Tag: Marriage

Rules When Sitting Alone At The Bar and Jimmy Fashion (6/8/18)

OUR WORLD:

Since sitting alone in bars is part of my job (professional Sad?) I’ve developed proven methods to give off “no, it’s okay, I’m not a sad person”-vibes.  It’s tricky, really, toeing the line between self-assured, creepy and sad while sitting alone at a bar, but when done properly, can make you feel like one of the cool movie guys who make you want to get into cigarettes again.  (Then you’ll probably go overboard and try rolling the pack in your short sleeve like James Dean until you catch your profile in a mirror and realize that your jawline is NOT chiseled.)  I’m planning for “The Rules of Being Alone At A Bar” to be recurring posts.  Let’s try these out first:

NEVER SIT DIRECTLY NEXT TO SOMEONE WHEN THERE ARE OTHER SPOTS OPEN:  What’s worse than sitting at a bar with a bunch of open seats, and some chode picks the seat right next to you?  Everyone knows that there should be one seat in between each party at the bar and if I owned a bar, I would actually mandate this by allowing my customers to place sharp metal spikes on the seats flanking their party at the bar.  Would there be some bloody butts? If it keeps the creeps fromma’ creepin’, then it’s well worth it.  Girls, wouldn’t you be much more likely to go to the Spikey Seat bar than risk having Hairy Jerry and his double vodkas sitting next to you and your friends on a Friday night?

If you are reading this and thinking “I like to sit next to strangers at the bar because I’m open to meeting new people!” just stop fibbing yourself.  The whole “meeting new people”-catchphrase was started by some hippy who wrote a book or something that confused affability with harassment.  What, you can’t talk to someone if your love-handle isn’t resting on their thigh?  (Side note: ever look at people seating at the bar from behind? NOBODY looks good.  It’s like a row of ziplock bags stuffed full of melting gelato with heads on top.  Oh, and the heads? Most have bald spots.)  

MAKE FRIENDS WITH THE BARTENDER WITHOUT A FULL-BLOWN CONVERSATION:  Not every bartender is an amateur psychiatrist thrilled to diagnose all the problems you’re dumping on their doorstep.  Remember especially if they’re over the age of 35, they’re doing a job that requires an explanation of “what went wrong” every time they speak to their grandfather.  When I bartended, I did not whistle while I worked.  Instead, I felt trapped between sads and their unprescribed medicines; I got to play the unlicensed doctor setting my patients up for a blip of relief before waking up with a stinging headache.  (I just don’t understand why Jimmy wasn’t a good bartender?!?!)  I was cordial with the alone-people at the bar, but I was overly cautious with them due to the fear of getting caught by a talkative one.  Ever wonder why the bartender acts super busy in a slow bar? He’s probably trying to avoid getting cornered by an alone-person sitting at his bar.  It must be a BILLION-TRILLION-GAJILLION times worse for female bartenders.  Give ’em all purple hearts and lifetime passes to every panic room ever constructed.

As an alone-person at the bar, simply play hard to get with the bartender.  You want to make friends with him because maybe he’ll give you a free drink and most bartenders have cool stories.  So order your bev, thank him or her without really looking at them, and go back to watching the television.  Play it cool, guys.  Keep an eye on what’s going on around the bar and, after a while, you’ll pick up on some of the politics surrounding your seat.  Maybe you’ll see a pouty server or a bitchy customer or an angry boss.  Once you spot this, wait for the bartender to come near you and flip a “I’m with you, brother”-comment the bartender’s way.  For instance, lets say you see a customer send back a drink more than once.  When the bartender nears you, say something like “they seem like fun.”  BOOM, you’re on the bartender’s side.  All most bartenders want to do is complain about their job, so once you open that possibility for them, they’re puddy in your hand.  And guess what?  Alone-you has just made friends with the most popular person in the place.  Congratulations.

DON’T TALK TO THE TELEVISIONS:  You’re not fooling anyone.  The entire bar knows that your running commentary on the muted news program is a signal: YOU’RE DYING FOR SOMEONE TO REACT TO YOU!  I’m not talking about the meatballs who yell at their teams during important sports games (how else would the players know they were fucking up?)  No, I’m talking about the nights at the bar where there aren’t sports on, but they left the TVs on, like, the news.  There’s no sound, but a picture of Trump will come on the screen and the alone-guy DYING FOR A REACTION will blurt out something like “You believe this guy?”  First off, no, I can’t fucking believe that guy.  But more importantly, I don’t want to be goaded into a political conversation with the alone-guy stranger at the bar.  Nobody does EXCEPT for maybe some of the other alone-guys at the bar.  This creates an absolute nightmare scenario where alone-guys are shouting conversation to each other from across the bar.  If you find yourself in one of these shouted convos, stop it right now.  You don’t want to be one of these people for even ONE SECOND of your life.

Now what if you hear one of these alone-people barking at the TV, but you didn’t know that was the situation?  You turned to your left and, all of a sudden, you’re making direct eye-contact with said alone-person right as they’re reaching the climax of their political monologue.  “Shit, alone-guy is gonna take this as a sign I want to engage in this” is what every sane person immediately thinks.  And guess what? Alone-guy DOES take that eye-contact as a sign that you’re in.  As you see television talker alone-guy misread your accidental eye-contact, he’ll shift slightly towards you covered in “let’s have a chat”-body language.  Before he completely turns in his chair, you need to get up and go to the bathroom.  That’s your only way out; straight bail move.  Act like you really need to go and you turning that way was just part of your exit-move.  Hop off your barstool and do a trot-waddle to the bathroom to really drive home the point.  We don’t want to make the alone-guys sad, but it’s every man and woman for themselves whenever the television talker starts acting up.

 

MY WORLD:

I’m in the midst of a sock crisis, and I’m close to just throwing in the towel.  The VP and I have gotten caught WAY behind with our laundry, so we’ve been employing the “lets rummage through the over-stuffed dryer every morning for our outfit”-plan of attack.  Unfortunately, the fruits of these dryer searches are limited to shirts only.  At this point, finding matching socks is about as likely as The VP becoming an ultra-marathoner (I think I’ve seen her run once…in an Ikea parking lot when she thought for a second she was gonna get hit by a car.)  Now, a normal, responsible adult would gather all the hamper socks and devote however long it takes to match socks.  Lest you forget, I am special and have chosen an alternative solution: embracing mismatched socks as “my new look”.  I, Jimmyschair, hereby announce that I am no longer a sheep in the matched sock flock.  Remember, fortune favors the bold.

socks

For those of you who thought Jimmy Fashion was dead: catch me on my yacht.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Dave Matthews Band came out with a new album and I think this is my favorite song on it.  I THINK!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Rainy Fridays in the summer.

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

But real quick, I’m putting the balance of my Bovada account on the Warriors tonight. 

K bye.

Car People and Tight Shorts (6/6/18)

MY WORLD:

 

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

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

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

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

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

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

K bye.

 

 

 

 

 

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

WHERE HAS THE CHAIR BEEN?!?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you Erin.

 

Inventions That Need To Happen (5/15/18)

MY WORLD:

Remember when you were a kid and you would have invention day at school?  That day was the best.  One year, I remember I painted a big cardboard box and had a couple of slots that you’d drop bread and salami down for a “salami sandwich maker”.  (Big salami on white bread guy here.  If you like to get fancy, throw some Cheetos in there.  GAME. CHANGER.)  While dropping wonder bread and cuts of salami through a cardboard box never took off, I’ve always tried to think of stuff that I couldn’t make, but would love to see.  When I was younger, I’d say stuff like “I can’t tell you my invention ideas because you’ll steal them and get rich off my brain.”  Now, though, as a full-grown adult (but like, my doctor did say I could get over 6 feet tall one day so maybe not…) who knows his limitations (there are a lot!) I’m not afraid to share my genius invention ideas with you all.  Nobody reading this has the bandwidth (business term) to turn these into a reality and get rich off of them.  AND! Even if someone does, I’ll actually find it a little funny about how bad I just jinxed myself there.  Without further ado, here are my “Can someone smarter than me please make these things happen and then give me some money for coming up with the idea?-Inventions”

A hand dryer that makes your hands dry in less than 3 seconds

I don’t know how it is in the women’s room (because I don’t go in there because I’m not allowed) but every time I’m in the men’s room it leads to an awkward exit.  I’ll finish peeing and then wash my hands because there are people there who will judge me if I don’t EVEN THOUGH I TOTALLY DIDN’T PEE ON MY HANDS!  After washing my hands, I’ll try to dry them in those fancy new blower things that every bar has, but it takes longer than it should…and then there’s a line of a couple dudes behind me like “I remember my first hand drier!”  Usually, I get so uncomfortable with holding up the drier (dryer? drier?) line that I just leave with my hands still wet.  AND HAVING WET HANDS STINKS!  You have to dry them on your dirty pants and then, guess what? YOUR HANDS ARE DIRTY AGAIN!

Stop me if I’m asking for too much here, but can’t we have a machine that zaps our hands and they’re immediately dry?  Remember that memory eraser thing in “Men in Black”? Like one of those, but instead of erasing your memory, it just dries your hands.  If you can’t tell, I would very much be in favor of bringing paper towel dispensers back to all of the bathrooms, but I guess that’s gonna make the earth explode.  So that’s out.  Until this flash hand dryer is invented though, can we all agree that standing over someone while they’re trying to dry their hands is unnecessary?  Maybe just pretend you’re still washing your hands for another 38 seconds until my hands are actually dry?

Car slappers

This may be my favorite name for an invention of mine “The Car Slapper”.  Here’s the idea: sometimes honking just isn’t enough.  You ever driving and see a car drift into your lane or right in front of you and all you want to do is give that car a “Hey, I’m drivin’ here!”-slap?  What if, on each side of your car, there was a big inflatable hand–like, the size of a pool noodle but in the shape of a hand–that you could press a button and it would shoot out and SLAP the car next to you?  It wouldn’t damage the bad driver’s car, but it would shock them and be WAY more of a jolt to get out of your way than some lame honking sound.

Also!  I think these inflatable hands should be covered in chalk.  Therefore, if you’re on the road and get “slapped” then other drivers would know to pay extra close attention for the rest of the day because they’d see the chalky handprint on the side of your car.  It would be a scarlet letter of sorts for bad drivers.  Would some people abuse this tool?  I already thought about that, guys!  The only way you can have a car that is equipped with “The Car Slapper” is if you’ve been accident-free for 3 years.  I’m not here to invent things for bad drivers to take advantage of.  I’m here for the rest of us; the cautious drivers who aren’t afraid to stop on a yellow light, or actually pull over at the sound of police sirens.  ALSO! If anything about your car resembles anything from ANY of “The Fast and The Furious” movies, you can’t get “The Car Slapper”.  This includes: loud muffler things, lights under your car, windows that are tinted a little too much, a spoiler, or basically any Honda that has had work done on it.

The get-away-from-me shirt

The name for this one may need work, but the idea is great.  What if you had a shirt that alerted people when they were too close to you?  I don’t want this to be used as a weapon, but what if a shirt was made in a way that if someone got within 3 feet of you, they would get sprayed with a B.O. spray?  Being the guy with B.O. for the rest of the day is MORE than enough of a deterrent to stay 3 feet away from someone.  Here’s how it would work: a FASHIONABLE shirt would be made (not sacrificing fashion here) that would alert people as to what you view as your personal space.  Think, instead of a Nike swoosh on the arm, there’s a “3 FEET!” patch that lets people know that if they get within 3 feet of you, they will be shot with B.O. spray.  If they get within 6 inches of crossing into your personal space, that patch would start flashing like a warning siren that signifies “BACK UP OR SMELL LIKE B.O. FOR THE REST OF THE DAY!”

Imagine the next time you’re walking down the street and you see one of those people with a clipboard and a spiel that you don’t care about.  You see them approaching you and saying something like “Hello sir! Do you care about ending little babies being tortured?”  Of course you do, but you just wanted to get a goddamn sandwich and not talk to anyone!  If you had one of my shirts, you could just point to your “5 Feet!” patch and they’d know not to get any closer.  You wouldn’t have to say anything mean like “No, I don’t care about little babies being tortured.”  All you’d have to do is give a look down to your patch.  They’d hate it, but not as much as they’d hate smelling like “Smelly Richard” from your high school math class.

The fart silencer

Everybody farts, guys.  It’s a funny sound, but it’s also a real thing that way too many people struggle to hide while they’re at work or on a date or in a public place that’s just a little too quiet.  When The VP and I started dating, I hid my farts like a ninja who always had a pained look on his face.  It was about 4 months until she heard my first one, an accidental/laughed-too-hard fart that came out in the middle of a party.  Thankfully, The VP is cool, but it was petrifying.  I half expected her to dump me on the spot.

I’m not advocating for a diaper-like thing or an enema of sorts (too icky, right?!?!)  But maybe just some cool pants that has a muffler like device on the butt?  If I let one out, nobody would hear it because my magic pants silenced it.  I mean, there’s a device to silence a GUN SHOOTING A BULLET–there has to be a pants device to silence a BUTT SHOOTING A FART.  (If you’re not laughing at “a butt shooting a fart” then just stop reading this forever.  That’s as good as I get, folks.)  Every high school kid would immediately buy these and save themselves from confidence-crippling accidental farts.  Remember that time you were doing sit-ups in the gym next to the cute girl and you accidentally let out a RIPPER?  With these magic gym pants, Cute Girl would never know. (Could she smell it? Yes, but that’s always easy to pawn off on someone else.)

*Quick related-story:  I came up with this idea in college.  It was a U.S. History class and we were taking a final.  I was sitting next to a girl I had a crush on, and I was super nervous about that AND taking a final that I was ill-prepared for.  (Don’t worry VP, you’re way hotter than she ever was.)  Anyway, so the classroom was dead silent as everyone worked on the final.  The silence was broken, however, by my stomach growls.  I had to fart, but I couldn’t run out because I didn’t think you could leave the room during a final. So I was holding it in for dear life.  My stomach did not appreciate this, and was letting THE ENTIRE WORLD KNOW.  These growls were angry and scary and…disturbing enough that the girl I had a crush on, literally leaned over and asked if I was okay.  I never asked that girl out.

The Sober-Now Pill

If you’ve been around me much, you’ve probably heard me talk about this a lot.  (In fact, I feel like I may have talked about this in a previous blog…but I don’t want to go through all of them and check, so deal with this.)  How amazing would it be if you got to the end of your night, started to feel that “oh my god, tomorrow is gonna hurt real bad”-feeling, but were able to drop a pill into your last beer and POOF! You’re back to zero.  It would basically eliminate hangovers, drunk driving and you’d save so much on Ubers.  Get bombed, pop a sober pill, drive home.  GREAT NIGHT!

Also, the comedy that could be had would be priceless.  My favorite thing about this invention is thinking about the times I’d sneak this pill into a friend’s beer before they were ready to be sober.  They’d be in the middle of a great night, hitting peak-buzz level and finally unwinding from a stressful week when BOOM! “Did you put a sober pill in my beer, Jimmy?!?!”  GOTCHA JERK!  ENJOY PAYING THAT $90 TAB AND BEING SOBER BEFORE YOU WANTED TO BE!!!  You could never leave your drink unattended around me.  And it’s not like I’d get in trouble for “drugging” you; I’d basically be doing a public-service by ridding the public of your drunken ass.  Cops would thank me!  Please make this happen someone.

OUR WORLD:

Game of Thrones Season 1 Review will be coming possibly as soon as tomorrow!  That was a lot of words I wrote for the “My World” section so you’re gonna have to wait on this one.  BUT! The VP and I finished Season 1 last night and OOOOOOOO DOGGY!!! WE ARE SO IN ON THIS SHOW!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

New song off of Dave Matthews’ new album!  And I found a live video of it!  LOVE!

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you wear a sweater for the first time and you take it off to see that it left a bunch of fuzzies on your white t-shirt.  AND IT’S TOO HOT TO PUT THE SWEATER BACK ON!!! SO YOU HAVE TO WALK AROUND LIKE AN IDIOT COVERED IN FUZZIES!!!

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:

Not to brag, but I hit a Warriors/Vegas parlay last night.  Not to brag not to brag.  I’m getting close to the level where I’ll cash out and dump that money into bitcoin (I’ve decided I want to invest in bitcoin cuz it sounds fun!) Tonight I like Boston (-1) and Tampa Bay (+1.5).  LeBron was way too relaxed after that Game 1 ass-kicking.  He reminded me of that guy who tries to convince himself that he’s not worried when he DEFINITELY IS.  Cleveland stinks, guys.  And the Lightning? I mean, they can’t go down 3-0 without at least putting up a fight.  I say if they lose, it won’t be by more than 1.  GOD MY GAMBLING BRAIN IS FIRING ON ALL CYLINDERS TODAY!!!

(My account currently at $231.76….YEAH, THAT’S RIGHT!)

K bye.

Don’t Do These Things and Redeemable Celebs (5/11/18)

MY WORLD:

It’s Friday (ever heard of it?) and we’re all supposed to be in great moods this morning.  Even though it’s raining, we’re about to get a 2-day respite from our SOUL SUCKING places of employment (jk boss! I love my job every second!)  Who else is looking forward to acting like Jersey Shore Ron for the next 48 hours before curling up on your couch and having the Sunday scaries wash over you?!?!  And now you should hate me because I just talked about Sunday Scaries on a Friday morning.  I would like to introduce my “Things That People Do That Piss Me Off More Than They Should”:

-Talking About Sunday Scaries or Hangovers on Friday or Saturday:  This is a classic Debbie Downer move and, tell me, who does it benefit?  The “ugh, I’m already thinking about tomorrow’s hangover”-person is the same breed as the “it’s almost Sunday”-person who appears around 7PM on Saturday night.  If you are this person, let’s walk through why you’re saying these things out loud in front of people.  Is it because you get nervous when in groups?  Maybe things got a little too quiet amongst a few friends/coworkers and you went into full “shit, things are getting awkward and people are thinking it’s because I don’t know how to converse”-mode?  So you blurted out something kinda floating in the middle of your brain, not quite the back and not exactly the front, but the middle fears that you have mistaken for “this will be a positive addition to the conversation!”  It’s not a positive addition to the conversation.  (Activating Michelle from “Full House”-voice)“Capiche?!”

Listen, once you get to the age of 27, everyone has a time at the bar where they go to pee, catch their reflection in the mirror and think, “oh shit, I’m fucked up and tomorrow is gonna HURT.”  Talking about it doesn’t make it better.  Burying it, does.  So when I head back to the bar to distract myself watching the teams I gambled on slowly lose while burying my nose in a pint glass, can you not ruin the moment with your insecurities?  I get insecure too (mostly when I’m around people who have cool tattoos and tight pants) but I don’t remind everyone that climate change is accelerating at a rate that could GREATLY IMPACT QUALITY OF LIFE WITHIN THE NEXT 20 YEARS!!!!

And to the “it’s almost Sunday”-people, again, we’re all thinking this.  I was the kid in middle school who would have a countdown in my head during winter and summer break about every day was one day closer to having to go back to school; and I would get progressively sadder the closer that return got.  Seriously, by the time August hit, I was a fuggin’ basket case, trembling in the fetal position on my bedroom floor while muttering “I haven’t even STARTED the summer reading!”  You think my Mom coming in and saying “hey kiddo, school’s getting close!” would have HELPED that situation?  It probably would have sent me into an anxiety tailspin where I would’ve written a goodbye note about how my heart was broken by the tall girl in 3rd grade before trying to OD on my Flintstones vitamins.  (Real talk, my sister once had to get her stomach pumped for eating too many of them.)  

In short: keep your fears to yourself on the weekends.

-When people get way too close walking behind me:  You ever walking down a city sidewalk at a reasonable pace, when you can feel someone trying to figure-eight you from behind?  You can almost hear their overly dramatic audible sighs as they’re about to stomp on your heels?  When this happens to me, I’ll normally shoot The VP of Ops a look that says “I’m ‘FINNA LOSE MY SHIT ON THIS FOOL!”  She’ll grab my hand a little tighter and clench her jaw to brace for the impending embarrassment as….I abruptly stop, step to the side and extend my arm to the DOUCHE from behind as if to say “go ahead!”  Seriously, sometimes I’ll even toss a dripping sarcastic “please, go ahead” in a volume low enough for them to hear, but also low enough for me to deny if it turned into an actual confrontation.  If you don’t live to be passive aggressive to strangers, is life really worth living?!?!

Now is the part where I say that me acting like this is grossly immature so you don’t think I’m a total nutspants.  It’s borderline insane for me to think that people walking behind me are to flat-tire my new cool Levi loafers (fashion); and, if someone ever just stopped when I pulled something like this and said something like “what’s your fucking problem?” I’d probably pee my pants while trying to look tough in front of my wife, who undoubtedly is going to look for a divorce lawyer once she gets some wifi access for her phone.  But here’s the rub: I don’t think it’s insane.  In the moment, I think it’s ONE BILLION PERCENT justified to act like this.  If you get within 3 feet of the person in front of you on the sidewalk, they should be allowed to turn around and konk you on the head with a metal baseball bat.

Oh, I also hate slow walkers.

-People on bikes when I’m driving and people in cars when I’m biking:  Fellow car people, is there anything worse than the cool bicycle person blowing through stop signs and screaming at you after they cut you off?  The bike lanes throughout the city have made narrow driving lanes even tighter, yet the bikers seem to use them as a mere suggestion, weaving in and out of the bike lanes as they please.  If you come within 10 feet of them, they scream at you to “watch out!” and, worse, if you open your car door within 5 blocks of any of them, they’re going to confront you about “being aware of your surroundings!”  Roads were built for cars, so if you’re gonna be on one on your bike, you should follow the same rules as cars, right? Why are bikes allowed to blow through red lights and stop signs? IT’S NOT FAIR!  If I have to sit in traffic on a Monday night, why doesn’t Trevor Tinyhat?!?  It’s hard enough sharing the roads with the extras from “Fast and the Furious” and grandparents reluctant to give up licenses.  Adding cyclists who basically dare you to hit them is the exact recipe for Jimmy’s Molotov Cocktail of Anger.  I’M THROWING THIS BOTTLE AT SOMETHING!

Now, just to add some inexplicable contradiction to this; I also hate car people when I’m biking through the city.  I can’t be alone in this dichotomy.  If you can’t tell already, I’m not the cool bicycle person who has the tiny hat and big messenger bag.  Me on a bike is Dad-city; thick tires, not going too fast, constantly making sure you’re keeping up and yelling “taking a right up here” about 6 times before we actually take the right.  (“Taking a left?” “NO DAMNIT! RIGHT!”)  When I do bike, it’s rare, and it usually consists of The VP and I renting city bikes so we can tell people we did an “outdoor activity!”  The VP is normally pretty scared about riding bikes on busy streets and I have to pretend like I’m not and say things like “we have the right of way!”  But when a car gets a little too close, or guns it past us you better believe I’m tossing a “fuckin’ relax” their way!  We don’t wear helmets because we don’t own them (and they’re dorky AND my hair turns to hat-hair REAL quick so I try to avoid that.)  

Maybe cars and bicycles just weren’t meant to share the same roads?  They hate each other and if someone makes an animated “Cars vs. Bikes” movie in the next 5 years, I demand a percentage of the box office.  It’s a classic David vs. Goliath tale in which the bikes mount an offensive against the road-controlling cars; only to realize that the cars are just like they are.  Both sides learn to see the world from the other’s point of view and they come to an understanding that they’re “really not that different after all”.  Hey Pixar? You’re welcome.

OUR WORLD:

I love Kanye’s music, but the way he has been the past few weeks has kinda’ ruined it.  So I started thinking about other celebs/people that did bad things who I’m hoping are able to mount a comeback.  Some of these people have done super terrible things, BUT think about like “what if they solved the homeless situation?”  Here are some people I wish would solve the homeless situation (as in, give all homeless people the houses of rich assholes.  Donald Trump’s house goes to the “Free Smiles” sign guy.)

–Louis C.K.:  I know, what he did was wrong and weird and bad and creepy.  But, he is quite possibly the best stand-up of all-time and made me laugh and forget about my problems anytime I watched his stuff.

–Lance Armstrong:  Okay, you know what? I don’t think he even has to solve homelessness.  I never cared about cycling before him and I don’t after him and, honestly, I really didn’t care about cycling when he was dominating.  What I do care about is ALL OF THE GOOD he did for people with cancer.  That Livestrong campaign was inspiring for so many millions of people going through hard times, that I don’t really care that he was an asshole to reporters and ruined the reputations of some people.  Sue the shit out him, fine.  But, the good outweighs the bad here.  YEAH, I SAID IT!

–Lindsay Lohan:  You notice that the first 3 people on this list all have names that start with ‘L’?  THAT’S SUPER FUCKIN’ WEIRD, GUYS!!! Anyway, I miss “Mean Girls” and “Parent Trap” Lindsay Lohan.  She was funny and good at acting and super pretty.  Then she got way too into drugs and real weird stories about her being a total beeyotch came out.  That stinks.  In her prime, isn’t she a better version of Emma Stone?  She must hate her.

–Michael Jackson:  Him solving homelessness when he’s dead would be a real accomplishment.  Still, he has somehow reached the “yeah, he definitely touched kids, but it’s kinda’ okay because Thriller is the best album of all-time and he’s a great dancer!”-level.  When you’re alone, though, and singing all the words to “Billie Jean” do you ever catch yourself with a “remember that story about him giving ‘Jesus Juice’ to kids?”  Yeah, that stinks.

–Harvey Weinstein:  Just kidding, guys.  He should die in a fire.  Although, let me just throw this out there…what if he was next season’s “Bachelor”?  Think of how conflicted the women on that show would be.  It would ALMOST be evil-delicious…right?  RIGHT?!?! I KNOW!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The VP of Ops will hate me for this, but I do not understand the appeal of this kid AT ALL.  In fact, I cannot stand him.  Not because he’s a kid, but because he’s a kid who got famous for doing a super annoying thing in Wal-Mart?  GETDAFUGOUTTAHERE!

 

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

My favorite actor of all time.  I love everything he ever did.  EVERYTHING.  If someone can make you laugh just by saying “So I says to him…” over and over again, that’s called being ALL-TIME ELECTRIC.

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:

NHL Conference finals start tonight and since I don’t watch hockey really at all throughout the regular season, I am feeling VERY confident about picking the Capitals in tonight’s game.  Uh…Alex Ovechkin is a guy I’ve heard of so SOUNDS LIKE A LOCK TO ME!  (Jesus H. Christ do I need football back in my life…)

(My account currently at: $137.16)

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.

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good section, Jimmy!

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

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

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

(My account currently at $88.07)

K bye.

The Life of a Chicago Renter (5/1/2018)

OUR WORLD:

A lot of people are moving.  Okay, end of blog! (Sorry, but someday I’m just going to write a one sentence blog and that sentence is going to be general and bland.  I will do it for the sole purpose of making myself laugh.  I look forward to that day.)  But I am seeing a lot of people in my apartment building and on Facebook who are moving, and it got me to thinking that the life of a Northside Chicago renter, is somewhat universal.  Obviously, these are gross generalizations, but there seems to be a neighborhood progression with age that most of my friends have gone through.  The Life of a Northside Chicago Renter, goes like this:

Wrigleyville:  (Age 22-24)

This is the “I’m out of college but not done acting like I’m still in college”-phase.  Wrigleyville is a mess of old apartment buildings with window units and wooden floors that have been ravaged by years of inadvertent beer spills.  When you’re in college, Wrigleyville is what you think of as “Chicago city living”, though.  Do you remember watching Cubs games growing up and thinking about how jealous you were that people actually got to LIVE by that stadium?!?!  You’re basically a Cubs player if you live there, is how young Chicagoans’ brains work.

Then you go to college, learn how to blackout on a regular basis and start telling people that you’re never going to change because you “like to have FUN!”  So when you graduate, moving to Wrigleyville is the only place you can continue the random Tuesday night blackout in a crowded bar (if you try to do this in a River North bar, you will be the only one there and the bartender will, most likely, ask “are you sure you want another? It’s Tuesday.”)  This coincides with prime serving and bartending ages and, as I can attest, restaurant worker “weekends” happen most every night.

Coming from dorm and college apartment life, these creaky Wrigleyville dungeons don’t seem half bad, and a lot of your friends are going to be close by so…again…you’re basically still in college.  As you get into the end of year 1, though, you’ll start to realize that living in Wrigleyville kinda’ stinks.  Parking is an ISSUE at all times.  The restaurants are equipped to feed an entire drunk baseball stadium spilling into the streets, so quality isn’t their first priority.  The heating units/radiators sound like they’re screaming in the winter (literally, imagine a high-pitched cat hiss) and it always gets WAY too hot, but it’s too cold to open a window so you’re just left in temperature no-mans land.  Thankfully, you’re probably drunk, so passing out isn’t too big of a problem.

Lakeview: (Age 24-25)

As you start to get a little more established in your job, or actually get your first 9-5 job, there comes a time when you need to prove to your family that you have move past the Wrigleyville phase of your life.  Honestly, it’s more symbolic than anything.  You’re still going to show up hungover to most weekend family functions, but at least this time you can say something like “I moved to Lakeview because I just couldn’t take the Wrigleyville crush anymore.”  What you don’t realize, though, is that your parents are WELL AWARE that Lakeview is basically one block south of Wrigleyville so….you’re basically still there.

The apartments are a hair cheaper and a very thin hair nicer (yeah, like the one’s on the crown of my head…that hurt my feelings).  You’ve probably gone from living with 3 people, to living with 1 or 2 people and it’s no longer ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY to have a ping pong table room (don’t worry, you’ll still have a bunch of friends who feel differently). But you’ll start getting back into the gym and eating a little better during the week, and the weekday binge drinking will slow…a teeny tiny bit.

Then, near the end of your lease, you’ll leave a Mexican restaurant that just served you pre-packaged margs and lukewarm tacos and it’ll hit you: “Lakeview is purgatory!”  It’s the waiting room with dull art on the walls between college life and adulthood.  It’s removed from Wrigley so it’s not as fun as college, but it’s still riddled with dumpy apartment buildings and mediocre restaurants so it’s not a nice as real adulthood can be.  (Caviar! Diamonds! Hair Product!)  The older friends you have around the city NEVER come to Lakeview to meet up because “nah, just come here”, and your younger siblings think all the bars in Lakeview are bland…because they are.

Lincoln Park: (Age 25-27)

Lincoln Park is cool.  There’s a zoo and a college and good restaurants and a park.  For the first time since high school, you won’t be surrounded by dumpsters with window units.  It’s a lovely mix of UBER ritzy buildings, decent apartments for young professionals and a few dumpster units for the DePaul students who are too cool to stay in the dorms.  I think this is when most legitimate dating happens because there are actually decent restaurants in Lincoln Park too.  Hard to call chicken fingers and 19 beers at Sluggers a great way to start a long-lasting, trustworthy relationship.

I will warn you, however, that the zoo is a big draw to Lincoln Park, but if you actually go there, be prepared to be depressed.  Going to a zoo as an adult is one of the worst realizations of getting older.  THEY’RE SO DEPRESSING!  Who knew that standing with screaming toddlers and professional nose pickers while watching WILD ANIMALS pace a habitat smaller than your deck was going to make you sad?!?! SHOCKING!  Also, somehow, the ice cream that you were thrilled to get as a kid at the zoo is now…like, warm.  It’s still congealed, but when you bite into it, amazingly, it’s kinda warm.  One of the most off-putting experiences is eating warm ice cream that’s not dripping.  HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN!?!?!

Thankfully, the restaurants are good enough to help you forget how sad that gorilla sitting behind plate glass is.  (Am I the only one who hopes to hear about a story where a gorilla breaks through the glass, starts body slamming only the annoying little kids and starts an ape uprising? If that happens, I can point to this blog to prove my support and, therefore, be one of the few humans spared.  *Dunk sounds*)  Real quick, here are my favorite Lincoln Park restaurants:

  1. Cafe Ba Ba Reeba
  2. Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinders
  3. Geja’s
  4. Summer House
  5. The Athenian Room

*STAY TUNED FOR PART II OF “THE LIFE OF A CHICAGO RENTER” TOMORROW*

MY WORLD:

Today, I have a quick story about “A Time I Made Myself Laugh By Making The VP of Ops Mad or Uncomfortable.”  Well, it’s actually more an ongoing joke than a story.  You see, The VP of Ops went to Mississippi State University and talks about how it took her 5 years to graduate because she was such a good times gal (my kinda gal, na’m sayin’?)  She’ll retell stories about her 5th year, I think, in an effort to get ahead of anyone who may make some sort of “you’re an idiot”-joke in her direction.  Which I am all for because, guess what idiot, The VP is NOT an idiot and I know this because I have seen her read over 3 books! (Jimmy Fliparooski in the building y’all!)  

What I will say, though, is that I have never actually seen a physical copy of her Mississippi State diploma.  These two eyes have never even been treated to a picture of said diploma.  Does it exist? Probably? But, this game of diploma hide-and-seek has gone on for years now and, in the process, has left open the door for one of my favorite jokes.  Whenever the VP talks about graduating college, I’ll drop in a nonchalant “so you say,” or say the word “supposedly” while throwing up exaggerated air quotes, or I’ll just ask the person she’s talking to “have you seen her diploma? I haven’t.  I’m just curious if someone in the universe has.”  The VP of Ops has a difficult time finding the humor in these little jabs; much the way she has a difficult time finding the copy of her Mississippi State diploma.  (If I knew how to type out the emoji of the guy holding his hands up like “what?” I would insert that here.)

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Anyone with me and think that the frozen shot idea from Tom Schwartz in last night’s “Vanderpump” finale was actually a really good idea?  Is he a legit good bartender? I SAY YES!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

How did they not show any of the following in last night’s “Vanderpump Rules” finale:

  1. Scheana getting dumped by Rob.  NEED TO SEE THAT.
  2. Video evidence that James DID hook up with Kristen in Mexico.  That 100% happened.
  3. ANY VISUAL EVIDENCE OF LALA’S MAN.  Seriously, if you’re a producer on the show, how do you not say “if we can’t put him on air, you’re off the show”?

All in all, a lackluster finale.

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

I did not bet last night because I’m saving my strength.  My bud told me that the Bears over/under win total for next year, though is currently at 6.5.  IMMA HAMMER THAT OVER!

(Account currently at $108.14)

K bye.

Worse Jobs Than Yours! (4/30/18)

OUR WORLD:

It’s a Moody Monday, and even though it’s sunny and kinda’ warm outside, it still STINKS.  When I took Belle out for a walk this morning, she barked at an older woman on a bike.  The bike woman replied to the barking by immediately stopping, shaking her head in a disapproving manner and saying “that is quite the reaction.”  So my Monday started with a judgmental stranger.  I wanted to be like,”was it worth stopping your bike and going through that whole dramatic routine?”  I didn’t say anything, but I hope she gets hit by a truck carrying grenades.

If you can’t tell, I really need to make myself feel better by getting into today’s “At Least I Don’t Have To Do That”-Job list.

Grocery Store Pianist:  I guess you can call yourself a professional musician if you get paid to play the piano at a grocery store, but that’s not going to take away the disappointment coming from your parents and the $65k they WASTED on your college education.  (That was a really mean way to start this section.  MOODY Monday is ALIVE!)  Have you ever had the moment on Sunday when you’re wandering through the pasta aisle, talking yourself out of buying all the pastas, and you hear music that sounds live?  Then you’ll glance around and see that someone thought it would be a good idea to put a GRAND FUCKING PIANO by the paper towel section and there’s a dude in a big dumpy suit ACTUALLY PLAYING IT!

You know that guy has to be nervous the whole time he’s there that someone he went to high school with is going to recognize him and ask “so how’s the music thing going?”  That’s not to say that these pianists are bad, actually I’m normally impressed (not many bands looking for piano players?) but when your job immediately elicits “why do they pay someone to do that?”-responses, you’re in a tough spot.  Seriously, what is lost if the grocery store just…I don’t know, put the pandora piano music station on?  Would there be people that would ask for the manager and be like “where’s the paper towel section piano concert that I was promised?”  ALSO! the tipping situation is a no-win for everyone involved.  You can’t ask the pianist if he accepts tips because that’s super awkward.  The baggers and cashiers have no idea.  Then if you do tip the pianist, maybe you’re making him feel worse (like a beggar!).  But if you don’t, and he was expecting it, then he’s not making money.  BUT WHO BRINGS PIANIST TIP MONEY TO MARIANO’S?!?!

The only people who genuinely appreciate this person, the ones who applaud at the end of the songs, are looked at by EVERYONE ELSE IN THE STORE like real weirdos.  They’re the same people who applaud pilots when the plane lands.  We get applauded for doing our jobs now?  And the pianist probably doesn’t like it cuz it draws attention to him and raises the chances that someone he knows will recognize him.  I’m sure they play it off like “I just love playing music,” but that’s garbage because they probably had to apply for that position.  It’s not like a Mariano’s manager was just taking a stroll, overheard someone playing a GRAND FUCKING PIANO, and asked if they’d share their gift with the loyal patrons of the paper towel section.

Auntie Anne’s Pretzel Maker:  Ever feel like you’ve eaten only carbs for an entire day and then you retrace what you’ve eaten and YOU HAVE ONLY EATEN CARBS?!?!  Then you get sad and look in the mirror and suck your cheeks in and tell yourself that “diet starts tomorrow.”  If you’re an Auntie Anne’s Pretzel Maker, you are surrounded by delicious smelling, buttery salty carbs all day, everyday at work.  Don’t tell me “oh, you’d get sick of it” either.  There’s no better smell in the whole wide world than the pretzel stand in the mall food court.

If that’s your job, though, and you’re trying to be frugal because…I mean because you work at Auntie Anne’s…then you probably get a free lunch as part of your shift.  Which would be nice unless you’re just starting your diet and all Auntie Anne’s has are BUTTERY TWISTED CARB LOAFS!  Has anyone in the history of the universe ever ordered anything OTHER than a pretzel at Auntie Anne’s?  Pretty sure they don’t have salads, so the pretzel maker’s free lunch is either “with salt” or “without salt” (who in the fuck get’s “without salt” btw?)

So you’re just sweaty, probably covered in a thin layer of butter, not making that much money AND unable to EVER start a proper diet.  I bet the pretzel makers look over at the salad stand in the food court and ask for trades, but the salad people are like “nah, I just cut out carbs.  Smells great, though!”

Old Timey Shoe Salesman:  The old guys in the suits who are super sales-y and try to talk you into trying shoes on and then treat you like you’ve never put a shoe on in your life.  They have that real shiny shoe horn thing, and their WAY too comfortable handling your feet.  Once they’re at that level, there’s no turning back because those skills don’t translate to other industries.  Not like a pharmaceutical sales company is gonna be like “now tell me about the time you shoehorned that coalminer’s swollen foot into the penny loafer.”  That’s just your job forever.

But what about the process that desensitized these people so much?  Nobody is just automatically comfortable handling strangers feet, right?  (There’s gotta be one guy reading this who just looked over his shoulder and is like “I mean…sounds good to me…”)  How about the first time a woman with smelly, scabby feet came into your section?  You could see that she wasn’t wearing socks, but it’s not like you had to see it because you could DEF smell it.  You get fired if you refuse to help her, and I don’t think you can wear surgical gloves.  We’re talking skin-to-smelly-scabby-skin contact here, folks.

MY WORLD:

The VP of Ops is back in town after being gone most of the past 2 weeks, and it has been somewhat of a rocky readjustment period.  Is it just me, or when your spouse leaves do you IMMEDIATELY revert to your single ways and then kinda’ fight when they get back because you’re used to living like a bachelor?  The VP took my car to Trader Joe’s (a place I’d rather NEVER SEE AGAIN) and came back all “Don’t worry, I threw out your chewing tobacco tin.”  Then she walked past me all nonchalant with a little smirk to make me feel REAL small.  So I hit her back with a “so happy you’re back!” but I didn’t laugh because I was going for something deeper.  Counter-punching, ever heard of it?

Then our spring cleaning turned into me watching The VP just create bigger messes while rearranging furniture to “open the room up.”  Maybe just crack a window next time instead of dumping all our mail over the floor? But then I’m not allowed to be mad because I wasn’t doing anything (because it was Sunday and I was in full-on do-nothing mode).  So we just kind of didn’t say anything to each other for a while except the occasional “I love you” to break up the silent-fight we were having.  Being married is fun.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I could not be more excited about the Bears drafting Roquan Smith and I spent the majority of the weekend looking up videos like this…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When parents talk to their kids like adults in public in an effort to sound funny, but their kids don’t understand it so they keep crying.  Confused?  Think of a parent saying something along the lines of “I am not understanding your viewpoint on this issue” to a crying kid.  It’s not that funny and it doesn’t help settle down the kid.

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

I got absolutely demolished this weekend.  I’m telling myself to take tonight off…but that probably won’t happen.

(My account currently at $108.14)

K bye.

Being Single Stunk and Haircut Anarchy (4/24/18)

OUR WORLD:

The VP of Ops was out of town most of last week, got back on Sunday and left again this morning for the next 3 days.  I have officially left the “being alone is fun!” phase of her being gone, and entered the “well, who’s gonna listen to me bitch about my day?” phase of missing her.  Call me a romantic, but getting to whine about relatively benign daily happenings to someone who is GUARANTEED to agree with you is one of the main advantages of being married.  Actually, part of my vows alluded to this when I wrote: “I promise never to spare you a detail of the times when an older woman will inadvertently cut me off in traffic.  I promise to assign said woman some malicious motive that I fully expect you to agree with when I recount the story to you later that night.”  Guys, I’m like so kidding about having written vows–we’re not those kinda’ weirdos.  It’s called a joke!

Which is a long winded way of me saying that I do not miss being single.  For those who are good at it, congratulations; you won’t enjoy the rest of today’s “Our World”.  You live in a world that I am not a part of, if you’re good at being single.  For me, and I believe many of us, the world of being single sucks, and here are the parts that suck the most:

Feeling compelled to talk to strangers at bars:  Obviously, I can only speak to this from a guy’s perspective, but going to bars while single and hoping to meet a future LOVAH! is a terrifying prospect.  What happens is you stand around with your friends trying to not look like you’re scoping everyone out, but you are and it’s SUPER obvious when you keep missing the straw to your vodka soda (you are watching cals BIG TIME when single).  There will be the mega babes who are WAY out of your league, but you’ll spend about 9 minutes trying to come up with a snappy one-liner to level the playing field.  Something along the lines of “hey…uh…getting to date you would make my dad real proud of me.”  Unfortunately, Babe-a-tron 5000 doesn’t know how reluctant your dad is to offer praise, so that’s gonna be a swing and a miss.

What’ll happen most of the time, is that you’ll just stand around your dumb friends, not approaching ANYONE of the opposite sex.  Instead, opting to just get progressively drunker until somebody gets a text from a girl they know that is at another bar.  “She have friends?!?!?  HAS TO, RIGHT?!?” Is what you’ll be thinking, but you’ve gotta play it cool, so you’ll act like “sure, guess I’ll go with you.”  Then you’ll get to the next bar, realize that the girl does have friends, but those friends are not impressed with sarcasm OR outfits from Old Navy’s Spring, 2011 collection.  It’s okay, though, because by this time you’re drunk-STARVING and ready to eat your feelings away.  THEIR LOSS!

Having to explain to your grandparents why you’re not married with kids yet:  I swear to god, once you hit the age of 22, all grandparents expect you to be married with a kid on the way.  Old days were a wild time, during which, I guess everyone was married with 3 kids and a big house by the time they were able to rent a car?  That’s the way they friggin’ act at least.  Every family dinner when you’re single will include the “why are you still single?”-portion of the meal with your grandparents quizzing you on what exactly is going wrong.  It’ll usually be a potential critique wrapped in a compliment, like: “You’re a handsome, smart kid, you should have no problem finding someone.”  Unfortunately, when you’re single and, therefore insecure, that sounds more like: “The problem must be your personality.”  Seriously, how are you supposed to respond to that?  “Well thanks Grandpa, but I do have problems finding someone because I’m now out of college and approaching women in bars, or grocery stores, or gyms makes me so scared that I literally think about KILLING MYSELF!”  WARNING: Grandparents do not find humor in suicide jokes.

Playing the 3rd Wheel:  The main reason that playing the third wheel sucks is that you’re almost like the unpaid entertainment for the couple that night.  I always felt the need to go a little harder, be a little funnier, be a little extra-er when I was the third wheel.  Like, the couple had to be thinking: “if Jimmy bores us at any point in the night, we can just bail.”  Your couple friends will ALWAYS assure you that “you’re NOT the third wheel,” but…uh…you are because you’re the third person there and your pants are a little tighter than normal because you ate a big sandwich for lunch so you feel ROUND, LIKE A WHEEL!

Then will come the part of the night where you’ll kinda’ glance at someone across the bar and the couple you’re with will see this, and convince you that you NEED to approach this person.  Funny how everyone in a relationship IMMEDIATELY forgets how much of a no-go that proposition is when you’re single.  They’ll give you a “what’s the worst that could happen?” or “I think she just looked at you, too.”  They’re lying.  Trust me, they’re lying about this 100% of the time.  All they want is some free entertainment; getting to watch someone strike out with a potential mate IN PERSON is something I would pay to see.  In fact, there should be a viewing section at the biggest single bars in the city.  Wouldn’t you pay to go to one of these massive, DJ-booth, single meat markets, and sit in like in the security camera room?  They could have a charismatic storyteller, narrating the pick-up attempts going on throughout the club, and you could just watch it and be thankful that it’s no longer you as the star of this horror-show?  There really should be a channel called “Single People in a Club” which just shows security-cam footage of clubs around the country on Friday and Saturday nights.  I’d vote for someone like Hannibal Burress to narrate the scenes (I really wanted to say Louis C.K. for the narrator but…like…he can’t come back yet, huh?  We sure?  Okay. Okay!)

MY WORLD:

I know today is supposed to be the “A Time I Made Myself Laugh By Making The VP of Ops Mad or Uncomfortable”, but since I’m not an ABSOLUTE monster with endless stories of me pissing off my wife, I’m going to write about the haircut I got on Sunday.  (Calm down!  Calm down!  YOU CAN’T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU WANT!)  

As you know by now, I get my hair cut at a salon because I am a fancy boy who likes STYLE!  Or, mostly because I want to get my head massaged by a professional head massager person.  So I’ve been going to this hip place called “Fringe” for the past couple years where I may be the only male client.  (I’m sure this isn’t true, but anytime I’m in there, I’m the only guy there so…maybe it is true?  YOU DON’T KNOW!)  Now, I only get my haircut like 2 to 3 times a year because I’m lazy and try to convince myself that I can pull off long hair a couple times throughout the year.  Normally, around like month 3 post-haircut The VP of Ops will toss a “your hair!” my way one morning when I wake up with especially sexy bed head (sexy or, as The VP would put it “gross and not sexy in the least).  So I’ll wait another few weeks before the VPs jabs start to actually hurt and then, finally, make an appointment.

For the past 2-3 years I had been getting my haircut by this girl named Tori at Fringe.  She was good, not great, but whatever, I wasn’t that picky.  Until last time when Tori wasn’t available, but it being a hair-emergency, so I just went with whoever was available.  A woman named Leah was assigned to my mangy head, and lemme tell ya’, WE CONNECTED!  She gave a top-notch head massage while washing my hair (during which I made a joke about how close to purring I was that she took in stride and even gave me a courtesy laugh for!)  She then gave me a killer haircut and was just a DELIGHT to converse with.  Not too much talking, but enough that I didn’t feel drown in any awkward silences.  I left thinking about two words in regards to Tori: SHE GONE!

After wearing a hat for most of the past 2 months, I finally made a second appointment with Leah this past Sunday.  Unfortunately, I did not plan ahead and ask if Tori was going to be there.  So when I walked in to “Fringe” and Tori was sitting at the reception desk, I had to make a split-second decision.  “Hey!!! Our system is down, so I didn’t know you were coming in!” said an excited Tori.  To which I responded, “Yeah, my name is Jimmy and I’m here for a 12:30 with Leah.”  My split second decision was to act like I had no idea who Tori was.  I barely made eye contact with her as she responded: “Oh, okay…yeah, I didn’t know who you were with.”  It’s one of the coldest, meanest things I think I’ve ever done.

She went and got Leah, and a funny thing happened; I didn’t feel a thing.  I was expecting to be knocked over with a wave of guilt but, instead, I felt nothing.  It was exhilarating in the darkest of ways.  This must be what the Joker felt the first time he upset the established order.  As I passed Tori on my way to get my hair washed, I almost wanted to whisper in her ear “I’m an agent of chaos.”

Does this mean that Joker Jimmy is a newly discovered side of my personality worth exploring further? That the weird-astrology people were right when they take about Gemini’s having split personalities?  Quite possibly.  Tori’s heartbreak at not getting to cut a relative stranger’s hair (me) was a sacrifice necessary for me to find my inner darkness.  A darkness that could lead to me never settling on one hair-cutter person for fear of an awkward interaction.  A darkness that could lead me to finding the perfect hair-cutter person; one who would be able to give me the volume and shape necessary to hide my thinning crown.  A darkness that could put an end to me having to use a blow-dryer.  As Tori watched Leah cut my hair from afar, she must have felt the thing about chaos…fear.  And maybe that fear that she’s not good enough, will drive her to become a better hair-cutter person.  You’re welcome, Tori.

LETS LIKE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Me in the salon on Sunday…

 

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Anyone watch Ariana on “Vanderpump Rules” last night?  She got mad at Tom for leaving to hang out with Jax after the break-up because she wants Tom to “commit” to her being first in her life.  HOWEVER, she still refuses to even consider marrying Tom.  Get out Ariana, nobody likes you.

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

Well, Russ Westbrook proved that I’m stupid.  That’s fun.  Thankfully, I did also bet on Houston last night, so it wasn’t a total wash.  For tonight, I like Miami (+10), the Milwaukee moneyline and San Antonio (+11.5).  10 and 11.5 are a lot of points for teams that play hard and have proud vets, and Milwaukee seems to have figured out how to beat Boston.  BANK OPEN?!?! YOU BETCHA!

(My account currently at $180.40)

K bye.