  Quite?  You know what, I’m gonna upgrade that to ‘VERY quite’.  Aside from looking to your significant other and saying things like “holy fucking butt!” you will find yourself wondering where the main dude is from.  He has one of those “I know you”-faces and it’ll take a minute.  Then your wife will look it up on IMDB, even though you ask her to “let me think about it,” and tell you that it’s the Game of Thrones guy!  The one that….?! YEAH! THAT ONE!

I know how hard it is to get into a new show these days, with all of the options out there, but this one has an easy litmus test.  If you watch the first 15 minutes and aren’t into it, then pull the ripcord because you’re A LOON WHO COULDN’T RECOGNIZE GREAT TELEVISION IF IT SHOT YOU IN THE HEAD LIKE CODY PARKEY SHO—(REDACTED BY JIMMY’S LEGAL TEAM)—and now people are feeling bad for him?!?!?!  Sorry, I lost control for a second.  Just watch the first 15 minutes of the first episode and judge for yourself.

Oh yeah, quickly, I would like to officially announce that I have flipped my long held belief that watching a show with subtitles STINKS.  There’s an exception to that rule: if the main characters have thick accents, subtitles do not stink.  In fact, they enhance the viewing experience because you’ll no longer have to rewind every 3.7 seconds when your wife goes “wait, what did he just say?”  Trust me, aside from being able to know exactly what Andy Accent just said, you’re also going to avoid many “well maybe if you’d just pay attention and stop looking at your phone, you’d know what he said”-fights with your significant other.

What is the show actually about?  Look it up on IMDB.  It doesn’t matter, though, I’m telling you it’s good.

LISTEN TO THIS:  “Bag Man” (Podcast)

If you’re looking to not think about sports because the kicker for your favorite team recently missed a kick, forcing your favorite team out of the playoffs before they were supposed to be out, and then ended up shooting yo–(REDACTED BY JIMMY’S LEGAL TEAM)–and you’re like, how do people still feel bad for this guy?!?! Then I am BEGGING you to listen to this podcast hosted by Rachel Maddow.  Not a fan of Rachel Maddow?  First off, that’s a red flag that you’re a red jag (I’m really proud of that line and am going to take a lap around the apartment to celebrate it) but, also, you don’t have to be a fan of hers to enjoy this.  However you feel politically, there’s no argument that she has a nice voice.  It’s soothing and smart without being too NPR-ish (why does everyone on NPR whisper-talk?!?!)  

So you settle in with a smart, soothing voice to help you forget the third workout in a row you’ve missed because you forgot to pack those damn shorts again!!! From there, it’s an incredibly fascinating deep dive into the story surrounding Richard Nixon’s VP (not his wife), Spiro Agnew.  Have you heard of this dude before?  Oh…you have? Yeah, me too.  Totally.  Spiro? I thought you said ‘Steven’!  Yeah, I know Spiro.  It was confusing cuz I was all like “I definitely know a Spiro Agnew, but I don’t know a Steven Agnew.”

Anyway, as we all know, Spiro Agnew, was Nixon’s VP throughout his first term and up until right before the Watergate shit REALLY hit the fan.  He ended up resigning because of…well, people weren’t really sure but it seemed like it was kinda related to some minor tax evasion issue.  The real story of why he actually resigned was lost in the glut of history, and that’s what this podcast delves into.  Why was Spiro Agnew the first VP to ever resign while in office?  And, folks, it was not just because of some minor tax evasion charge.  We’re talking conspiracy, “I can’t believe this happened in real life”-type shit.  It’s intoxicating.

The VP and I listened to this entire series while driving down to Mississippi for Christmas and it made me love sitting in my car for hours on end.  Since listening to this podcast, I have been obsessed with everything related to Watergate and Nixon.  History repeats itself y’all, and I can’t wait to write a review 20 years from now about “Bag Man 2: Trump Did Bad Stuff!”

COOK THIS:  Gorgonzola-Stuffed Steak Roll-Ups

Every year when The VP and I head down to her family’s in Mississippi, I cook a meal for everybody one night.  It makes me feel like less of a piece of shit for eating all their food for a week, and The VP gets to offer to help me in front of her Mom (I decline this help because I don’t need help.  Ever.)  Last year I made Chicken Parmesan and spaghetti, but this year I wanted to step it up a notch; a last ditch effort to get everyone to be impressed with me despite my wardrobe.

So I looked up a fancy recipe and this one was the perfect combination of looking like it took a TON of skill and effort, while not actually taking that much skill or effort.  BINGO! Here’s what you do:

–Get a flank steak that’s butterflied.  If you get one that’s not butterflied already, GOOD LUCK PAL!

–Sprinkle kosher salt and ground black pepper all over the steak.  The higher you hold your hand while sprinkling, the cooler you look.

–Across the middle, line the steak with gorgonzola cheese, fire-roasted chopped red peppers, and arugula.  You’re going to roll this shit up, so don’t go nuts with how much of each you put in.

–Time to roll that steak over the cheese, peppers and arugula.  This is kinda gross as you really have to manhandle the meat to do this properly, but that’s what badass professional chefs do.  Word to the wise; once rolled, you’re going to need to tie this bad boy.  Have 6-8 long pieces of kitchen twine cut before you start to roll the steak.

–Once rolled, tie it up with the kitchen twine.  Think one tie every 1.5 inches along the length of the steak roll.  Tie it especially at the ends of the steak.  You’re trying to keep all the gooey cheesiness inside.

–Cut this steak roll into like 4 equal pieces.  Make sure not to cut too close to the ties, so as not to undo all the cool badass chef stuff you’ve done already.  You’re going to sear these.

–Once cut, get a cast iron skillet SCORCHING hot with olive oil.  I’m talking the kind of hot that sets off the smoke alarm in your Ukrainian Village, one-bedroom apartment (just me?)  You’re going to sear these steak pinwheels, cut-side down, for about 2 minutes each side.  Once done. Pop the skillet with the steak pinwheels into the oven (350 degrees) for about 10 more minutes.

–Take out of the oven, cover with foil on a plate, and let rest for 5 minutes before cutting the twine and serving.

–Serve and act all nonchalant about what you just did.

MY WORLD:

With my head recovering from–(REDACTED BY JIMMY’S LEGAL TEAM)–I wanted to talk about something a little lighter today.  And by lighter, I mean food that makes you heavier!  I give you the Official 2019 Jimmyschair Fast Food Chain Restaurants Ranking (Pizza not allowed):

  1.  McDonald’s:  Best chemicals in the game.  I’m not debating this.
  2.  Chick Fil A:  There’s no denying those biscuits.  Also, the service is just delightful!
  3.  Newks:  Southern sandwich/pizza chain.  The Newks Q is all I want to eat when I’m visiting the VPs fam.  Like, every meal.  I’m not exaggerating that I suggest it for every meal.
  4.  In-N-Out:  I was a hater for no good reason for way too long.  The cheeseburger is so good, it doesn’t matter that the fries suck.
  5.  Potbelly:  Chicken salad sandwich with bacon. FOGETTABOUDIT!
  6.  Starbucks: their sandwiches are tremendous.  Also, don’t sleep on their chocolate chip cookies.
  7. Taco Bell: Had it for the first time last year.  What a revelation.  The taco with the Dorito shell is a game-changer.
  8. Kane’s Chicken:  Best sauce in the entire universe.
  9. Auntie Anne’s:  Limited menu? Yes.  But is there a better smell in the world than those pretzels?
  10. Jimmy John’s:  Their bread is incredible and has become my go-to sandwich spot when I’m hungover.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The VP and I watched “The Bachelor” last night and it was just okay, which is why I didn’t write a full-on review.  This season is all about how the bachelor, Colton, is a virgin.  It’s weird.  There was a part that made me laugh really hard though, and so I recorded it.  Chris Harrison, the host, was talking to Colton about how people have reacted to him being a virgin.  As Colton went through some insults hurled his way, Chris Harrison forced his way in with a “that you’re not a man!” and it got me REAL GOOD.  Enjoy.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you wake up with a crick in your neck and you have to do weird neck stretches all day that make you look like the bad guy from “Men In Black”.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I made a bet with a friend of mine that the Cody Parkey will not be on the Bears opening day roster next year.  This means that he now has to root for the Bears to keep the person who just ruined the most fun season of the past 10 years.  HAVE FUN WITH THAT PAL!

K bye.

 

Cody Parkey Shot Me In The Head With A Gun

OUR WORLD:

Remember when you were a little kid playing some dumb kid game, like soccer, and you’d get the wind knocked out of you?  All the air in your body was just forced out and before you know it, every one of your friends is looking at you wondering why you can’t talk or move or breathe.  Meanwhile, inside your head all you can think is “please don’t cry, please don’t cry, please don’t…am I going to die?!?!?!”  The cool kids in your grade can’t believe that you’ve been paralyzed by a half-inflated, rubber soccer ball, and the dorky kids in your grade aren’t defending you because they’re scared of the cool kids.  You’re fucked.  You can’t breathe and you can’t admit that you can’t breathe because not being able to breathe is SO LAME! (Don’t forget to pack your inhaler in your work bag today Jimmy!)  “Hey Jimmy, you okay?” was answered with the look you give yourself in the mirror right before you’re about to burst into tears.  Unfortunately, when I’d try to respond with an “I’m cool dude,” it sounded more like “Ibba cu–” followed by a cut-off dry heave.

And that is how every rational adult Bears fan felt after Sunday night’s game.  Laying on my back, after unsuccesfully trying to lean Parkey’s kick in, The VP asked if I was okay.  I wasn’t and I felt so fucking dumb that I wasn’t.  We’re talking your classic double not-okay here, folks.  Kids are allowed to cry after tough sports losses and be consoled by their parents without being made to feel like a silly asshole for caring so much about something they stand to gain nothing tangible from.  But rational adults with real relationships and bills and an ounce of self-awareness, know that crying on the ground and screaming at your spouse following a loss like that is socially frowned upon.  Instead, the rational lunatics (definitely not an oxymoron) go quiet, hiding the fact that we can’t breathe by making a constipated facial expression when asked “are you okay?”

The thing that makes sports heartbreak worse is the feeling that comes when trying to explain said heartbreak to a non-sports fan.  Even if you’re not a Bears fan, you could empathize with us on Sunday night because there has been a time in your life you remember some stranger ruining your day or night by not doing something you could never do (like kick a 43 yard field goal)  But when you live with someone who doesn’t care about sports, like the friggin’ VP, you’re left to lay on your back while trying to explain how 33 years hasn’t given you enough perspective to not have Cody Parkey ruin, at minimum, your next 48 hours.

The VP said nice stuff like “oh, I’m so sorry,” and she probably meant it, but it just made me feel even dumber.  Is she sorry that she married someone who wears sweatpants and asks their dog to sit near him during important plays because he thinks she is good luck?  Probably, right?  If a fellow true fan were in the apartment with me on Sunday night, there would have been no words for at least 4 minutes after that kick doinked.  Then, the next 4 hours would have been filled with loud exhales, slow motion head shakes, and the occasional “I just…man…ugh.”  What’s even better is the next day at work, when people YOU KNOW think sports are dumb (I call these people ‘dogs’) ask you how you’re doing.

“Hey Jimmy, the Bears, huh? How are you doing”-Gene

I want to drown myself in the lake but I see that little smirk peaking out of your mouth while asking that question so I’ll just hit you with a “tough game, Gene,” on my way to the bathroom stall where I can fill my mouth with toilet paper and scream without being heard.

I’m jealous of the fans I see who screamed and broke shit and were part any video that non-fans make fun of the day after.  I wish I could be momentarily blinded by rage or disgust to get it all out of my system at once.  Instead, I try to bottle most of it up, but there’s a leak and it slowly spreads to all of my organs the way a pinhole in a maple syrup bottle could ruin your entire refrigerator.  For adult fans like me, yesterday felt like being covered in Aunt Jemima’s, when you’re a devoted bacon & eggs breakfast man.

I write this in the “Our World” section of today’s Chair because those five paragraphs should act as a test of true fandom.  If you read laughed, EVEN ONCE!, during those paragraphs, you are not a true fan.  If, however, you cringed and shook your head and related, then congratulations, happy to have you alongside me in this Uber to the island of caring too much about things that shouldn’t matter.  (Wait…how can an Uber get to an island?  GET OUT!!! YOU’RE ALL GONNA DROWN!!!)  

The reason why fake fans piss me and the rest of my soon-to-drown brethren off so much is because WE KNOW that the fake fans never feel pain like this.  To get to participate in the euphoria of your team actually winning big, you better have been brought to your knees by that same team before.  It’s like being born rich versus being born poor and becoming rich.  When a fake fan posts pics or videos of them celebrating “their team’s” win, it induces the same feelings as when a rich kid posts a picture of the new BMW their daddy just bought them.  No struggle, no celebration.  Remember all of those kids crowding the streets following the Cubs World Series win?  Every single one of those snot-nosed pill poppers better have skinned their knees falling to the ground from Parkey’s double doink.

Thus, to avoid the wrath of REAL FANS LIKE US (adults with undiagnosed psychological problems), ask yourself the following questions before you post a celebratory pic or video following a big win:

  1. Have I ever cried alone in the bathroom following a sports team I care about losing?
  2. Have I ever called a radio station to advocate a coach with a family getting fired around Christmastime?
  3. Have I ever called off of work the day following a tough loss not because I was hungover, but just too sad?

If you answer “no” to all of those questions, then you are, henceforth, not allowed to post any celebratory pics or videos following a sports win.  As Judge for real sports fans everywhere, I declare this ruling final.

Oh, and finally, if you’re one of those softies who has said “I actually feel bad for Cody Parkey,” I would like you to know that, yesterday, he shot me in the head with a gun and it was totally unprovoked.  He just came up to me on the street while I was with my wife and my mom and my doggy and he shot me in the head.  Charges are pending.  Feel bad for him now?

MY WORLD:

I’m not exactly proud to admit this, but I thought about my dog killing herself this morning it made me feel…relieved…and a little…oh boy…excited?  (Whoa, Jimmy no.  This is where the world turns against you!)  LET ME EXPLAIN LET ME EXPLAIN!

I was taking my psychotic lab mix (it’s a labradoodle, Jimmy, just admit that) for a walk this morning when she went ABSOLUTELY BONKERS INSANE towards two nice dogs across the street.  The two dogs were doing NOTHING, which Belle, evidently, took as an immediate threat to all of mankind so she acted accordingly: growling, barking and pulling on the leash like she was trying to escape an active volcano.  Meanwhile, I’m in prime “it’s 7 in the morning, and I’m wearing sweatpants in public”-mode.  Needless to say, I was not prepared to play tug of war with a crazed beast.  And what can you do?  I can’t hit her because people that hit dogs are all-time assholes.  If I yank on her choke collar too hard, I’m reported to Animal Control.  If I scream at her, people start wondering how I treat my wife because you know they see my shiny gold ring.  BUT! BUT! If I’m completely unable to break my dog’s fury, then I get the “he obviously doesn’t know how to raise a dog”-looks from people with nicer cars than me.  It’s an absolute no-win situation.

So when PsychoMurdererFurryDogGirl and I got back home, I texted The VP that I just had a front-row seat to Belle’s worst walk ever.  I had slammed the door when we got back which caused Belle to run into our bedroom and under our bed.  So she’s the victim now?  JESUS CHRIST!  The VP texted back imploring me to “love on her” so she didn’t kill herself when I left today.  Which, got me to thinking…if I left for work and came back to find Belle had OD’d on the CBD that we got her last week, that has yet to change her behavior one iota, would I be sad or…not sad?

Honestly, I would be sad…and then a little happy that we’d be able to get a dog that wouldn’t send me into a near panic-attack anytime we have people over.  I’m not saying I want Belle to kill herself.  I am NOT saying that.  BUT!  If she happened to OD on a drug that made her feel maybe a little too amazing, I mean..there are worse ways to go.  And also…like, think of all the dogs and people that would be saved from Belle’s wrath?  I’m trying to think about this logically, is all.

Sure hope Belle doesn’t find that CBD…that I put right next to her food bowl…and wrapped in thick-cut, Boar’s Head bacon…

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Early favorite for “Best Commercial of 2019”

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Alshon Jeffery taunting Bears fans throughout that game the other night.  I’m sorry Alshon, what the hell did we do besides root for you while you were here and then have NOTHING to do with you not being re-signed?  I hope The Eagles cut you in the offseason and no other team signs you and you’re forced to become a dog walker to make ends meet and I hire you to walk Belle!!!

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I don’t want to talk about it right now.

(Account currently at: I said I don’t want to talk about it.)

K bye.

My Christmas List

MY WORLD:

I remember as a kid how excited I would get around Christmas.  As Thanksgiving would pass and all attention would turn to Christmas, my imagination would turn me into one greedy sonofabitch.  It was like all I could see were things possible for me to get at Christmas, and the only thing holding back my expectations were…nothing.  NOTHING HELD BACK MY EXPECTATIONS.  Throw in the two week vacation from school, and all I had was time to dream up what items, my parents surely couldn’t afford, I should receive on Jesus’ bday.  (Jimmy the Kid sounds like a bit off a pee-hole…)  

Then!  THEN!  Whenever I was with my parents and around something that I may have wanted for Christmas, I would pretend that I didn’t want it because EVERYTHING had to be a surprise.  Like, if I was around a pair of Jordans that I desperately wanted, and my Mom asked me “would you like those for Christmas?” I would just shrug because if I told her, it would ruin the surprise and make her work easier.  I didn’t act like this when I was like 6 either, this lasted into my teens.  In fact, when I was like 15, I was sure that my parents were getting me a car for Christmas because every 15 year old deserves to learn how to drive on a brand new car.  In bed that night, I remember thinking anytime I’d hear a car pass by our house that it may be my new car pulling into the driveway.  Mind you, I could see our driveway from my bedroom window, but I refused to look out and ruin the surprise.  (So that’s why Jimmy’s parents got him a 1984 Ford Escort Hatchback and his Mom smashed into it with her suburban the first week he had it.  EVERYTHING IS COMING TOGETHER!)

When I was a younger person, I would act like an absolute asshole about gifts and what I wanted around Christmas.  Imagine going wine shopping with your snooty Aunt Rebecca, who has been on bike trips to Napa with her book club over 4 times (so, 5 times?)  Whenever you pick up a bottle and ask if it’s good enough to be included in the wine dinner you’re throwing her, she would suck her lips in and mumble “I don’t know, up to you” in that way where it’s not really up to you, but more of a test to prove how stupid you are.  So you just end up picking the second least expensive bottle of a few different styles because…I mean, that’s how you pick wine.  You look at the cheapest and go “well, I’m better than that” so you pick up the second cheapest.  At the dinner, Aunt Rebecca has a permanent snarl on her face and can’t stop from audibly whispering to anyone sitting around her, what a simpleton you are.  That was me.  (Time to go look in the mirror and ask yourself “do you like what you see here?”  You shouldn’t.)

Therefore, in an effort to never be Aunt Rebecca again, here is what I actually want for Christmas (whoa! How big of Jimmy to just tell people what he wants!  THIS IS GROWTH, PEOPLE!!!):

-I would like to not feel the need to have “one more beer” after I get home from being out with friends all night.

Is that beer ever enjoyable?  Have you ever woken up and thought “god, I’m really happy I opened that expensive Double IPA and had 4 sips at 12:43 last night!”  Few things cause more introspection than picking up three-quarters full Double IPAs the morning after a night out.  It’s like finding charred cash just littered around your apartment.

-I would either like The VP of Ops’ birthday to be moved from December 23 to a date in February, or, I would like The VP of Ops to become one of those awesome “I legitimately don’t care about my birthday”-people.  

Seriously, either one will do.  I would be happy with either (how easy is new Jimmy to buy for?!?!)  The stress that comes from being an adult around the holidays is exacerbated when your wife’s bday is 2 days before Christmas and she treats her birthday like the bar exam for how much you love her.  She’s open about it too.  She’ll say things like “my birthday is really important to me” and “Yes, I am seriously angry that you didn’t call me at 12:01 and wish me a happy 31st birthday.”  The reason we have a dog is because I got in trouble for momentarily (MOMENTARILY!) forgetting it was her birthday a few years ago.  The only way back into her good graces was to get her a dog…so now we have Belle.

-I would love my apartment building to install one of those electric chair things that I could sit in, press a button and it would take me up and down from my 3rd floor apartment.

You see the growth here?  I’m not asking for an elevator or an escalator–those would be unreasonable!  But those chairs mostly used for old people and sold through infomercials?  No way my building couldn’t afford one of those.  Now, I will say that I would also like there to be a rule where I’m the only person in the building that’s allowed to use it.  While that may be selfish, that is what I want and asking DIRECTLY for what you want is part of being an adult.  So, maybe that shows how mature I’ve become.  (That’s a classic Jimmy-switcheroo right there).  When we moved into this apartment, I remember thinking and probably saying “we’re young and walking up a few stairs never killed anyone.”  A year-plus into carrying groceries up 3 floors of stairs makes me want to find the Jimmy of 15 months ago just so I could spit in his face.

-I would like to never receive paper mail again.

I cannot remember the last time I got something in the snail-mail (cool, funny term, Jimmy!) that was good.  It’s either a bill, a “what is this? I’m not going to open it because I’m scared what’s inside”-thing, or a bill masquerading as an “invitation” to something that will take me away from my chair.  I check my mail like once a week now because it now takes me a full week of saving up courage to open up and see what’s waiting for me in that checking-account-decimating little metal box.

-I would like someone to take Belle out for walks and bring her back when I’m not looking.  Then, when I start getting ready to take her for a walk, The VP says “oh, she was already taken” and I can be surprised that I don’t have to do it every time.

There aren’t many better feelings than when The VP surprises me and says “I’ll take her out this time.”  She does take her out sometimes, but it is normally me first thing in the morning and last thing at night.  Dog walks in the winter are about as enjoyable as chewing on tinfoil.  So, instead of asking for The VP to take Belle out on all walks, I would just like someone I never meet to sneak in and take Belle out and bring her back without me seeing.  I’d feel guilty and like a sack of shit if The VP was the one taking her out everytime.  BUT! If it was some person I never had to see or pay or thank, then I wouldn’t feel guilty.  AND!  The feeling I’d get from The VP telling me “oh, she was already taken out” would power me through the darkest, coldest winter nights.  Is there a feeling better than grabbing the leash and going to put on your snow boots only to hear that you don’t have to?  I THINK NOT!

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I really like this band and I really like this song.  It’s a little slow, but perfect for winter.  Why?  I don’t know, just feels wintery.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you make chili and see that people have frozen it before so you do that and then a week later you look in your freezer and your chili is covered in mold and you’re like “but, food network said…”

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Not good.  Like really guys, not good at all.

(My account is currently at $0.00)

K bye.

No…Not….WINTER!!!

OUR WORLD:

Whoever came up with the term “Winter Wonderland” never lived full-time in a cold-weather city.  (Did you look that up?  So, you don’t know.  Please don’t lie to your readers, Jimmy.)  Winter in a cold-weather city is a nightmare filled lined with salt stains, dry skin and wet socks that is only mitigated by the fact that it becomes socially acceptable to eat more.  For my Chicago brethren, this morning is the first time this year where I woke up cold, saw a bunch of bare tree branches and started tremble-crying that “it’s puffy coat time….”  Then the VP woke up and asked why I was crying but I was just welling up, which is different than crying and she just doesn’t understand because her winter coat doesn’t make her look like a Michelin Man EVEN WHEN I’M DOING WELL WITH DIET AND EXERCISE!  YEAH, I COULD BUY A DIFFERENT COAT, BUT I’D RATHER SAVE MY MONEY FOR ALCOHOL AND GAMBLING AND GOING OUT TO DINNERS!!!!  No, none of this happened, but the point is that it could because the older I get, the worse I get at containing my emotions re: winter.  Here are the top 3 worst things people in Chicago are dreading about winter:

Walking through slush while wearing your sporty no-show lil’ baby socks.

You wake up in early December and it snowed a little bit last night.  Nothing crazy.  In fact, when you look out your window you say something “oh, not that bad.”  So you’re in that “this sucks, but it could suck harder”-winter-purgatory that feels almost like happiness.  You get ready for your day and pack your gym bag.  But when you get to the sock portion of ready-time, an option presents itself: do I wear my big, hot, winter socks AND pack my no-show lil’ baby socks for the gym? OR! Do I just wear my I-don’t-have-cankles-and-these-lil-socks-prove-it socks for the day so I get to the gym ready to go and I don’t add to my mounting laundry pile with another pair of socks?  You go with one pair of socks because it’s “not that bad” out and if you’re forced to add 2 more socks to that laundry pile, it may tip over and bury you alive before your wife realizes that she hasn’t been asked “can I put sports on?” for over 18 minutes.  Yeah, you just died in a pile of dirty clothes and now your wife is going to jail because how could she not know?

So you put your no-show socks on slide into those cool boots that your Mom got you last Christmas.  It’s not that bad, you’re fine.  By the time you hit the bottom of the stairs on your way out, you’ve totally forgotten that whole excruciating sock decision you just had to make.  The podcast you’re going to listen to is queued up on your phone for the drive to work, and you’re damn near excited to hear if Bill Simmons will ask Jonah Hill the deal with his weight fluctuations.  You toss your gym bag in the passenger seat and…fuck.  Right as you step off the curb, your foot is wet.  The snow didn’t look that bad because it melted, and your body weight caused a splash when it landed on the street.  Tiny-brain you didn’t tie your boots that tight so the splash fell inside your boot and found its resting place all over your tiny-sock-covered foot.  Cool.  Now you’re Wally Wetfoot and you better tie that boot tight because you know the thing about wet feet?  They STINK.  Good luck trying to hide that stank foot in an office surrounded by people who don’t have a villainous pile of laundry forcing them into bad decisions.

Bundling up before taking your dog out and catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror by your door.

You’re lying if you tell me there’s not one second every winter, while getting yourself and your dog ready to go outside, that you don’t remember when you didn’t have a dog and think “that was a happier time.”  Don’t even try to tell me that when it’s negative 9 and you hear the wind howling, you’re not mean-squinting at your dog hoping he’ll be like “you know what, I can hold it.”  But whatever, dogs rule so you when you’re done putting their booties on to protect from the salt, you bundle up like you may get locked out and have to sleep in the snow.  Puffy coat, itchy scarf, old Bears hat, and the camouflage gloves you bought with your brothers at a gas station in Michigan.  Originally, you bought those gloves as a joke, but now they’re just your gloves and your wife can’t believe that she picked you.

When you’re done tucking your loose sweatpants into your boots, you grab the leash and march towards the tundra.  Unfortunately, your wife likes hanging mirrors near doors.  At first you thought it was just coincidence, but now you’re wondering if these mirror placements were part of a more sinister plan to prey on your insecurities.  Said mirror grabs the corner of your eye and you take a quick glance to see how you lo—JESUS, I’M UGLY!  Aside from the winter fat suit, the parts of your face that you can see are white pale mixed with little dry patches (thanks freezing wind!).  Moisturizing is a way of life that you must commit to, and it’s never been more obvious.  Like being hit with a wave from the ocean, you’re forced to go through every part of your last 6 meals.  When was the last time you went to the gym?  Yeah, you went, but did you even try that hard?  Or did you just go to say you went?  And, shit, you’ve been digging those dark beers lately.  And the outfit?  You’re not better than the Jordan Brand Cincinnati sweatpants you bought in High School?  You’re really not better than that?

“I’m better than this,” you say to your wife as you head out.  She smiles.  You’re gonna change.

Once you’re outside, she calls her Mom. “I’m coming home.”

Going to a Mexican restaurant and ordering a margarita to play pretend summertime only to come crashing back to reality the second you look out the window and see the look of pure terror on the driver that has lost control of their car while skidding on the ice.

Once late-January hits, you’re about to snap.  Two-plus months of frigid temperatures and short days have taken their toll, so you excitedly make a plan to go to a Mexican restaurant for a little “Let’s pretend it’s hot outside!”-meal.  It’s different than the norm and your spouse is like “he’s full of surprises!”  You’re proud of your ingenuity.  It’s cute, guys.  So cute.  You know what’ll make it even cuter?  Toss a hawaiian shirt and sunglasses on!  Can you say “Summer in January”?!?!?!

At the restaurant, the servers are kinda’ annoyed with how cute of a couple they’re waiting on, which makes you even more proud of your SAH KEWT plan.  You order drinks and not just drinks; we’re talking margaritas with extra salt baby.  Nothing spells summer like salt, tequila and limey sugary shit!  While you wait for Señor AnnoyedWithYourCuteness to get your drinks, it’s time to start reminiscing about awesome summer stories.  Remember that time you went on the boat and jammed out to pre-nutso Kanye jams?  Oh oh oh, how ’bout the time you had a picnic at the beach and made fun of the uncoordinated volleyball player ruining it for the rest of his team?!?!  And, guys, ‘member the time you grilled those burgs and made everyone address you as General Grillmaster for the rest of the night?  You’re laughing.  Reminiscing.  Dreaming, perhaps.  The margaritas arrive and it looks like each crystal of salt was placed by hand around the rim of your glass.  You do a cheers but don’t actually touch glasses because you want ALL the salt.  Then you hear a screech.

Your eyes dart to the window and see that the snow has picked up and a 1993 Dodge Neon is skidding past the stop sign right outside.  It’s not an emergency, but you lock eyes with the driver and share the “shit, there’s nothing you can do”-look.  The Neon hits the curb and is fine; it’s a piece of shit anyway, so another dent on the bumper will blend.  But it snapped you out of your summer fantasy.  Your spouse knows it too.  Now it’s a waiting game to see who’s going to ask the question you’re both thinking first…”You know we still have like 3 months of this shit?”

YEAH, I KNOW!

MY WORLD:

When I’m not writing this blog in the morning, I’m trying to work on a script and it’s really difficult guys!  In film school, I was only able to write shitty scripts AND I COULD WORK ON THOSE ALL DAY, EVERYDAY.  Now, I’m writing before work and…oooooo momma, I’m having trouble.  Turns out that coming up with a totally original movie idea is not something you can do just because you…uh…want to do it.  The first “assignment” I have due with my writing comrade is due tomorrow and I’m about 20% of the way done with it, so yeah, I’m stressed.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Realizing that the reason political ads are the way they are, is because THEY WORK.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Saw her perform on SNL and, ladies and gentlemen, we have a NEW CRUSH ALERT!!!!

JIMMY GAMBLES:

As you know, I had been on an epic losing streak.  We’re talking the kind that you would tell your grandchildren about when they ask why you live in such a shitty part of town 45 years from now.  Then, Sunday happened.  Guys…I hit a 4-team parlay and it felt like I, personally, defeated ISIS and saved humanity from their reign of terror.  The VP did not share my level of excitement, but she did hit me with a semi-genuine “oh, yay!”  So that was nice.  Did I squander some of my winnings by then betting on the Packers moneyline because my friend is a Packers fan and I’m a great great great friend?  Yes, I did, but I also cemented my status as a “great great great friend” in the process.  So, as far as I can tell, that’s pretty much breaking even.  I told a few people yesterday to bet on the Titans moneyline and then forgot to place that bet myself, so…that was fucking annoying.  Probably gonna take tonight off to watch voting results while praying the Republicans takes that much deserved L.

(My account is currently at $100.72)

K bye.