Tag: renting

COMMERCIALS ARE THREATENING OUR LIVES!!!

OUR WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can’t wait.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

My all-time favorite commercial

WAIT, SO YOU DO STILL GAMBLE, RIGHT?

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

K, bye.

 

 

My Christmas List

MY WORLD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-I would like to never receive paper mail again.

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

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

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

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

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

JIMMY GAMBLES:

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

(My account is currently at $0.00)

K bye.

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.