Can You Put Out a Fire with Alcohol?

MY WORLD:

I now regularly eat hot dogs for lunch. What used to be a once or twice A YEAR treat at a baseball game, is now an almost DAILY dietary staple (Almost daily means not every day! That’s a victory!) A few days back, I sent a picture to my friends of my hotdogs in the refrigerator and said “sometimes I just like to watch them sleep.” Yes, it was a joke…but, was it though? There have now been multiple days where I open the fridge around 11:45 (don’t lie, you know you consider lunchtime 11am now) and I just look at the hot dogs in my fridge. Am I smiling creepily while humming “Rock A Bye Baby” in the direction of my Ball Park Franks? No! (Is that a victory for you at this point?) But I do look at them…and…yeah, dream of how good two of them would taste at 11:13AM on a Tuesday? YEAH, MAYBE I FUCKING DO!

Peak levels of stress now include the phrase “only about a week’s left of relish in there.” There’s a guy across the street from me who just sits in his window now and looks outside, and while I was eating a lunch dog (no need to say “hot dog,” THERE’S JUST NO TIME!) I caught eyes with him and raised my hot dog up to him like a “cheers!” Yeah, that’s right. I cheers’d a stranger across the street at 11:13AM on a Tuesday with a hot dog. THEN! When he didn’t nod back or show any form of acknowledging my dog cheers in any way, I got offended. And you know what? I just….

Guys.

Jimmy stop.

I made up the hot dog cheers’ing thing.

I didn’t make up the lunch dogs infatuation, but my brain is becoming so warped, that midway through writing about my lunch pups (is that funnier than lunch ‘dog’? Yeah, it is. Stick with it!) I actually did catch eyes with the guy across the street who looks out his window and I thought “next time I have a lunch pup, I’m going to cheers him with it. That’ll brighten his day!” So I will do that next time and report back re: his reaction to the lunch pup cheers. (And you thought you had nothing to look forward to!)

Aside from lunch pups and asking the VP of Ops to waterboard me with IPAs, I figured that buying a house in the middle of a global pandemic/economic meltdown, while my job skates on ice thinner than that picture of you from high school, was a prudent financial decision. (Just googled the word ‘prudent’ to make sure it meant what I thought it meant, and IT WAS CLOSE ENOUGH!) The VP and I closed on our first house on Friday, while my heart attempted to close on my body simultaneously.

What should have been an exuberant, exciting moment for us, felt more like a red carpet event for the premiere of “Jimmy’s First Stroke in the Citywide Title Office.” When asked by those nosey paps who she was wearing, The VP of Ops smiled and said “the same leggings I had on while eating Munchos this morning!” Meanwhile, I carried her purse and used it to hide the grease stain on my 2007 Cincinnati Bearcats sweatpants. It was quite the affair, indeed. Fortunately, or unfortunately (who knows right now? Stay positive though because the super negative people are awful to be around…but it’s so easy to just…STOP!) I did not suffer my first stroke while signing the closing papers to our first house.

Instead, I kept my big leather winter gloves and big puffy winter coat on the entire time we were signing a BAJILLION pages while constantly reminding myself to NOT TOUCH MY FATTER-BY-THE-SECOND FACE. If you have never signed closing papers on a house before, here’s what it’s like: ten million pages are put in front of you and you have to go through them, one by one, slow enough that the guy thinks you’re actually reading them, but you’re really just looking for the lines with your name under them so you can sign there and feel a momentary sense of accomplishment. (I found my name! Mom! Dad! I found my name on the page!) On page nine thousand, four hundred and seventy six, you’ll look to your spouse with blurry eyes and say something like “I no read,” before drooling and then slamming your head on the table while scream-crying “I DON’T THINK I’M MATURE ENOUGH FOR THIS MAGNITUDE OF A PURCHASE!” (That did not go over well with the guy in the office but, thankfully, he yelled at me to get ahold of myself while staying 6 feet away.)

Then, once you’re done signing page four gajillion, you’ll sit alone in a lame office while hearing the office person dude mumble things like “are you sure?” into the phone on their desk. (Is who sure? Do I want them to be sure? I’m not sure! Should I tell him I’m not sure?! SIR! I’M ALSO NOT SURE!) Eventually, he will come back into the room, still wearing surgical gloves, remind you to take the pens with you, and congratulate you in a way that sounds more like “can I finally go home now and cry into my pillow about the future of our country?”

Closing on our first house in the middle of Shitstorm 3000 felt like trying to celebrate a birthday in New York on 9/11. “Uhhh…yay!” As hard as I was trying to stay positive and act excited, all I felt was this overwhelming squeeze of the unknown. (Squeeze? Strangle?) But while I drove back to our city apartment with The VP of Ops, I kept telling myself one thing over and over and over: “we’re all in this together.”

And it’s true. How many times has there been a situation that you’ve dealt with where LITERALLY EVERYONE YOU KNOW IN THE UNIVERSE is dealing with the same thing? As terrifying as this is, no one is exempt. And the ones that you’re thinking aren’t worrying about it because they seem the same as they’ve always been? They’re just better at acting than you are. I’ve never felt more connected to everyone than I do now.

I’ve also never enjoyed hot dogs more than I do now.

OUR WORLD:

We’re all living in an excruciatingly elongated moment right now that will change the world forever. The way we look at World War II documentaries and the Civil Rights movement and think “Jesus, I can’t believe that actually happened!” is what smelly fatsos will be thinking about the movies about Coronavirus that come out in 2056. And while I’m sure those movies will focus on the most terrifying aspects of what is going on right now, I’d like to note some of the other byproducts that will probably be overlooked by PBS’ 2056, Six-Part Docu-series “Covid 19”.

Hangovers were confused for coronavirus

I was going to write something about how internet is officially the best invention ever, but then I was like “but what about booze?” The person who invented or discovered booze had to have done so in the middle of some terrifying episode in human evolution.

I’m imagining it was some woman with a broken leg who just heard from her friend that dinosaurs exist. “What’s a dinosaur?” she asked, before hearing a T-Rex roar and squeezing a bunch of grapes harder than grapes had ever been squeezed before. Then, because Mrs. ‘BoutToBeEatenByMegaYoshi didn’t want to waste the only juice she’d be able to reach until her bum leg became unbummed, she started sucking the ground where the grape juice ran for days on end. By day 6, with her broken leg throbbing, she sucked the ground harder than ever before and…felt some relief. A bit of the spins and, finally….peace! Then she heard a rustling in the bushes and went back to freaking out that she was about to be dino feed.

Anyway, that’s basically how alcohol is working for me right now. As day turns to night, and stressors multiply to the point of swallowing me, I pour a beer. And then another beer. And then an old fashioned. And then a pilsner because now I’ve got to cool down. And then just a smidge of whiskey because I don’t need the sugar. And then I’m snoring on the couch in the middle of the sixth episode of “Mad Men” we’ve watched tonight.

Mornings then become a fun little game of “hangover or Corona.” The first few hours of every day are now set aside for chugging water and coffee and telling yourself not to google corona symptoms for the nine thousandth time this week. By the time 3PM rolls around and you’ve come out of the hangover enough to realize that maybe you don’t actually have this terrifying virus, well, there’s only one thing to do: Celebrate.

Home workouts that lasted more than 8 minutes were treated like Olympic training sessions

Not to brag (but maybe a little bit? Fine, yeah. Check out this shit!) but I ran a marathon not that long ago! I wasn’t a hardcore “look at me I go to the gym”-guy, but I did go to the gym and didn’t shy away from mentioning that if it came up naturally in a conversation. “Oh, your mother got a haircut? Weird you mention that because I had my personal best incline bench yesterday!”

However, since this whole “You should stay home and use this as the ultimate excuse to be a blob”-order has come down, working out has fallen to the back of my priority list. I’m sure I’m not alone in this either. Yes, it’s true that moving around and exercising makes your brain feel better, but when your job is hanging by a wet fingernail, you have asthma and YOU JUST BOUGHT A FUCKING HOUSE, getting a sweat in doesn’t exactly register as “something I should focus on getting done today!”

This means that completing a sponsored Instagram ad showing you how to do a 15-minute at-home workout without equipment, is the equivalent of completing a Michael Phelps training session. I came across one of these smiley Instagram trainers imploring me to “stay active indoors!” yesterday and thought “he’s smiling, so maybe I should listen to him.”

So I followed his “workout”. This was the kind of workout that I would’ve made fun of in my physical peak, but now I got two minutes in and thought “could The Rock do what I’m doing right now?” (Yes Jimmy, The Rock could do Jumping Jacks for 2 minutes and 14 seconds). When I finished the “workout” 11 minutes later, the thin layer of sweat on my forehead might as well have been an Olympic Gold Medal. I went up to the VP of Ops acting more out of breath than I really was and said stuff like, “just finished a little workout” hoping she would swoon and ask if it was okay to tell her friends about her husband’s physical accomplishments.

She didn’t do that.

Employees at restaurants are fucking brave

I think we’ve all maybe thought this for a while, but if this whole ordeal doesn’t drive home the fact that people working at our favorite “I’m getting something that makes me feel good”-institutions, are brave as hell, then get your dumbass brain examined. Seriously, if you’ve been through a drive-thru or ordered delivery over the past few weeks and enjoyed the dopamine rush that comes from eating your favorite foods, make sure you take a second to think of the people that went outside, in public, around others, to make that thing for you and get that thing to you.

Fucking restaurant people are awesome.

PODCAST:

The Bill Simmons Podcast with Pearl Jam from last Thursday.

MUSIC:

The new album from The Weeknd and all of these Instagram Live concerts that bands are doing. Here’s The Weeknd from SNL before the world blew up:

TV:

Watching “Mad Men” for the first time. If you’re looking for EVEN MORE inspiration to drink, start watching this show.

MOVIE:

The VP and I watched “Catch Me if You Can” yesterday. It’s worth it because it’s Leo and Tom Hanks, but was I blown away? No. I was not blown away.

K, bye.

Work (11/1/18)

OUR WORLD:

Meh, I’ve been wrapped up in my own world lately. Go see “A Star Is Born” if you haven’t.

MY WORLD:

You know what is one of the coolest feelings I get to feel in life? It’s when someone says that I should get back to writing this blog because they miss reading it. There’s nothing deep or poetic coming, it’s just a cool fucking feeling.

I don’t want this blog to devolve into one post every three weeks that basically explains why I haven’t been writing it (uh oh, I feel that’s what’s about to come here though…) BUT (no! He’s gonna do it!) that’s what’s about to come here. The reason I haven’t been as active on Jimmyschair is because I think I’ve been going through some sort of third-life crisis (planning to live till you’re 99? Sure, pal. Those drinking habits will NEVER catch up with you!) AND because I’m trying to write a script that will someday win a competition and me a bunch of money…But mostly, because I’m fucking awesome at making excuses. That’s the truth.

When I got back back from Ireland, I felt kinda’ changed. When I told my Dad that it was a “life-changing experience”, he did what I would’ve done before I left if someone told me that: gently rolled his eyes in a “I’m not being openly”-rude, but “I’m not not being openly”-rude kind of way. When he did it, I wasn’t offended, but felt more certain of it. Like, “oh, you don’t believe me? watch this”….So I proceed to get kind of depressed about my place in life for the next 6 weeks. See Dad! Before I left, I was relatively happy. Now, I’m relatively sad. HAPPY TO SAD SOUNDS LIKE A LIFE CHANGE TO ME!!!

Let’s not go overboard here, either. Using the “D” word (depressed? oh, yikes) is something I did by accident in the paragraph above. I still use that word lighter than most, and it’s because that’s how I was raised. I get that joking about depression is a big no-no today, but…just, come on. I’ve been kinda’ down lately and I wanted to use that word so get over it. Have I been clinically depressed? (What are you a fuckin’ doctor?) No, I haven’t (HE DOESN’T KNOW THAT FOR SURE, GUYS!) There are just times when it feels like, “fuck, am I too far behind to catch up?”

How does this happen? I’ll tell you! You go on the trip of a lifetime. You see the world for, literally, the first time, and you come back home feeling invigorated and like you’re going to change a few things to live that fuller life that’s possible. But first you have to rest and be lazy for a few days because you’re tired from the trip. Then after you rest, you’re like, “wait, what was that thing I was gonna do?” By then, your body and brain has reacclimated to being that chair person that’s on every episode of trashy daytime television crying about how they’ve “tried every diet and NOTHING works!”

I wasn’t eating that well and had started to convince myself that gaining a few pounds is a thing that most adult males do, so fuck it. I got back into snacks and scrolling through instagram for hours on end! HOW COULD ANYTHING GO WRONG? Maybe, JUST MAYBE, scanning the internet for everyone’s best picture of them living their best life for hours on end, isn’t the healthiest habit. Maybe it hypnotized me into forgetting about how manicured people’s Instagram lives are. Actually, not ‘maybe’, that’s what happened. Instagram started feeling like a window into the lives of those around me and those lives looked way better than mine. Where’s the window showing someone have a near panic-attack when trading in their leased 2016 Chevy Equinox? “So like, how close do they inspect all the dents and dings? Do they use a magnifying glass? Or, just like run around the car real fast and not look closely at all?”

So then it’s time to play the age game, right? The “I’m 33 years old so I shouldn’t be dealing with”-whatever game. Mine version of the age game went something like “I’m 33 years old so I shouldn’t be panicking about how I’d pay for moderate car repairs.” (I’m still kinda’ panicking about that btw, but I’m gaining perspective.) Then, instead of going to the gym to make my brain feel better, I’d jump into the pity party steam-room and inhale only excuses. “It is dark out and you’re sad about not being a millionaire so it’s okay to skip the gym.” AGAIN, WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

Shit gains momentum when you let it. All of a sudden, I’m kinda quiet and getting angry about things that shouldn’t make me angry. You know how you get annoyed when you hear someone unwrapping a little piece of candy? They crinkle the wrapper for two seconds and you feel a rush of “JUST THROW IT THE FUCK OUT!” But once second number three hits, you’re fine and you totally forgot about it. I was more of the “I still remember you and that fucking wrapper AND I WILL EXACT UNMERCIFUL REVENGE!” like a day later. You ever tell your spouse or someone you’re super close with “I’m not mad at you, I’m just mad at everything” through clenched teeth? The VP may have heard that once or twice.

Then I’d sit down in front of my computer, stare at the blank screen and try to write Jimmyschair. Except now, the feeling I get looking at the blank word document had seeped into the rest of my life. It wasn’t a challenge, it was standing over me celebrating it’s knockout. And, guess what? The canvas is comfy! I think that’s how it happens. The first few times you’re lazy and stop trying and have a few beers and some pizza, it’s really enjoyable! And if it’s not really enjoyable, it is really easy. You’re like “wait, not trying is definitely easier than trying. This is great!”

The canvas was comfy at first. Not writing this blog was easier than writing this blog, so I did that. But my tricky tricky brain did this thing where it convinced me that the reason I wasn’t writing this blog was also because it’s kind of a waste of time. If I’m overtaken with stress about paying for a dented bumper and rent and our flights for that wedding and student loans and shit, we’ve gotta have a kid soon, right? If I’m consumed with money-related stress, then I should only spend time on things that can make me money, right? And, spoiler alert, I don’t earn money from this blog. Thus, waste of time. My mind jiu-jitsued my laziness into an acceptable response to stress.

So I stopped writing my blog for a while and spent time trying to figure out a way to make money writing. But writing is like going to the gym, which I was also NOT doing, in that the longer you go without doing it, the harder it is to get back into it. The next logical step to take, once out of proper writing shape, was to make the decision that writing a script was where my efforts should go. Writing a blog was too hard, but writing my first script in 6 years and making it a good enough one to win a competition and provoke a Hollywood bidding war was reasonable. YIKES! Try taking a year off from running then convincing yourself a week before the Boston Marathon, that you could win it. It should not have come as a surprise that the following mornings were spent, yet again, staring at a blank page, unable to muster a fuckin’ thing.

I forced myself to the gym again. My ankle hurt and all my workout shirts were a little tighter than they used to be, but I went and forced the treadmill. And it felt good. My legs hurt like “should I go to a leg doctor person?” but it felt good. And then I did it again and again and took a little break and then again and again. I’m getting there.

I texted two old screenwriting friends for the first time in years and asked if it was still possible to do the whole write-a-movie-thing. I knew they’d respond “yes,” but I needed to see it. They didn’t respond “yes” though, they responded “FUCK YES!” So now I created a writing schedule with one of them to hold each other accountable as we write our next script.

With the script work and the gym and my job, I just didn’t have time for Jimmyschair. Right? Right. Until I did.

That felt good.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Yeah, I got really into this movie and soundtrack. I’m sure it had nothing to do with my moods…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When people drive down alleys behind your apartment like they’re actual roads and almost smash into you and your numbah one pretty girl dogga. Even if they’re not that close to actually hitting you, it wouldn’t be the worst thing if Michael Myers stumbled upon those drivers alone at night.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

It should come as no surprise that my bout with laziness and being kinda’ blue coincided with a DASTARDLY gambling run. Does it also then come as no surprise that I didn’t start writing this blog again until I won my first parlay in weeks on Monday night and that’s the last bet I made? Yeah, I’ve taken two days off to bask in the glory of my Monday night parlay, and you know what?

It feels good…and it’s going to feel even better when the Raiders cover tonight against the 49ers. Yes, the Raiders blow, but betting on CJ Beathard as a favorite makes me wanna puke.

(My account is currently at $70ish)

K bye.

Has My Wife Taken Me Prisoner? (6/28/18)

MY WORLD:

The VP and I finished watching “The Staircase” the other night (hold your applause! PLEASE! Standing ovation? CONTROL YOURSELVES!!!) During the second to last episode, I started thinking that I just wanted this show to be over. It’s dark and depressing and sad and scary and why was I watching this? When your “escape” revolves around stories about murder and the terrors of our legal system, it should not come as a surprise when your daily stresses don’t melt away. What happened to having a plop on the couch and sharing but a smile? Perhaps a chuckle or two before bedtime? Up until I was seduced by an older lady, now known as The VP of Ops, at the vulnerable age of 27, I was into happy, and, potentially, emotionally uplifting television. “The Office”, “Parks and Rec” and “Friday Night Lights” were more my speed. Laugh at Andy Dwyer, shed a tear for QB 1 and his decimated spinal chord, and root for Jim to finally tell Pam how he feels. (Sidenote: how many awkward “but I only like you as a friend” confrontations did the Jim/Pam story cause around the country? You know friend-zone guys everywhere were like “if it worked for Jim, it’ll work for me!”) But that all came to an end when my Mrs. Robinson came into the picture…

I remember The VP of Ops telling me that she was into murder when we started dating. It wasn’t concerning in the way of like “Hey Jimmy, I’m into murder because I enjoy murdering people and I’m thinking of murdering you.” It was more in the vein of “I like sitting on a couch with a devious smile on my face while good looking detectives battle personal demons and sexual tension with their co-workers throughout missions for justice.” She didn’t exactly spell it out like that, but when a hot chick is on a date with you, there are NO red flags. ZERO, FOLKS! Seriously, she could’ve pulled out a rusty knife and told me she was into amateur surgery and I would’ve been like “cool, totally!”

Anyway, long story short, unable to resist her wily seduction techniques, The VP roped me in to her world of heavy cream dips and depressing television. Somehow, my television viewing habits have gone from sitcoms and serialized dramas to trashy reality television and murder documentaries. Monday through Thursday over the past few months have consisted of: “The Bachelorette”, “Vanderpump Rules”, “Southern Charm”, “Evil Genius”, “The Staircase”, and “The Keepers”. We spend our weeknights either cackling at functioning alcoholics with undiagnosed personality disorders or silently watching strangers try to cope with the most horrific event of their lives. The VP has turned me into your Aunt Paula. Do you realize I’ve written more about “The Bachelorette” than I have about the Bears? I’M A MAN FOR CHRISSAKE! When does the Netflix doc about The VP murdering my masculinity come out? “Did We Record The Bachelor?”: The true story of a once proud Chicago man’s descent into madness.

What is happening to me? I used to think it was a lame joke when I’d hear older guys talk about how their “wives run the show.” My Dad’s friends would say shit like that and I’d toss a courtesy laugh their way while thinking A) I’m sure that’s not actually true, and B) has anybody actually laughed at that joke? Thing is, I’m beginning to think it wasn’t a joke! The VP doesn’t totally run the show (I’M MY OWN MAN!) but…like…maybe she does, actually. Shit.

Let’s take a look at the last 4 days: I have cooked three of the nights and brought home dinner the third. I then hand washed the pots and pans used for those meals, unloaded and re-loaded the dishwasher. I have run two loads of laundry, bought her a heating pad, and taken out the trash. We have watched episodes “Southern Charm”, “The Bachelorette”, and “The Staircase”. ESPN has not been on our television for one second. I broke the sunglasses that she got for me last week, but haven’t worn my back-up pair because The VP says they’re “disgusting”. So I’ve just been squinting for the past week. Oh, and I gave her an alarmingly asexual back massage last night. (Realization hits as a look of panic washes over Jimmy’s face…) WHAT HAVE I BECOME?!?!

If my Dad’s friends knew what they were saying wasn’t a joke, why were they chuckling?!?! Why weren’t they grabbing me by the shoulders and telling me to save myself before it was too late?!?! “You don’t understand!!!” should’ve been how all of my Dad’s friends greeted me while I was still dating The VP. Folks, I didn’t plan on writing this blog today. What you are reading is a real-time discovery that I may not be the person I thought I was. Stay calm, Jimmy. Stay calm. EVERYBODY STAY CALM!!! Quickly, what are the things I believe I enjoy now that I wasn’t into before The VP plunged her talons into my testosterone supply:

-Oysters: Never even tried an oyster before The VP came into the picture. Now, I get excited when I’m at a place with good oysters. What are in some oysters? Pearls. Who likes pearls? Girls. Shit.

-English muffins: I have a multi-grain english muffin every morning for breakfast now. I used to eat bagels. Close your eyes and imagine Clint Eastwood walking into a dusty diner. When the waitress asks what he’d with his bacon and eggs, what do you think he orders? Without hesitation, it’s a bagel every single time. ENGLISH MUFFIN PROBABLY ISN’T EVEN AN OPTION IN CLINT’S DINER!

-Rolling up my jeans: The VP says it’s “cute”. My brothers and father make fun of me.

-Puppies: Not to say that I used to not like puppies, but I remember a time when I wouldn’t stop EVERYTHING I was doing whenever a puppy came into my field of vision. Now, it’s like a fire drill where I alert everyone around me that there’s a puppy and pray that I’m able to get to it in time to ask for a casual pet. That’s weird.

-Thinking about crying when I’m alone: I’m aware this sounds supremely depressing, but this blog is, if nothing else, honest. Whether it’s job stress or money stress or thinking about murder documentaries or wondering what Belle does all day while I’m gone, I have begun to think about crying when I’m alone. The strangest thing? I kinda’ like it! I never actually cry, but I’ll think to myself “should I pull over and have a quick weep sesh in that Office Depot parking lot?”

These trends are concerning and worth revisiting. (Now Jimmy, anticipate the call you will receive from The VP once she reads this. You’re playing checkers while she’s playing chess!) I’m not a prisoner, guys. Ha. Ha. (Blink twice). To the people who have not seen me in a while, and believe that I am being held captive by my wife, I have a message for you: The VP of Ops is not holding me captive as her prisoner. (Blink twice). She is a sweet and pretty lady that I love very much who deserves the entire whole wide world. (Blink twice). And yes, I am listening to “Keeping Score”, the new Dan + Shay single featuring Kelly Clarkson. It’s a lovely little tune!

(Help).

OUR WORLD:

The reason that city driving is so much more difficult is because everyone who lives in the city, and therefore drive in the city, is so stressed out by EVERYTHING that the slightest ANYTHING can set you off. I feel like a Velociraptor (that’s one word! Who knew?!?) while driving around my neighborhood–ready to plunge through the driver’s side window of my Chevy Equinox and go fangs-first into the next car that leaks into my lane of traffic. Combine the sounds of a constipated toddler with the aggression of a blackout-drunk Crossfit trainer who was just put in the friend zone by his Tinder date; that’s me driving in the city. That’s all of us driving in the city because Chicago, and I imagine all other large cities, is a garbage can overflowing with annoyances. What are some of the other PRIME City annoyances? Let’s take a look:

-The “was that a gunshot?”-sounds: Whenever I’m near the VP of Ops when one of these sounds happens, I immediately say “fireworks.” I play it cool and nonchalant so that she doesn’t worry, but (close your eyes VP) it’s probably gunshots sometimes, right? Who is setting off fireworks on a random Tuesday night in June? Also, you have to go to Wisconsin or Indiana to get fireworks, so what the hell are these sounds? That’s part of living in the city that I’ll never get used to. When I’m walking Belle at night, I say “what was that?” to a not-too-distant sound a minimum of 6 times. When these walks are immediately following a murder documentary, you better believe I contemplate breaking into a full sprint back towards my apartment.

-Walking up to street-parked car in the morning and seeing shards of glass in the distance: If you park on the street in the city your car, sooner or later, will be broken into. There is ZERO chance that it won’t. Trust me, I’ve run the numbers. On the day it is, you’ll be walking down the block your car is on when you’ll notice a pile of shattered turquoise pebbles. Those aren’t exotic city pebbles, though, those are what remains of your passenger-side window. I’ve had this happen twice which means that now, whenever I’m heading down the block my car is on, I have a near heart attack whenever I see a pile of turquoise in the distance. That color, btw, STINKS.

-City dogs and the dog-walkers: Don’t get me wrong, I luh me some doggies (see my puppy love in today’s “My World”). BUT! City dogs, including my own, are much more likely to be hairy psychopaths with crippling anxiety disorders. I don’t blame them, this is what comes with living in the city. However, when you’re having to zig zag across streets to make sure your dog doesn’t get within 500 feet of another hairy LUNATIC, your nerves begin to fray. This morning I took Belle on a 4 block walk and crossed the street no less than 18,000 times to avoid other dogs. Oh, and if you see a “professional” dog walker heading your way, be aware that they think of themselves as the top of the sidewalk food chain and will NEVER cross the street first. Am I just being constantly alpha’d by other dog owners in the game of “who’s going to cross the street first?” Do I call their bluff and play a game of chicken? If you knew Belle, you wouldn’t either.

-The smell of weed EVERYWHERE: I know this makes me sound like a total narc, but it really does smell like weed everywhere in the city. Like, every. single. place. When you’re afraid of weed like I am, this smell immediately triggers a response of panicked breath holding. Remember when you were a kid and your go-to tantrum move was holding your breath until you passed out? That’s me here.

-People: There are so many. Literally, millions and most of them do not abide by my personal code of conduct. It’s infuriating.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’m just going to lean into this one…

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Cabbies who drive Uber. I get that they have to adapt, but I feel tricked whenever I get in an Uber and am immediately hit with that “professional cabbie”-smell.

I HAVEN’T GAMBLED YET THIS WEEK. MANY PEOPLE ARE TALKING ABOUT HOW INSPIRING MY SELF-CONTROL IS.

K bye.

Becca is RUINING “The Bachelorette” (6/26/18)

OUR WORLD:

I’m doing my best to hold out for the many many MANY readers who are waiting on baited breath for my takes on reality television, but I have to come clean: I’m about to bail on this season of “The Bachelorette”. Why? (Solid question, thanks for asking) Because Becca stinks. Excuse me, Becca doesn’t stink, she STINKS LIKE DIRTY RAT PIG! “The Bachelorette” is meant to have a somewhat likable, pretty lady make a bunch of douchey guys look silly while we kinda’ root for her to find the one normal-ish dude in the bunch (it’s like a game of pin the tail on the non-douche!) This whole equation goes right down the crapper when we’re forced to watch an overdramatic Ice Queen play the victim 24/7/365. With the popularity of this blog soaring to new heights EVERY. GODDAMN. SECOND. I’m thinking that this reaches Becca, herself. Therefore, Becca, I’m going to write directly to you.

What’s the deal with the sparkle dresses? The VP of Ops said last night that you “dress like a dickhead” and, being a fashion icon myself (Jimmy Fashion, ever heard of him?), I must say that I agree. You dress like a dickhead. Nobody wears sparkles as often as you do. After a while, it’s like “we get that we’re supposed to look at you, you’re THE bachelorette on ‘The Bachelorette!” Insecure much? (Girrrrrrrlllllll!!!!) And, trust me, I’ve done my best to defend you and your “look at me” sparkles to the VP, but when you turn around and wear some ridiculous crop top on the next group date it amounts to a slap in my face. Aren’t you 30? Do you know what it’s like to defend your dumb sparkles for an entire solo date and then have The VP give me the “told ya'” eyes when in THE NEXT SCENE you’re wearing a t-shirt that’s too small for a baby? BABY’S WEAR LONGER SHIRTS THAN YOU! Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and you best believe Imma write a blog about how I’m FINISHED with you. BELIE ‘DAT! (We get it Jimmy, we’re reading the blog.)

Now let’s get into last night’s episode. There was no part of you that thought “you know, Chris really went all in on that stupid Danke Scheoen performance, I’m going to make sure I talk to him!” Nope. After performing a Wayne Newton cover in front of Waxy Wayne HIMSELF, national television cameras, and a crowd of strangers ALL FOR YOU, you still thought to yourself “I’m only going to believe Chris likes me if he seeks me out later during the group date!” THAT’S LOONEY TOONS!!! If I buy one roll of paper towels for our apartment and The VP doesn’t give me a sincere “thank you so much,” I’m holding a grudge for the rest of the night. And Becca, we have a happy marriage! But nope, you saw a sliver of an opportunity to make yourself into the victim again and BOOM, you took it! When Chris tucked his balls away later and offered that “apology” I almost threw up. He should’ve told you that he was Team Arie and gone back to the Wayne Newton show to see about scooping up the one groupie under the age of 72.

Speaking of Arie, how long are we supposed to feel bad for you? Forever? It’s not like you were in a 7 year relationship that ended on the altar in front of a nationwide audience. You “fell” for an obvious tool who you went on like 4 dates with in a 6 week span. He gave you a ring and then said “nah, never mind I like the blonde more” a couple weeks later. Was it nice of him? Of course not, but he also didn’t tie an anchor to your foot and invite you to go scuba diving. I’ve had rougher break-ups with toothbrushes (but I don’t wanna spend $7 at CVS!!!) Yet, every chance you get, you toss out the “remember, I’m the forever victim”-eyes. You will get no more sympathy from me, you ordered up a big plate of Arie. When The VP orders sushi on a hungover Sunday, I don’t feel bad for her. Just like I tell The VP, “It’s your decision, but we all know it’s going to end horribly.”

Finally Becca, lets talk about Lincoln. We’re getting into the heart of this season and you just picked him over a dude who built the Venmo app. Seriously? You think some mumble-mouth muppet, who cried about a wet picture frame, is more husband material than a guy who LITERALLY built the app that gives you money? Every psychiatrist in the universe who watched that just diagnosed you as a certified IDIOT. I’m sure you have a therapist, so here’s a spoiler for your next session: they’ve labeled you a “lost cause” and are going to drop you as a patient. If this is a ploy to get on Dr. Drew’s new show “Celebrity Idiots,” then congratulations, you just locked up a spot on the inaugural season.

I tried defending you, Becca. But, between the sparkles and the crop tops and the Lincoln stuff and the death glares, I have officially decided that I am out on you. While I doubt I will watch ALL of the rest of the season, I am now rooting for an epic finale. In my dream scenario, you pick someone, Colton probably, and he gets down on a knee. With your heart about to explode with happiness, Colton opens a ring-sized box and says…SIIIIIKKKKKEEE!!!! Then, Arie’s new wife, Lauren, runs out and slaps you in the face right before making out with Colton right in front of you as Arie laughs in the background. Either that, or you pick Garrett without realizing he’s the head of the KKK’s Minnesota chapter.

MY WORLD:

I’m stressed.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

I’ve always thought I should like Weezer than I should, but I really do LOVE this cover. I can’t tell if they’re trying to be funny or if this is a cheesy song, but it gets the coveted Jimmyschair “Stamp of Like”!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

This whole Pete Davidson/Ariana Grande relationship is making everyone uncomfortable. Can you guys just stop?

I’M TAKING A MINI-BREAK FROM GAMBLING THAT MAY LAST AS LONG AS 4 DAYS BECAUSE I HAVE BEEN ON A DREADFUL LOSING STREAK AND BETTING ON BASEBALL AND SOCCER IS REALLY STARTING TO PISS ME OFF. GIVE ME FOOTBALL NOW.

K bye.