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

-CONTINUED-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TO BE CONTINUED…

K bye.

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

The VP and I Go To Ireland – Part 1 of ? – (9/13/18)

IRELAND (PART ONE OF MANY):

*Hey friends! I haven’t written in a little bit because I got crushed by work before going to Ireland for 11 days. I’m back and it feels great! I meant to write this as one long piece, but that’s not possible. I don’t know how many “parts” there will be to this Ireland series, but I don’t want to shortchange any of it, so excuse the next few entries on Jimmyschair. It will be Ireland heavy for I don’t know how long. I hope you like it.

When I was 15, I couldn’t go to sleep on Christmas Eve night because I was so excited about the possibility of being a gifted a car on Christmas. My parents had told me over and over and over again that I was ABSOLUTELY NOT getting a car, but I had convinced myself that these assurances were all part of their planned rouse. “He won’t be as excited if he KNOWS he’s getting a car,” they had to be saying to each other as they continued arguing over whether I was more of a Benz or Bentley kid. Turns out, I was more of a HEAVILY used 1988 White Ford Escort hatchback 6 months later kid. But I didn’t know that on Christmas Eve; so I lied in my bed with eyes popping out of my face anytime I heard a car passing by our house. I wouldn’t look out my bedroom window because I love surprises (YOU READING THIS, VP?!?!) and I didn’t want to ruin what my parents must have been planning for months. This is not a story of a petulant 15 year old treating Christmas morning like a funeral for hopes and dreams (I mean, that’s what it became, but…) Instead, it’s the last time I can remember being incoherently excited for something. Drunk without a having had a drink excited. My life was about to change forever excited. That was the last time I felt THAT kind of unmitigated excitement. (Yes, I was excited for my wedding, but that was definitely MITIGATED by the nerves associated with standing in front of a couple hundred people.) Then, 18 years later, the VP and I flew to Ireland on the night of August 30th with a plan to sleep on the 7 hour flight and wake up refreshed for our first Irish morning. I should’ve known. There was no fucking way I was sleeping on that plane.

The VP and I landed in Dublin exhausted, but pretending not to be because what’s lamer than kicking off the trip of a lifetime with yawns? So we trudged through our baggage claim and customs with glassy eyes while assuring each other that “yeah, no, I am so excited!” The taxi driver was the first hint that we were somewhere foreign because he…was professional and not mean. Did you know that taxi drivers who don’t snarl from the front seat while you ask if he can pop the trunk actually exist? Better yet, there are even taxi drivers who GET OUT AND HELP YOU with your luggage. Unbelievable, I know, but I was there. As the older gentleman helped load the VPs Gajillion pound suitcase into the trunk, I kept telling The VP to film what was happening on her phone. “No one will believe us! BUT NO ONE WILL BELIEVE US!!!!”

We got to our hotel before our room was ready, which was totally fine because we were SO NOT TIRED. Matta’ ah Fack, before the front desk lady even checked the status of our room, I was all like “I don’t even care if it’s ready cuz I’m not even tired so like whatever.” Her face changed as she looked back up at me. “Whoa, didn’t know Americans could be so chill and masculine at the same time,” is what she wanted to say, but spotting the ring on my finger, opted to avoid a confrontation with The VP and instead said something like “Your room is not ready because you’re here 6 hours before check-in time.” Her words were meaningless, her face told the story. These Americans were different.

The VP and I left our baggage and went out to explore a Dublin morning. When you’re NOT tired and your phones aren’t allowing you to Google “Uh, what do we do now that we’re actually here?” you just end up wandering and saying things like “I’m pretty sure…wait…no, maybe this way.” It was vacation morning, which meant breakfast, which also meant drinking so…..PUB TIME! And, living up to our reputation as “not your typical Americans,” we picked one where we didn’t see nerdy tourists. We aren’t THOSE people! (It was one kinda’ close to an H+M that The VP told me multiple times that she wanted to just “check out”. Uh, yeah fuckin’ right VP, and ruin the movie being written about us called “Not Your Average Americans”? OVER MY DEAD BODY). Continuing the theme of rebellion, The VP ordered a Bloody Mary at the bar. I ordered a Guinness, but I ordered it in that nonchalant, chill-like “this is just a beer that I love to normally drink and am not drinking just because everyone else here is drinking it and I want to feel included in the very community that my ancestors originated from.” Youda’ thought we were born in this bar.

The first meal was fine and it didn’t matter; which is something that I came to realize throughout our stay in Ireland. Don’t get me wrong, Jimmy EatFace looooooves a good meal, but when you’re in Ireland you’re so anxious to see more, drink more, talk to others more, and go elsewhere…uh, more, that food becomes an afterthought. It takes time away from seeing other things. It takes up space meant for Guinness. It occupies your mouth from–okay, we get how eating food works. We finished our fist meal, a traditional Irish breakfast that we split because we weren’t that hungry and “no, I do kinda’ like this blood sausage thing. It’s interesting!” Was it more off-putting than interesting? HEY! Haven’t you heard? WE’RE NOT THOSE AMERICANS.

After a couple more pints of Guinness (we were on vacation!) and some aimless wandering (uh, it’s called “exploring”) where we didn’t look at the map because, let’s all say it together, “we’re not those Americans,” we headed back to our hotel. Oh, our room was ready a couple hours early? Cool, whatever, not a big deal, guess we should check it out. The VP and I then crumpled on the bed like those spiders you spray with whatever aerosol can is closest so you don’t have to almost touch kill them with your hand. (I sprayed a spider in my car yesterday using a bottle of dog pee cleaner I found in my trunk). We slept for a few hours, dreaming of things I don’t know about because I can’t remember my dreams and never listen when The VP tells me what she was dreaming of. I just hope the hotel workers didn’t come in our room while we were asleep and uncovered my lie about not being tired. Yeah, we locked the door, but I don’t know how hotel nap time is treated in Ireland.

When we woke up around 6, we made a plan to go to the place Anthony Bourdain loved the most on his show about Dublin, “Kavanagh’s” aka “Gravediggers”. It’s an old pub next to a cemetery about 14 minutes outside the crush of the Dublin bar scene. By the time we got there, it was the perfect kind of busy, like they were waiting for us. And, based on how kind the bartenders were, maybe they were? We ordered pints on pints on pints of Guinness, chatted up the distinguished bartender who made us feel like we had finally gotten to where we always should have been going. It wasn’t this type of “let’s milk these tourists for all they got with cheap smiles and too much conversation” type of welcoming, but more of an easy conversation with someone who almost instantly went from stranger to relative.

I think the thing I had heard most about Ireland was that the people are what you go for. And while I like people, there was a part of me that was worried about being bombarded with strangers inserting themselves in every conversation I would try to have. I’m happy to report back that I was an idiot for thinking that. The people are the highlight not because they cheers every beer you get, but because, somehow, they already know you and you already know them. Those increasingly rare nights at home when all of your friends are able to make it out to the same bar and you can talk or not talk to any of them because you’re all comfortable; THAT is an Irish Pub. I signed the guestbook like an absolute dolt because I saw it and instinctively grabbed it before realizing I didn’t know what to write because I didn’t feel like a guest. Imagine going home for Thanksgiving and your Uncle Rick putting a “guestbook” in front of you.

We ended up getting pleasantly drunk; nowhere near the “my brain is broken now”-blackout that ends most fun nights at home. We took a Taxi back to the hotel and walked to a nearby Subway because we weren’t there for the food.

The next day was for walking once we actually got up and out of our room, which became more difficult than anticipated once The VP discovered a British dating show with cooking called “Dinner Date”. There was no hangover, just reality television. Remember the show “Next” on MTV? It’s like that but the person being wooed comes over to 3 people’s houses for a home cooked meal. I hated that I kinda’ enjoyed the show too because we didn’t come to Ireland to sit in our room and watch daytime dating shows…but…like, it was good. FUCK!

After a few episodes, and a few “hey, can we go now?”s from yours truly, we finally made it out of our hotel. The plan was to walk and walk and walk until we saw Temple Bar and Guinness and nice Irish men in cool little hats telling us stories about places that sound magical. “Excuse me, Ms. Concierge? Where’s do wrinkly faced storytellers hang out?”

Our self-guided walking tour through Dublin worked like the strongest coffee I could ever drink. If I owned a Go-Pro I would’ve strapped it to my rotund head and never pressed “stop” to capture every single thing I was seeing. Look, maybe it’s because I had never been out of the country before, but walking in a city an ocean away from home is battery power for humans. Look, a river! Look, an old building! Look, a guy I don’t know with really tight pants! No wonder little kids always seem to be so happy, it’s amazing seeing anything for the first time.

We set out to make our way to the Guinness storehouse, making sure to hit Temple Bar along the way. Little did we know that we’d stop at some pub here, an immaculate church from 900 years ago there, and countless other “this looks like a postcard” places along the way. We took a tour of Christ Cathedral Church and I got to see a meticulously artistic structure coated with CENTURIES of stories.

I’ll admit, even raised as an Irish Catholic, I always found church impossibly boring. When my Mom used to tell me how impactful a Priest’s sermon was, I’d almost crack my skull with the effort it took me NOT to roll my eyes. But this house of history wasn’t that. I could’ve sat on one of those pews, in silence for hours, and been riveted every second of the way. Your brain does amazing things when you’re enveloped in stained glass and moldings that could not have been made without modern technology. I was thankful there my internet wasn’t working; this was all about the wonderment of pre-technology. A trophy on the human brain’s mantle.

CAN’T WAIT TO TELL YOU MORE NEXT TIME!

K bye.

The VP and I Are Going Abroad! (5/8/18)

MY WORLD:

Yeah, I took a few days off. The VP of Ops and I celebrated our 1 year anniversary in the greatest and laziest of ways. I’m talking dog walks and outdoor margaritas (although The VP got a Michelada for some reason and pretended not to hate it the entire time…she’s bad at pretending not to hate things), but mostly, I’m talking SWEATPANTS! COUCH! DELIVERY! NETFLIX! And we finally pulled the trigger on buying tickets for our belated honeymoon; so the VP and I will be going to Ireland in early September. (Braggy Jimmy STINKS! THIS BLOG HAS CHANGED!)

Yeah, it is a slight brag, BUT we have had to answer the “where did you go on your honeymoon?” question for the past year with shrugged shoulders and stories about how “we’re saving up!” I always felt like when that question came up, things would get real awkward and the people asking us would feel bad for us and walk away like “aww, they’re sad.” I know that didn’t ACTUALLY happen, but it did kinda feel like it did. So now, we get to play the nonchalant “oh, we’re going to Europe”-people for the next couple months. (Going to Europe sounds cooler than just saying “Ireland” I think because that’s what my brain is telling me and I don’t have a rational way to describe why I feel like that. IS THAT OKAY?!?!)

Aside from bragging a lil bit (it is MY blog…I’m allowed to do that every now and then) this is more of a plea for help because I have no idea what to do on a vacation. I’ve never been out of the country (or have I? And if so, why am I hiding it? Is Jimmy a sp– IS THE GOVERNMENT READING THIS?!?!) and The VP and I have never been on a vacation together. Yeah, real talk. The only times The VP and I have been out of town are to visit her fam in Mississippi or to go to a wedding (where I would normally get too intoxicated and come VERY close to embarrassing The VP in front of all her friends that were skeptical of her being with a Yankee in the first place. I’m a master of first impressions, guys.) The last time I was on a legit vacation was in High School I think, so we’re going to need some suggestions on where to go and what to do because here is what I think a vacation consists of (according to teen/pre-teen Jimmy):

Hours in the hotel pool: Wait, so my Dad isn’t coming to Ireland with us to throw me around in the hotel pool? WHAT KIND OF BULLSHIT IS THIS?!?! I swear to god, if The VP doesn’t want to play catch with a mini-nerf football in the pool, I’m gonna LOSE IT! Here’s what should happen; my Dad shows up to throw me around in the pool and then Erin and I play catch with the mini-football where I’ll mostly stand on the ledge of the pool and have her throw it so I can make a V cool looking diving catch. Instagram finna’ be LIT UP with my diving catch boomerangs!

Hotel freeze tag: Little does The VP know that she lucked out and married the undisputed King of Pomerantz Hotel Freeze Tag. “But Jimmy, you were the oldest of 4 siblings, so weren’t you always at a physical AND mental advantage?” <<<Who in the fuck is asking me questions like that? PASS! Listen, barefoot freeze tag through hotel halls with your siblings (and now wife…don’t worry VP, we’ll let you play now!) is the 5th major sport in America. The Sportscenter Top 10 was made for moments like when the oldest of 4 taunts the youngest for being too slow to win freeze tag and too immature to handle ALWAYS losing freeze tag.

Eating dinner at that place with peanut shells on the ground and a free popcorn machine: If all-you-can-eat popcorn and getting to toss peanut shells on the floor doesn’t say vacation, I don’t know what does. Were my parents simply masters of manipulation in framing dive bars as the epitome of relaxation for kids? Possibly, but goddamnit do I respect that move. Nothing was more exciting for 11 year-old Jimmy than pulling up to “The Satisfied Frog” in Cave Creek, Arizona and being reminded that it was the “peanut shell and popcorn place!” AWWWWWW HELL YEAH!

Those activities sound doable for a couple of 32 year olds in Ireland, right? (He’s joking, right? I can’t tell…I REALLY CAN’T TELL!) I am kidding…sorta. Please take this as an invitation to tell us what to do if you’ve been there. Even if you haven’t been there and saw something in a movie that looked cool, we’re open! We watched an Anthony Bourdain show on Ireland yesterday and it seems that Guinness and dive bars are a good place to start (maybe I’ll just bring my own bag of peanuts and pray they don’t get mad at me for tossing the shells on the ground?)

OUR WORLD:

I haven’t been living in “our world” lately, so gonna need to sit this one out today. Takes a day or two for me to get my sea legs back. Kinda like when you get back into the gym after a long layoff and your body doesn’t work anymore; that’s me and my writing fingers right now.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I plan on this being me every morning in Ireland…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Lisa Vanderpump was kind of a MAJOR B to the 2 Tom’s on last night’s Vanderpump reunion show, right? So….my point about her being a pompous jerk was proven.

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:

Won with the Cavs last night which is never that enjoyable because I can’t stand Lebron. We did lose with the Celts though and the parlay so….BASICALLY EVEN! Tonight’s games have BIG lines which are scary, but the Rockets and Warriors seem destined to stomp out these series. LETS BANG THOSE FAVES!

(My account currently at $153.68)

K bye.