The “Are You An Adult?” Test

OUR WORLD:

There aren’t many things more annoying than hearing someone younger than you say, “OMG, I’m so old!” I know this, and I want you to know that before reading the following…If you’re older than I am, this ‘Our World’ has the potential to make you hate me (are you a fucking agist, Jimmy?!?!) Don’t worry, I’m not an agist (unless…you’re younger than me). But, after some exhaustive research over the past 34 years, I have come up with the Top 3 “whoa, I’m really an adult now”-moments.

Working Out in the Hotel Gym on a Trip

(Wait, isn’t this just your way of telling us that you just did this on your trip to Portland, Maine?) Did I mention I worked out in the hotel gym MULTIPLE TIMES during my trip to Portland? (SONOFABITCH!!!) Remember when hotel stays, whether for work or vacation, meant that calories didn’t count and exercise wasn’t even an option? Everyone under the age of 32 abides by the rule where if you’re out of town, you don’t have to work out. It’s my favorite kind of rule; clean, with little room for confusion–like “if you’re standing while eating, it doesn’t count.”

But then you reach a certain age (let me guess, 34?) and a lot of your pants are getting REALLY FUCKING TIGHT FOR NO GOOD REASON OTHER THAN YOU’VE BEEN EATING LIKE SHIT AND NOT WORKING OUT LATELY, and you go “shit, I think calories count even when I’m out of town.” Hotel gyms are depressing little rooms with way too many mirrors, and only a few machines, so you’re going to feel like you’re on a shame stage. It’s as if the hotel gym architects were like, “how can we instill as much shame as possible on people who are, otherwise, in the middle of treating their bodies like a dumpster? I know! More mirrors and less machines!”

There is a silver lining, here, though. The hotel workout counts for 2.7 times more than a workout at home. (Seriously?) I’m not even fucking exaggerating, guys. Thus, if you walk 2 miles on a treadmill at a hotel gym, it’s the same as running 5.4 miles (did he just do that math in his head?!?!) Screw a silver lining, that line is gold babayyyy!!! Why? Because the more viable excuses there are to not work out, the more calories are burned. And fighting through excuses is the top qualification for “being an adult.” So after that uphill walk on the treadmill (can’t run because of the ankle/knee/hip) make sure you walk through the lobby showing off your sweaty t-shirt to all the children.

Being more excited about morning coffee than night drinks on the weekends

You still won’t admit it, but I know. You’re not “just tired.” The reason you’re not ordering another drink with your now-more-fun-than-you friend is because you know that drink puts your Saturday morning coffee trip into jeopardy. All you’re thinking about is “jesus, the next drink guarantees a meaningful hangover, doesn’t it? DOES IT? WILL SOMEBODY TELL ME IF THIS DRINK IS THE ONE THAT CAUSES THE DIZZYING HEADACHE TOMORROW MORNING?!?!” Next thing you know, your friends are asking why you’re holding your arms out and screaming “GIMME A SIGN!” into the cool, night sky.

What you’re doing, though, is trying to make sure that you squeeze every second of I’m-off-work enjoyment out of your weekend, though. THAT is adult; knowing that all a crippling hangover does is ruin precious not-at-work time that is meant to be spent doing things other than asking your wife “why didn’t we get Gatorades last night?”

What you should be doing is getting up and taking the doggo to the coffee place with the baked TREATS! and people wearing cooler clothes than you. Eventually, you’ll be one of the people showing up in workout gear, having just got out of some class taught by a woman in her 50s who is FUCKING RIPPED, but let’s just take it step by step. First step is being there not hungover, and wearing something other than sweatpants and the t-shirt you slept in. Guess what? You’re wearing jeans AND A NOT-THAT-WRINKLED GOLF SHIRT!!! (Standing applause?!?! Y’all are too much!!!)

Now listen close, how do you tell that you’re in the right kind of coffee shop to maximize Saturday morning enjoyment? The more unwelcome you feel, the better the coffee and TREATS! are going to be. The air inside the shop smells not just like coffee and bread, but THE BEST COFFEE AND BREAD. The trade off is that the people who work there aren’t going to like you. Big stinking deal is what I say! I wouldn’t like a decently dressed adult getting to enjoy a lovely, not-hungover Saturday morning while I was busy getting berated by my boss for not perfecting my “flower design thingy” on top of the lattes I was serving.

Listening to the music your parents listened to and saying things like, “I can’t believe I used to complain when they’d put this on.”

It doesn’t make much sense that at the same age you realize that you were a dick as a kid, that you’re simultaneously making the decision that you would like a kid of your own. 34 is right about the age where you start really listening to the music your parents played when you were a snot-nosed little bitch in the backseat of their car. In between eating your boogers, you’d barf out “this song stinks!” or “ughhhhhh, no more country!” while your parents just shook their heads. How my parents never barked something back like, “until you stop shitting your pants on a semi-regular basis, shut the fuck up!” is amazing to me. But kids are dicks, and the time when you realize this THE MOST is when you’re 34, sitting in the backseat of a car and a song from The Eagles comes on and you think, “this song is fucking awesome, and I can’t believe I ever criticized my parents for liking it.” (To everyone saying “the Eagles suck,” I’d ask you to really examine if you actually think that…or, if you just love “The Big Lebowski” so much that you feel compelled to say that whenever hearing The Eagles.)

I remember hating The Eagles, country music, Jackson Browne, Fleetwood Mac, and, GOD I WAS SUCH A DICK AS A KID! That music is so good! Maybe all kids are just undercover hipsters who think that saying they don’t like something that those closest to them like will make them seem “different”? Or, maybe kids are just selfish people who think that their decisions are better than people who have been making decisions for far longer than they have because…their brains are small? Whatever the reason, they’re just not nice! And the time that this really crystalizes comes around the same time you’re telling you’re wife that you “think it’s time”. “Now that I know for a fact that kids are a-holes, I’d like to add another to the population.” HOW DOES THAT MAKE SENSE?!?!

But maybe that’s just it: the time you know that you’re ready for a kid comes at the exact time that you’re adult enough to realize that you were a jerk as a kid for not liking your parents’ music. So, try this: if you’re thinking that you may be ready to bring a tiny jerk into the world, put on that band/artist that your parents used to listen to ALL THE TIME when you were young. If you put it on, and you still think the music sucks, guess what? Still not ready for a kid. But, if you put it on and immediately feel guilty for heckling the people who paid for your entire life, then you’re ready to be a parent. We’ll call this the “Jimmyschair Parent Test” and I would patent it if I knew how to do that and thought it could actually end up becoming profitable.

MY WORLD:

The VP and I are moving tomorrow and…well, things are stressful in Casa De La Chair. Last night we got mad at each other for no real good reason, but we’re still kinda’ not talking to each other because neither of us want to give in and admit that they were wrong. Do I think I was wrong? Yeah, duh, I know I was wrong. BUT! I’ve been taking a lot of “L’s” lately and so, I’m just not in the mood to willfully accept another right now.

What will probably happen is I’ll get home after work tonight, pretend like we’re totally fine and then notice that The VP isn’t making eye contact with me. She won’t give me the TOTAL silent treatment, but her answers will be short and the jokes will be forced. If I make a joke, she’ll pretend not to hear it because laughing = saying we’re “okay”. So it’ll get tense, but I’ll tell myself to hold off just a bit longer until SHE’S the one to break. But then I’ll make a FAT cocktail (fancy boiiiiii) get deep into it and really start to miss feeling like the person I live with doesn’t hate me.

Then I’ll break, admit that I was wrong, have to nod through her reliving the blow by blow account of EXACTLY when I went wrong, and then…get kinda’ mad but stifle it and remind her of the things that “weren’t the best.” This whole “trying to save face” exercise for the both of us will go on for no less than 16 minutes.

Happy Friday!

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Moving. It’s the fucking worst.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The post-move drink. It’s a top 5er.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I think I’m done until football season…WHICH IS FAST APPROACHING!

I’m Moving to Maine

MY WORLD:

Over the past few years, whenever I go out of town, I start a conversation with myself about whether or not I could see myself living wherever I’m going. Do you do this too? When did vacations or work trips turn into scouting expeditions featuring Zillow searches and me saying things to an Oyster shucker I just met, like, “I keep thinking I should move to Maine.” He responded with a “yeah, you should,” but what he probably meant was, “dude, I don’t know you or care.” I went to Maine this weekend and told a lot of people that moving there was on my mind, and now I’m doing the thing where I return to normal life and talk myself out of doing something drastic. But why?

I’m sure that part of the reason I think about moving as much as I do is because I know, deep down, that the VP and I probably won’t. What’s the risk of thinking about jumping off the high-dive, when you don’t even know where a pool with a high-dive exists? The process of moving to a new state is so daunting that considering it ‘basically impossible’ feels like an instinctual reaction. Yeah, I’m in a better mood on vacation or when on a work trip that feels more like a vacation than sitting behind my desk does, but am I drunk? (You? I mean, probably.)

I’d never been to Portland, Maine before and I thought it was beautiful (HOT TAKES ON A MONDAY, Y’ALL!!!) “It feels like I’m in a postcard,” is a line I think I said to 42 different people over the span of my three days in the Northeast. (Yeah, I’m sure it’s been used before, but I still DIG that line. SO BACK OFF!) It smelled like the ocean with seagulls providing the soundtrack to hipster coffee shops, oysters, and people who seemed in better shape and more relaxed than me.

I’ve never been awed by the ocean, but I was this time…fuckin’ lighthouses are cool to look at from a distance and not go in! (I did that!) We drove to a more rural area one day, through woods and fields with little creeks and houses with decks where cell phone reception wasn’t very good. Thankfully, though, it was good enough for me to run a Zillow search that revealed houses near creeks in Maine go for less than apartments with creeks in Chicago. (See what I did there? With the creeks thing?) So I went into “well, could we actually figure out a way to live here?”-mode.

This consists of me telling the people around me “I think I wanna move to Maine”; me texting The VP that “I think I wanna move to Maine”; and me asking the guy who just rang me up for my first Maine bagel if I “should move to Maine?” It’s a scientific and thorough fact-finding mission, one that has been honed over the past two years of being annoyed with Chicago rent prices along with OTHER PERSONAL ISSUES THAT I DON’T FEEL LIKE DISSECTING RIGHT THIS SECOND!

Usually, the people around me will toss a “I think I’m supposed to laugh here”-chuckle my way; The VP will say something along the lines of, “yeah? Do you think I could open a wine and cheese shop there?”; and the bagel man will pretend not to be annoyed with yet another out-of-towner idealizing a place where he works as a cashier for a local bagel chain. (Does YOUR paradise include clocking in at a place called “Mister Bagel”?) I’ll push back on the courtesy laughs from those around me. I’ll remind The VP that just because she eating cheese and drinking wine doesn’t necessarily qualify you to open a wine and cheese shop. And I’ll take to heart when Bagel Man says, “yeah, you should come here.” (He’s definitely not saying that because it’s just the easiest thing to say in that moment. HE REALLY KNOWS THAT I SHOULD BE IN MAINE!!!)

Then at night, I’ll have a few drinks, try to think of what I’d do to…ya know, make money in Maine, and come up with something attainable, like “writing something that sells for hundreds of thousands of dollars.” (This blog ain’t it, buddy!) BUT MAYBE, for a few minutes, it feels like something that could happen and then I get to imagine my new Maine life. Living in a house by a creek with a deck means I could sit on a rocking chair in the morning and LOOK OUT AT A CREEK WHILE EXFOLIATING MY FACE WITH THE STEAM COMING FROM MY HOT CUP OF COFFEE!!! From there, I could write for a few hours, before bringing my dog on a long walk into town to get a sandwich that, somehow, doesn’t make me as fat as a sandwich in Chicago would. Oh, and my dog Belle? She gets it, “can’t be a psycho in Quaintville, USA,” so she lets kids touch her snout without sending them to the emergency room.

After leaving the “sandwiches that are good for you”-store, Belle and I swing over to The VP’s wine and cheese shop to sample the new cheese (Kraft singles?!?!) she brought in and congratulate her on being named Trip Advisor’s “Best Place to Spend Too Much Money And Then Brag to People That You Love Supporting Local Business.” When doggo and I return, it’s time for me to put my big, brown, comfy boots on to do my afternoon hike workout that leaves me sweaty and with, somehow, a perfectly full and manicured beard. (That’s what happens when you get into hiking, right?) We cook a dinner with wooden utensils and eat outside after telling all the bugs and mosquitoes to politely “leave us alone” because in Maine, the bugs listen.

There are people that live lives like this. Do I know any? No, but I’ve seen it in the movies and I’m not being facetious when I say that I’m beginning to fully realize that stuff in movies is inspired by stuff seen by real people in real life. People have seen lives like this and written them onto screens. And I have watched those screens before. I’VE SEENT IT!

So why will I do what I always do after a trip, and spend the next few days talking myself out of what I just saw and felt and thought? I have no problem with getting whiskey-drunk, but hopes-and-dreams-and-fantasies-drunk is a line I just can’t cross. I’m aware this has been a rambling entry, but sometimes that’s what a blog should be. And since this has already been all over the place, how about I just stop before talking myself back into the sobriety that includes whiskey but not the other more fun stuff?

OUR WORLD:

Heat wave > Polar vortex.

LETS HATE THIS AT THE SAME TIME TOGETHER:

When you make a can of chicken noodle soup that has been in your cabinet for a year and, after eating, you start wondering how the chicken in that can was still safe to eat…Is it actually chicken? Yeah? Then how is it okay after sitting in a room temperature can for a year?

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Tom Cruise doing Tom Cruise things will always be one of my favorite things.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Yeah, I lost all my bets on The British Open and got to watch them lose while on a plane back from Maine. The guy sitting next to me was wearing sunglasses the whole flight and, I swear, he was doing it so he could watch me rolling my eyes at Shane Lowry ruining my picks.

K, bye.

That First NFL Sunday Morning of the Year

*Trying something new-ish today. From time to time, when I don’t feel like there’s a ton going on in either “my world” or “our world,” I’m going to fantasize about something that I am realistically excited about. I’m going to call it “34-Year-Old Dude Mundane Fantasy Time”

34-YEAR-OLD DUDE MUNDANE FANTASY TIME:

-First NFL Sunday Morning of the Year-

Close your eyes with me for a little bit (yes, even if you’re driving). It’s the first full NFL Sunday of the year, and since you stopped yourself after beer #3 last night , you’re up before 7am. You kinda wake your wife up on purpose as you make your way out of bed, but you pretend like it’s an accident, and say something like “shit, I’m sorry. Hey, I’m going to the gym.” She needs to know that you’re going to the gym (those not-washboard-abs be damned!). You get to the gym and make eye contact with a few people inside. Guess what? This is the responsible adults club and, by showing up early on a Sunday, you’re now a part of it; don’t forget to pick up your “Look-At-Me-Not-Wasting-Plastic”-tote bag.

Now what you do during this gym visit won’t matter as long as you’re there for at least 48 minutes. The bike with the recliner seat on the back? Yeah, that’s fine. But, keep in mind, if you actually do break a sweat, then you can get a bagel on your way back. NFL Pregame shows are on every single television, and most of the people there are wearing some sort of Bears something. As you climb on the elliptical (the winner of the “hey, it’s not the easiest machine in here”-award) you share a look with the woman next to you, and connect…”Go Bears,” you say. Unfortunately, she was wearing headphones, which was obvious because headphones aren’t invisible, so now she’s scrunching her face and taking her headphones off mid-workout. “No, no, it’s ok-” but it’s too late.

“What did you say?” She annoyingly asks.

“Nevermind, sorry.” Okay, minor bump in the road. Don’t let it derail your First NFL Sunday mood. DON’T CRY! STOP CRYING!!! Distract yourself by pushing yourself into those supremely awkward “is this what running in outer space is like?”-elliptical movements. You’ve got a fantasy football podcast going and guess what? THAT HEADPHONE WEARING STRUMPET NEXT TO YOU BE DAMNED!!! YOU’RE FUCKING BACK! Matta’ fack, take a look at what resistance she’s doing, go a few levels higher on your machine and make a promise to yourself that you won’t get off your elliptical before she gets off hers….NO MATTER WHAT! If she catches you looking at her screen, that’s fine. Let her deal with her own insecurities, did Jordan feel bad for dunking on white guards? Not your fault that you’re a psychopath elliptical killer.

After dominating a 50 minute elliptical session, guess what time it is? Yep, it’s time to walk out of the gym and over to the bagel and coffee place a half block away. Before returning to your kingdom, you must treat the hungover scoundrels to a “this is what an adult looks like on a Sunday morning”-show.

You know you’ve earned a bagel with extra cream cheese, so order that shit, but make sure you loudly say “excuse me!” while pointing at your very sweaty t-shirt to anyone who gets close to you. If you feel like expanding that to a “excuse me, I got up at 7 on a Sunday and worked out for an hour which is why my shirt is so so so sweaty and I don’t want you and the sleep in your eyes to accidentally touch it and be grossed out,” that’s fine. A little long? Sure, but being isn’t being completely honest always okay?

Once you get back to your apartment, with an extra iced coffee for your VP of Ops (not my VP, right?…Wait, what? She said she was staying at her friends last night…) Your VP will, most likely, have something like Food Network, or Not-Football on TV, but once you walk in she’ll know that her television minutes are numbered. How mad can she get, though, when you hand over her iced coffee, made exactly the way she likes it, AND you offer to split your bagel with cream cheese with her? You debated the entire ride home whether you’d offer to split the bagel, and decided that there’s no way out of it (why didn’t you just get a second bagel YOU IDIOT!!!)

“Half for you, half for me,” you say while praying that she says ”no thanks, you earned the whole-”

“Perfect! Thanks babe!” As she extends an open hand….

Okay, that did not go as planned and now you’re really sad, BUT! BUT! Working out following by only half a bagel? Get ready to try those college jeans on again because you are now OFFICIALLY SKINNY! (Make sure you give her the bottom half of the bagel. Enjoy that plain-ass bottom babayyy!)

It’s a little before 10am, so you’re practically tingling with football electricity right now. You’ve got 11 minutes to shower before the least horrible NFL pregame show starts, so clock is ticking, But, once you get in the bathroom, you look down at your phone and remember, “I haven’t told my group chat that I worked out yet.” The chat is on fire about fantasy and gambling bullshit, but you passively insert yourself by texting out something that starts with “now that I got the gym out of the way…” Now they know. All the other slobs in the group now feel guilty for eating their unearned toaster strudels. Mission Goddamn Accomplished.

It’ll seem like you should shower while listening to that Fantasy Football Podcast, but come on, even you know that podcast is boring. (Are there people in the world that take silent showers?) So switch it up for those last 9 minutes before NFL Pregame and put some music, like Eric Church or Darius Rucker’s “Wagon Wheel” on. I’m talking music that screams good times, beers and sun. Even if it’s raining. Sing along in the shower, and while it doesn’t have to be loud enough for Old Wifey to hear it, if you’re feeling into it, don’t hold back. This is your friggin’ day, random 34 year-old dude.

Towel around your waste, stroll through the living room holding your Eric Church-blastin’ iPhone while doing that cool sway strut on your way to change. If you’re really looking to enter that “annoying, but funny”-zone, I suggest standing directly in front of the television your VP is watching and pretending not to hear her when she asks you to move. It’ll start as funny, then she’ll get bad, but if you hold strong, it’ll return to funny. Be patient.

Change into your stretchy jeans (what an invention!) and that Bears t-shirt you bought in college, but is big and soft enough to still not look ridiculous. When you re-emerge from the bedroom, donning your best NFL FanDude uniform, be prepared for your VP to play some whole “I’m not giving you the remote”-game. Now, listen carefully because this is a very dangerous time for all of us. At first, you’ll think it’s cute when she holds the remote away, or sits on it, or runs into the other room with it. But when she continues for that extra 1.3 minutes, that may extend to the start of that pregame show you’re aiming for, DO NOT ENTER THE LEGITIMATE ANGER ZONE. GUYS! IT’S NOT WORTH IT! This means avoiding the following:

Throwing a harsh cuss in, like “just gimme the FUCKING remote!”
Saying “I’ll just watch it in the bedroom” and then, having re-entered the bedroom, slamming the door.
Bringing up the coffee and half bagel you got her no less than 16 minutes ago in an attempt to drown her in guilt lagoon.

Just be cool, be cool, EVERYONE BE COOL!!! (But be careful not to fake-laugh too hard either because that’ll just extend this).

When she relents, feel free to drop a “you know what? Actually, you wanna watch one more ‘Barefoot Contessa’?” and when she begins to light up, give her the old “PSYCHHHHHH!!!! FOOTBALL TIME BABAYYYYY!!!”

Phone in hand, computer screen on the coffee table in front of you, it’s football time. The only thing left is your inner countdown to when you can crack that first beer. I say as long as you’re within 30 minutes of game time, you’re golden. And if that feels like forever away, remember that your “get out of beer jail”-card is a bloody mary.

Wait, you hear that?

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.

The Current State of (like, some) Television (10-3-18)

OUR WORLD:

When all you do for a couple weeks is go to work, hang at home with a recovering VP (remember El Lumperoni? Yeah, that’s gone now), sleep and eat and okay, there was some other stuff too….(stay focused Jimmy, this is what writing takes!) THE POINT IS WE’VE DONE A LOT OF EATING AND WATCHING TELEVISION LATELY BECAUSE SURGERY IS A PERFECT EXCUSE TO DO JUST THAT AND NOT FEEL TOO GUILTY ABOUT IT! One of the few cool things about helping your wife recover from a surgery is that you kinda’ get to act like you’re recovering too and that means eating whatever you want and not going out and watching as much television as you want WITHOUT GUILT!!! I have descended into full-on “it’s okay if we don’t do that”-mode. So, in an effort to take a break from being completely useless in the name of solidarity (no, my ankle is still not fully whole, but I’m not a look-at-me-guy) I would like to provide some quick reviews for tv shows that you can watch when your mother in law is staying with you as your wife recovers from lumperoni surgery:

“The First” (Netflix)

Hand up, it was going to be nearly impossible for me not to love this show. It’s about space and Sean Penn is the star? Even if it turned out to be a rap-musical with Penn doing an Arnold Schwarzenneger voice, I would probably talk myself into loving it because “Sean Penn takes chances!” Fortunately, SEAN PENN USED HIS NORMAL VOICE AND IT’S NOT A RAP-MUSICAL! (For a second, I thought about just leaving my review for this show at that. Can you even imagine?!?! Aren’t I a GOOF?!?!?!)

This show is about Sean Penn trying to be a part of the first mission to Mars while repairing a fractured relationship with a college-aged daughter who likes doing the scary drugs sometimes. I know what you’re thinking: “Didn’t Sean Penn also play father to a college-aged daughter in ‘Mystic River’?” Uh, you bet your fucking ass he did! CAN YOU SAY WHEELHOUSE?!?! If you weren’t convinced yet that Sean Penn isn’t the best “I love my daughter, but I have personal demons”-actor in the game, this show settles that. Nobody walks the tightrope of love and struggle better than Penn, and that’s on display again in “The First”. Remember the “is that my daughter?!?!” scene in “Mystic River”? There are a couple of those scenes throughout the first season of this show, and they are not overacted, or overdramatic. They give you goosebumps as you shake your head and say “nobody is a better actor than Sean Penn.”

So like, have I driven home the fact that I love Sean Penn enough yet? K, got it. Aside from King Sean, this show is deliberate with it’s storylines and relationships. Nothing feels forced or manipulated or not completely realistic. For a show about going to mars 20ish years in the future, that’s not a minor accomplishment. The technological advances they show in society feel attainable and not silly. There are no flying cars, but there are self-driven cars and…uh…Jimmy likey (dude, 3rd person, really?) This is the kind of show that comes on five years ago and everyone is blown away by how well-done it is. TV is so crowded with fantastic shows now that the top tier don’t get the sort of adulation that they used to. “The First” belongs on that top tier.

Final Jimmyschair Verdict: Watch it and please don’t try to enlighten me about Sean Penn’s potentially sketchy personal life because I don’t care about that.

“The Voice” (NBC)

I used to be very ready to jump to the defense of this show whenever the HATERS would start to get lippy. “But Blake and Adam have real chemistry!” is definitely a sentence I have said in the past. Unfortunately, my muscles are tired from not working them out (isn’t that called atrophy? I SAID THEY’RE TIRED!) so I don’t have it in me to defend this show like I used to. Kelly Clarkson and Jennifer Hudson now sit in between Adam and Blake and everything in this show just feels kinda’ played out and pointless.

Blake and Adam pretend to talk shit to each other, but it’s hard to replicate genuine shit talk when you’re on NBC and can’t say things that real guy friends say to each other, like “oh yeah? How about you go fuck yourself?” I know these dudes have that in them too because Blake drinks a lot and Adam has been on Howard Stern. You know they’re dying to tell each other to “suck on deez nuts,” but they can’t because of the government so instead they gently make fun of their manicured wardrobes. Oh, and that’s another thing, can Adam cool it with the sweatpants? He’s gotta be almost 40 and is still not in a cool enough rock band to wear whatever he wants without consequences. He’s wearing sweatpants and Jordans and I, for one, have had enough.

The real weak spot of the show though is that neither myself or The VP or The VP’s mom or your mom or anyone you know can think of one actual star that this show has produced. Quick, who is the biggest star to ever come from the contestant pool of “The Voice”? That, my friends, is what we in the biz like to call “a problem.” If you connect with a contestant and are rooting for them to become the next Kelly Clarkson, then there are stakes and a real pot of gold at the end of their rainbow. But when you’re rooting for someone to be as famous as that country guy who sang rock songs a few years back and no one has heard from since, it feels less critical. And speaking of Kelly Clarkson, who knew she was unbelievably annoying? She thinks everything she says is hilarious, she gets up and walks around on stage way too much and makes everything about her. Hey Kelly, please stick to singing songs that nobody I know actually likes that much and GET OUT OF MY FACE!

Final Jimmyschair Verdict: Welcome to Skipville, USA. This show has run its course and Adam Levine is beginning to realize it’s happening right before his band becomes the most unpopular pick to ever play the Super Bowl Halftime Show.

“Chopped” (Food Network)

This show is perfect background noise while you scroll Twitter and Instagram and Snapchat and your group chat and GMail and espn.com and WE’RE ALL ADDICTED TO OUR PHONES! Did background noise shows like this exist before we were all more interested in staring at our phones? Or, did they come about because some twisted Hollywood genius was like “maybe we should create shows that are non-offensive and don’t take much attention so people can Instagram-stalk their co-workers overweight aunt with the weird hair.” Chicken or the egg, am I right?

Non-offensive background noise is a new category of television show that I believe is VASTLY under appreciated. Most of the time, when I ask The VP what she wants to watch, I’m hit with a “I don’t care” as she continues to not look at me, transfixed by her phone screen. I’m not throwing shade at that answer, either, because I know I do the same thing sometimes. When either of us are in that mode, we can’t put on a new cool show that takes concentration because we’ll get annoyed that one of us is constantly asking “wait, who’s that guy?” So instead, it’s easier to put on some non-offensive, minimum concentration required type of show that masks our new most glaring addiction. These types of shows are especially valuable when your mother in law is in town and staying at your place. (Real talk, I like when my mother in law stays with us. No snappy zinger coming, I just do like it.)

Oh, so “Chopped”? You know it. The show does what it’s supposed to do. So instead of evaluating specific aspects of a show that you’re watching to avoid needing to monitor specifics, here are some other shows that fall into the “Non-offensive Background Noise” category: All of Food Network, “The Office” reruns, “Parks and Rec” reruns, “Seinfeld” reruns, “Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee”, and regular season baseball games.

Final Jimmyschair Verdict: Put this on and get back to what you really want to do–watching videos of kids getting hurt on Instagram. Seriously, check out @kidsgettinghurt on Insta. It’s gold.

MY WORLD:

So I still need to finish my Ireland recaps, but I was starting to get self-conscious that the 7 readers of this blog were like “we get it, you went to Ireland!” Hitting the pause button on those for now. As I alluded to in the above section, the VP had surgery last week to get that lump out of her booby. It went well and our friends are amazing and I want to write about it but my writing muscles, like the rest of my body, are out of shape right now. Gimme a couple of days back in the gym (aka on my dining room table chair sitting and writing) and I’ll turn out a decent “my world”. If this section is reading like an excuse today, that’s because it is. Honestly only here.

LET’S LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The new album from Metric is AMAZING. Here’s a live version of my favorite song off of it…

LET’S HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

That Cubs game last night.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I have been an absolute fiend gambling on everything since I got back from Ireland. I got up over $400, so I pulled $300 out (a check I have yet to receive yet btw but I’m not even worried about it…not even one little bit that I haven’t received a check I asked for 11 days ago now). Feeling especially hot, I bet almost every college football game last weekend and lost every single bet I made. Not kidding. Every single bet. So, I made another deposit for NFL Sunday and, again, lost every single bet I made. Then I made another deposit last night before the Cubs game because the year they won the World Series I bet on them every game so it was really for luck’s sake. And the Cubs lost last night. In short, things have been going less than ideal.

(My account is currently at: $0.00)

K bye.

I Don’t Know How to Do Many Simple Things (8/21/18)

MY WORLD:

A few days ago, I got out of the shower, grabbed the towel hanging on the towel hangy thing (hook!) and brought it to my nose. The classic “as long as this towel doesn’t smell like dinosaur B.O., it’s clean”-check. I know what you’re thinking, “but Jimmy, did you also look at the towel to see if there were any obvious stains?” Do I look like an animal? Of course I did. So that means it’s clean, right? As long as there are no obvious stains and it doesn’t stink, a towel is clean no matter how many consecutive days you have used said towel.

When I was a kid, I used to marvel at how my parents just knew stuff. They knew how to get to the mall. They knew how to check my toothbrush to see if I had actually brushed my teeth. They knew how to make sandwiches! THEY KNEW EVERYTHING! And while they passed on enough survival skills for me to make it 33 years, they did not pass on some skills that seem relatively meaningless, but have become gaping holes in my progress as an adult. Oh, and when I say “they did not pass on,” I mean “I pretended to listen when they taught me about _______.” Aside from not knowing how to tell if a towel is dirty or not, here are some other adult-things that I should know, but definitely do not…and probably never will.

How to hang a picture:

It was much easier to hide this deficiency when I was living alone or with roommates. There’s always one roommate with a fancy toolbox who can’t wait to show off the ruler-thing with the water bubble in the middle. (Yes, I know it’s called a leveler, but ruler-thing with water bubble in the middle just felt right.) Whenever we’d move in and got to the point where it was time to hang all our “sweet sports posters” around the apartment, I’d pretend that I was busy doing something else until THAT roommate broke out the power drill and started asking “how’s this look here?” Whenever I’d hear that question, my body would finally relax, for my secret was safe another day. “Looks great! I’ll start putting away the silverware!” Little did they know that the silverware was already jammed into a drawer that I could no longer open. No matter, Jimmy NoHang was out of the line of fire.

When I lived alone, and there was no one to inspect or judge what I did to the wall, I would only hang stuff with wires in the back. My process? Nail in the wall, wire on the nail. BOOM! JIMMY HANGS IS IN THE BUILDING! Did I find the stud? Pretty hard to find the stud when you have no idea what that is so…uh…no, I did not find El Stud. An anchor? Those are only for boats! Was the frame level? Take five steps back, squint and you tell me if it looks “pretty level.” Better yet, let me save you those five steps, it’s fine. Was it centered? Did you not just hear me re: the picture being level? I TOOK FIVE STEPS BACK, LOOKED AT IT AND SAID “IT’S PRETTY GOOD.” WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!?!?

Unfortunately, using the caveman method of hanging stuff on walls (nail, slam, hang!) is a secret not meant to see the light of an apartment shared with a significant other. The friggin’ VP of Ops sniffed out this deficiency of mine the way a dog smells another dog on your jeans. When we first moved in together she handed me a super heavy mirror to “just hang over the dresser.” You got it babe! That mirror rested on top of our dresser for the 2 years we were in that apartment and was the subject of multiple “wait! don’t hit the mirror!”-warnings. Mirrors that lean against a wall, instead of being hung on a wall, were very in at the time.

Since then, we have moved to a new place where I actually DID hang said mirror on the wall…by putting a wire on the back of it and slamming multiple nails into a wall. Quick tip on nails and walls: if you hit the nail with a hammer and it doesn’t go any further, just hit the nail harder. If the nail still doesn’t budge, then take it out and move it a little to the side and try the exact same process. The mirror now hides about 8 false starts for me and the nails, but it’s up! And no, I am not worry-free when I sit directly in front of it. Have you ever played the “I hope this big, heavy mirror doesn’t fall on me!”game? It’s a rush!

mirror

How to know when it’s time for a new razor:

When I used the Gillette Mach Whatever that had the moisturizer strip on the top, I would know I needed a new razor when that strip went bare. But then, I grew up and realized that, that dumb fuckin’ strip was probably just a devious ploy by evil Johnny Gillette to sell more razors. Not so fast! I can use this razor until…shit…when?

My dad used to use the disposable razors when I was a kid, which made the whole process easy: use it, toss it. But I saw commercials about the Mach 3 that looked really cool and my friends were using it so, what? I’m supposed to be the lame kid who uses the cheap bic razors? NOT ON MY WATCH! And it’s not like I’m Beardy McThickBeard ova’ here, so I can probably get away with using the same Gillette for….shit….I still have no idea. Worse yet, the Gillette’s are kinda’ expensive AND the razor refills are locked behind glass at most stores. This is me every time I’m in a store looking at the razors behind the glass, “I’ve gotta go ALL THE WAY up to the front and ask someone to come unlock these? Meh, I’m sure I’ll be fine for another week.” I do that for like a hundred weeks in a row.

The breaking point usually comes that once or twice a year when I pump myself up about finally, truly becoming a cool adult man. It’s usually the same time of the year where I’ll go to a decent store, buy 8 of the same shirts in different colors and a new pair of pants because “this is what real men do.” On the way home from the outlet mall (leave that part out!) I’ll pass a Walgreens and be like “you know what? I’m going to buy a nice razor because that’s what real men do.” Yeah! I want the best a man can get! Then, as I wait for Angry Paulette to come and unlock the razor treasure chest on aisle 4, I’ll stare at my phone and start to panic as I type in the password for my Chase Mobile Account. By the time Angry Paulette arrives with the tiny key, I 100% do not want to spend $17.99 on this razor anymore, but she’s already here and it would be weird if I didn’t after putting her through the enormous trouble of walking from aisle 4 to the register and back. So, I smile through all her huffing and puffing as I follow her back to the register with my overpriced Gillette while going over how long I can go without paying my cable bill before they shut it off. It’s cool guys, you’ve got a whole ‘nother month.

How to change a tire:

Tough day for my masculinity on today’s chair, but these are deeply held secrets that must be brought out into the open because I couldn’t think of anything else to write about today! The fact that I don’t know how to change a tire is something I really really really did not want to write about because I’m positive that it will lead to me blowing out a tire in the very near future. It’s called jinxing yourself, and if you don’t believe in that stuff then I’m jealous of your rational thought patterns.

This is an instance where my dad definitely taught me how to change a tire multiple times, but I just pretended like I was listening every time and never actually learned how to do it. The advent of internet phones has soothed my fears of this deficiency since I can just google “how to change my tire,” if it happens, but still. If The VP and I are driving to Mississippi and I blow out a tire in the middle of “who the fuck lives in a place without cell service”-Arkansas we are officially screwed.

What would probably happen is I would pretend to be calm about the whole situation while leafing through the car manual held in my glove compartment. When I’d get to the part about putting the car up on the jack though, my insecurities would get the best of me and I would convince The VP that “shit, I’m missing a tool.” I’d act all mad about not being able to do it myself, but like “whoever put this tool kit together just forgot the…” I’d have to quickly come up with something that sounds like the name of the tool I’m missing. Okay okay, “whoever put this tool kit together just left out the tire iron.” THAT’S DEFINITELY A THING THAT SOUNDS NECESSARY!!! The VP would buy my book of lies and then we’d either have to wait for a not-scary older man to stop and help OR until the town put up a cell tower so I could google “how to find a not-scary older man who can come out here and change my tire for me, but tell my wife that the reason I couldn’t do it was because I was missing a tire iron.”

OUR WORLD:

The VMAs were on last night and The VP and I had absolutely zero interest in watching it. Instead, she went through Instagram and showed me pictures of the artists that were winning awards and we played the “oh my god, we’re so old!”-game. From afar, I hate this game, when people over 30 but under 45 laugh to each other about how old they feel because they can’t play video games all day or know the top-rated show on MTV anymore. Hey, lets chat about something super mundane that I did and then laugh because I followed it with a “oh my god, I’m so old” punchline! HAHAHAHAHA! Pass the barf bag.

But when you’re alone in your apartment, and feeling older than you’ve ever felt because that’s the truth, you kinda…laugh to yourself about how old you are. And guess what I am right now? I’m alone in my apartment. DAMNIT! Let’s go through the Top 10 list of things that make people over 30 feel old even though we’re not and it’s actually kinda’ obnoxious when we say stuff like this:

When we suffer a relatively minor injury.
When we are hungover.
When we scroll through Instagram and mention how many pictures of babies are in our feeds.
When we cook at home.
When we choose to stay in on a Friday night and text apologies to our friends because “we’re so lame lol”
When we talk about buying a Costco. membership.
When we go to any college sporting event at any college.
When we tell everyone with ears how busy we are at work.
When we find the one gray hair on our heads and then proudly talk about how you’re not going to pull it out.
When we get up early.

I hate this shit.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

From time to time, I’ll go on kicks where I get super back into 90s bands. Currently, I’m in a anything-Chris-Cornell sings on phase. Enjoy the best rock voice of all-time.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

When you eat leftovers in the morning and then lunchtime hits and you’re like “well, am I allowed to even eat lunch after smashing through that whole plate of leftovers at 9:07 this morning?” So you just get a small bag of almonds and look forward to dinner.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

I bet on preseason football over the weekend and went 1 for 2. Overall, I lost $7 this weekend but that’s because of baseball. By the way, FUCK BETTING ON BASEBALL! I mean, I’m still gonna do it, but I’ve decided I hate it. HATE.

(My account currently sits at $43.18)

K bye.

How I Actually Hurt My Ankle & “The Bachelorette” Finally Ended!

MY WORLD:

Do you remember when you were younger and the rough-housing you were doing with your siblings or friends came to an abrupt end when one of you got ACTUALLY hurt? No one questioned how you got hurt because you were always surrounded by people who saw you smash your face into a hammock pole while running a post route in your friend’s front yard. One second you’re all laughing, the next, you’re flat on your back with a panicked look, while saying “help, help, help, help.” Reminiscing about those “help, help, help, help” moments is hysterical, until you find yourself on your back again. Only this time, it’s in a Chicago alley at 11:30 PM and you’re saying those words to your dog; who’s more interested in that bag under the dumpster next to you. As I have come to find out since late Saturday night, when I took my numbah one pretty gurl for what should have been a nondescript walk, the difference between childhood and adulthood injuries is stark; childhood injuries are funny, adulthood injuries are suspicious.

I took Belle for a walk on Saturday night, stepped in a pothole in the middle of an alley we were walking down, and destroyed my ankle. That’s it! That’s the story! (I’ve never trusted these “pothole” stories). I crumpled to the ground, not knowing exactly what happened, aside from the fact that my right ankle felt like it exploded, and laid on my back trying not to cry. (If anyone has video of this, I’m sure it would go viral. “ManBaby almost cries alone on back in alley.”) Belle was sweet and kinda sniffed my face while also being like “dang that sucks ’bout yo leg, but lemme check out what’s under this dumpster!” I get it, dumpster searches and barking at minorities are Belle’s top priorities.

After hobbling up to my apartment, three flights of stairs that felt like ten billion flights of nail-crusted stairs, I told The VP that my ankle was dead. DEAD. DONEZO. FINISHED! She helped lay me down on our stupid, shitty couch that we took from our friend’s trash pile 2 years ago (not a joke) and got me long socks to wrap my grapefruit of an ankle with. Why socks? BECAUSE WE’RE THE ONLY ADULTS IN THE WORLD WHO DIDN’T HAVE A GODDAMN ACE BANDAGE IN THEIR HOUSE. Anyway, with my ankle wrapped in my V fashionable Nike knee socks, I started contemplating what the next few days were going to entail: constant leg pain, an obnoxious trip to a nearby x-ray room, and, most importantly, having to convince everyone that this wasn’t a “Jimmy was hammered drunk and did this”-incident. I could already hear the people in my head responding to the pothole story with “yeah, but what really happened?” I STEPPED IN A POTHOLE. THAT’S IT! (Pretty defensive IMVHO)

Now, I won’t lie, was I totally, completely sober? No, I was not. GOD FOR-FUCKING-BID I ENJOY AN OFF-DAY WITH A FEW ADULT BEVERAGES!!! I was a few beers deep when I took Belle on this fateful walk, but it’s not like I was challenging people to race me down a fire escape after my 14th shot of “whatever’s cheapest”-Tequila. First off, I don’t even really like tequila, so that’s hole number one in your “you had to be smashed argument”. (I do like margaritas, but we’re talking shot-wise here, folks. STAY FOCUSED!) Second! Wouldn’t you think I could come up with a cooler sounding story than “I stepped in a pothole” if I was actually trying to hide the fact that it was a drunken escapade gone wrong? I’m a writer (amateur) for chrissake! But still, the first two friends I texted about my injury replied with, essentially, the same responses: “how drunk were you?” There wasn’t a “oh, that sucks, I’m sorry,” or “ouch!” or “let me know if I can help while you’re UNABLE TO WALK AND PERFORM BASIC HUMAN FUNCTIONS.” NOPE! JUST BLATANT DISTRUST OF THE BACKGROUND SURROUNDING MY INJURY. BLATANT. DISTRUST.

Therfore, since it has become apparent that my “friends” will not believe the “ACTUAL STORY” regardless, I would like to put forth another scenario in which my ankle may have gotten injured…I will leave it up to the reader to decide how my ankle actually became the size of a grapefruit:

The Second Dunk Attempt Story:

So The VP and I were walking back home following a lovely meal we had just enjoyed at a local Italian eatery. Naturally, I had a salad and water because I don’t eat food for enjoyment, I simply eat for sustenance. You don’t put unleaded into a diesel engine, nah’mean? During our stroll, we encountered some local ruffians whistling and hooting and hollering at my lovely wife. Being the secure, masculine man that I am, I simply smiled and waved, as if to say “thank you, I agree.” Unfortunately, however, a member of said ruffian group, named Burt, misinterpreted my gratitude and decided to confront me.

“Think you’re better than me?” Asked the menacing Burt.

“Sir, what is your name? I would like to address you properly,” I responded as The VP attempted to pull me and my huge torso muscles in the opposite direction.

“My name is Burt,” he said–which is when I knew “this guy’s name is Burt.”

“Hi Burt, my name is Jimmy, I’m not sure if I’m better than you. However, I certainly was not meaning to imply that with my wave and toothy, picturesque smile. To be honest, I might be better than you at some things, but worse than you at others. If we spend the time tallying up everything, well, Burt, that would take days.”

“I’m talking about that,” Burt said as he pointed to the nearby basketball court.

Following some negotiation, Burt and I decided that we would decide who was better at dunking a basketball. The VP, never having seen me dunk before because I’m humble and don’t like to show off, pleaded with me to “just let it go.” But I couldn’t let it go; not with my wife’s honor at stake. So I tied my casual, yet fashionable Levi’s loafers extra tight and followed Burt to the basketball court.

Using the manners that my parents taught me when I was a young boy, I allowed Burt to go first. Burt grabbed the ball from one of his ruffian friends, pounded it twice on the ground to show that he was strong and ran towards to hoop. As he took off, he put the ball in his right hand and began a tomahawk-like motion as he neared the rim. His legs splaying through the air, he whipped the ball forward and…right into the front of the rim. Failure washed over Burt’s face as he landed. He missed his dunk and, even worse, pulled away from me when I tried to console him.

Now it was my turn. Unfortunately for you, the reader, I don’t want to get into too many details regarding my dunk because I’m so humble, but let’s just say it was a 360 windmill between the legs that left the ruffians stunned and my wife so proud that she immediately called her Mom to revel in what an amazing athlete she had married. But I don’t want to get into it further than that.

“Beginners luck!” Burt snarled as he whipped the basketball into my chest. “Do it again, or I won’t admit that you’re better than me at dunking!”

Not wanting to highlight Burt’s lack of intelligence by dispelling the faulty notion of “beginner’s luck,” I obliged his infantile request. However this time, while gliding through the air like a Peregrine Falcon approaching his unsuspecting prey, I noticed Burt sticking his leg under the basket, directly where my right foot would land post-awe-inspiring-dunk numero dos. Thankfully, my eye-body coordination is so stunningly fast, that I was able to adjust my landing immediately after throwing down yet another rim-rattling 360 windmill between the legs dunk.

Once landed, with my right foot narrowly missing Burt’s maliciously placed leg, I didn’t say anything to his now despondent-looking face. Instead, I simply winked at him and then blew a kiss to my adoring wife. That’s when Burt took the handgun out from his waistband and pistol-whipped my right ankle.

And that’s how my ankle got hurt.

OUR WORLD:

Last night, this season of “The Bachelorette” came to a merciful end after a 3 hour show that included about 6 minutes of interesting television: when Blake almost had a heat stroke while getting dumped, and when Garrett tried to explain that Instagram’s “Like” feature is too complicated for him to grasp. We can all agree that this season sucked because Becca has the personality of a plastic spork, and the only guy with charisma, Jordan, was probably a paid actor. So we move on and hope that next season they make Chad “The Bachelor”. But there is one thing that stuck with me throughout last night’s episode, that I just can’t shake…Chris Harrison SUCKS.

How is it that someone with no discernible talent becomes the face of the most popular television franchise on ABC? I understand the need to cast a “straight man” opposite some outlandish character in a buddy comedy, but why cast one to host an ultimately, mean-spirited reality dating show? When Blake came out last night and everyone was watching how sad he was about getting dumped in front of a gajillion people, Chris could’ve cut the tension with a little joke, or asked an insightful question about where he goes from here, or….ANYTHING OTHER THAN ASK “HOW DOES WATCHING THAT MAKE YOU FEEL?” That’s the question that people without functioning brains are wondering. “Hey Blake, when you watch that time you got kicked in the nuts while wearing a suit in 120 degree heat, does that make you feel good?”

Remember too, that this episode is Chris Harrison’s chance to shine. It’s the Super Bowl of his season where he is one of the main characters in the show and he comes to the table with the “how did that make you feel?”-question?!?! An ABC executive should have come out on stage at that very moment and stapled an oversized dunce cap to his dumb head while informing him that he has been sentenced to life in prison for “being a horribly stupid dating show host.” NO POSSIBILITY FOR PAROLE!

Quickly, here are my top 5 suggestions for people to replace Chris Harrison:

Dave Chappelle
Amy Schumer
Dr. Phil
O.J. Simpson
Barack Obama

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

My Mom posted a video about this dog on Facebook a few days ago and he’s now my second (maybe even first) favorite dog in the world.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

Chris Harrison.

JIMMY GAMBLES…

I’M AT $0 AFTER THE CUBS WON BY 2 LAST NIGHT EVEN THOUGH I BET THEM TO WIN BY 3-4. COOL GUYS!

K bye.

When Do We Get To Stop Lying? (7/11/18)

MY WORLD:

Last night The VP and I didn’t know what to do for dinner so we walked around the corner to some Mexican joint we’ve walked pass no less than ten hundred trillion times. It’s on a busy, shitty street and neither of us had ever heard of anyone who had tried it before so it had been easy to overlook. But whatever, we couldn’t make a decision so we chose the path of least resistance, figuring, how bad could it be?

And then we ate there and it was bad (what a story, Jimmy!!! Keep up this writing thing! Riveting stuff!) The server was not good at her job; giving The VP an “I don’t know” when asked whether the enchiladas were spicy. As a former server myself, I’m allowed to pick on them now, and this lady was awful. If you went to a doctor and asked what your treatment would entail, and she responded “I don’t know,” you’d find another doctor. So, off the bat, I was pissed that this woman couldn’t even fake pretending to be competent at her job. Then the food came.

It wasn’t the kind of bad where you can’t touch it, but more the type where you’re really hungry so you keep eating and saying “it’s fine,” to each other. If you ever want to feel like a dog willing to eat whatever is put in your bowl, try going to a mediocre Mexican restaurant where the only dinner conversation that’s allowed are the words “it’s fine.” (Does Belle say “it’s fine” every morning while eating that stale kibble from the giant plastic bag? Well, that’s because she can’t talk because she is a dog.)

When we finished, I went up to pay and our server asked how everything was. And this is what sparked what I wanted to write about this morning (finally! You sure you don’t want to blather on for another 3 paragraphs?!?!) I told the server that “it was good!” I even put an emphasis on the word “good” where I made myself sound excited when I said it. She smiled and I tipped her over 20% because of 33 year-old guilt complexes ONLY. But it made me feel like a dirty fucking liar. Why did I owe it to this stranger who couldn’t have been trying less at her job to make her feel like she and her place of employment earned my money? It’s like letting your dog up on the bed when she whines, or giving a kid a cookie when he starts to cry; simply reinforcing bad behavior.

I think there are a lot of sanctimonious people who love telling anyone with ears that they “never lie.” Well, I’d like to call that bluff. If these people “never lie,” then are they telling their 16 year-old waiter at the local Italian restaurant that their meatballs sucked ass? Because if you tell him they were good, you’re a liar. I don’t support conflating “being nice” with lying; these are mutually exclusive terms. The manner in which your honesty reveals itself, is when we can determine whether you’re nice or not. If I would’ve said “the food sucked. I hated the way you performed your job, and your hair is dumb” it would’ve been honest, but not nice. However, who is arguing that I’m a dick if I would’ve said “the enchiladas were cold, and the service could’ve been more helpful”? (Uh, I’m arguing that.) Isn’t that constructive criticism that could, ultimately, help this restaurant? (Please support Dickhead Jimmy’s crusade to save the shitty restaurants of the world!!!)

As we walked home, The VP could probably feel me stewing (were you grinding? Well then how could she feel you?) I definitely said “you know what? That was not good” a few times, as if to atone for my recent LIE. The VP, sensing that I was on the verge of some rant that she didn’t feel like placating, simply agreed and changed the subject quickly (which explains why you’re dumping it on the readers today. Thanks Jimmy!) But, I’m tired of the white lies. I’M SICK OF EM! Am I also sick of my cowardice taking over too many times in order to avoid a somewhat awkward, albeit honest, interaction with a stranger? Yeah, that too. Here are some other “white lie” situations that leave me feeling like a dirty fucking liar afterwards:

Whenever I thank and tip an Uber driver whose car smells like a lumberjack’s armpit and drives like he’s auditioning to be “Car Crash Victim #7” in the next “Mission Impossible” movie.

Is there a worse feeling in the entire universe than getting into an Uber, closing the door and then having your nostrils flare as you realize “oh no, I’m in a smelly car”? (There are worse feelings, but g’head make your point!) If your car is your livelihood and you work in a tip-based industry, wouldn’t you want to make sure that your car doesn’t make your customers want to vomit? I used to chalk it up to a “who gives a fuck?”-attitude on the part of the driver, but now I’m convinced that they just don’t know that their car smells like ass because NOBODY has the stones to tell them. The driver has simply become immune to the chronic B.O. smell of their car and is none the wiser thanks to cowardly passengers such as myself.

Then there are the drivers who dart in and out of lanes while mixing in the occasional seatbelt check of a slam on the brakes. Here’s a deal: if I have bruises across my chest from the hard stops of an Uber driver, the ride is free. Do drivers like this end up saving any meaningful amount of time? I’m convinced that they simply raise the blood pressure of every driver around them while saving POSSIBLY 9 seconds on total drive time. Traffic is death: there’s no escaping it. (Wow, deep.)

Whenever I’m in either of these types of Ubers-or both at the same time!-I end up just grumbling to myself or The VP the entire ride, only to thank the driver on my way out of the car and give him/her the standard “I’m not looking at my phone” Uber tip. This is why these drivers drive like this, guys! THAT’S WHAT I’M SAYING! If I would take the time to tell the Uber driver that the smell of his car reminded me of a high-school mathematician convention (Nerd B.O. is the most pungent), he/she may think “oh, maybe I should get my car cleaned or, at least, make sure I drive with the windows open.” Even if I left a bad review under the “stanky car, cranky driver” reason, that would surely help. If we all band together we can put an end to this epidemic! FOLLOW ME! FOLLOW ME TO FREEDOM!

Whenever I talk about how my life is going to my grandfather.

I’m sure Grandpa Irv doesn’t want to hear about my struggles with staying away from sugar and drinking too much, but telling him everything is “really good” is depriving him the chance to impart some wisdom of his. (Is that sarcastic?) No, that’s not sarcasm. I’ve been thinking about how every time I’m around my grandpa, I answer every question he asks about my life by starting with “it’s really good, actually.” Uh, that’s a lie. Everything isn’t bad, but isn’t everyone creeped out with the person in their life who ALWAYS says that EVERYTHING is going GREAT? Does that mean my grandpa is secretly creeped out by me? (Yes!) I’m imagining him going home with his girlfriend-yeah, he has a girlfriend-and being like “isn’t it creepy how Jimmy says that everything in his life is ‘really good’? He must be doing drugs or just plain stupid.” I bet his girlfriend nods along in agreement and they go to sleep thinking I’m some sort of simpleton. THIS IS AN UNMITIGATED DISASTER!

If I were my grandpa, I’d go into these grandkid hang sessions somewhat excited about getting to share some of the knowledge I’d gained from being around for so long. The way I can try to steer my younger brothers from mistakes I made, he could steer me away from potential adulthood missteps that he took. But you can’t give advice to someone who only insists that everything is “really good, actually.” He could press me on it, but what a waste of energy that is. He’s probably like, “fine, you don’t want my advice, I don’t need to give it. Have fun in that one bedroom apartment on the west side!” Maybe if I was honest and told him that I’m worried about providing for a family while trying to pay off some preposterous student loans, he’d enlighten me with some comforting words. Maybe he was in his 30s when he founded his carpet business that ended up paving the way for the comfortable life he has been able to lead? Maybe he could light the spark for me to take some risks that I’m too afraid to take now? But no, I’m content with little white lies about my life so as not to burden him with problems that aren’t his own.

That being said, there is the off-chance that I’m totally honest with him the next time we’re together and it causes him to back away from the table making “yuck” sounds before saying “good luck with all of that!” It’s a risk I am simply too insecure to take. But like, hey Grandpa, if you’re reading this and want to send me an inspirational e-mail, that’d be VV chill of you.

Whenever I talk to or about little babies…to anyone.

I’m just lying the entire time I’m talking about little babies. I’m talking like when they’re real new babies, I don’t know how to talk about them. They all look basically the same, aside from some have hair and some don’t, and all they do is cry and poop and move some of their fingers sometimes. Which parent does he/she look like? I never have any idea and yet, usually, just lie and make some lame joke about he looks like the local mailman. (Those jokes are never not funny FYI.) I’ll “talk” to the baby in a higher pitched voice and talk about how cute it is, but like, can we be real? They can’t understand me and I don’t know if it’s cute. It looks like every other baby I’ve ever seen. I’m sure some parents are reading this and labeling me a dick, but why am I supposed to be excited to interact with a thing that has no discernible look or personality? It’s like getting mad at someone for not being excited to meet and speak with a new floor. “Oh wow! It’s wood and kinda smooth!”

This doesn’t mean that I’m not proud of friends of mine who have had little babies. (Oh, is this the part where you protect yourself?) When I’m around friends of mine or The VPs who have had kids, I am instantly impressed that they have the maturity and stability to ensure the survival of a helpless creature. These parent-friends of mine LITERALLY have to save their babies’ lives multiple times a day, and I’m writing a blogpost complaining about mediocre enchiladas. Yeah, you’re more advanced than me!

However, when these life-saving heroes ask me about their 3 week-old’s personality, I wanna be like “uh, to be honest, your baby reminds me of my fingernail. Like, I know it’s a living thing, but I’m not getting much in the way of a relationship. I hope I don’t break it.” While that may be an instance of being honest without being nice, this is really a no-win situation. If I were to say “it has no discernible personality and looks like every baby I’ve ever seen,” the parents aren’t going to regale me with praise for my honesty. So I’m forced to lie and walk away feeling like complicit in society’s rouse to make every kid feel more special than they really are. (That got dark and kinda’ heavy there, bud. Maybe tone it down a notch next time?)

OUR WORLD:

It’s Wednesday and today’s “My World” section ran long. See ya’ out there.

LETS LOVE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

If you know me well, you know that I can’t handle scary movies because I’m a baby and they give me nightmares and I don’t like being scared. BUT! Every once in a blue moon, I kinda’ want to see one. The trailer for the newest Halloween movie looks prettttayyyyy pretttttayyyyy sweet. May have to man up and check this out.

LETS HATE THIS TOGETHER AT THE SAME TIME:

The Little League World Series is starting soon and that means that I won’t want to watch ESPN for like 3 weeks.

JIMMY GAMBLES:

Cool, guys. I let you know who I was betting on yesterday for the first time in weeks and you all jinx me. As if I need another reason to hate France, now they’ve actually taken money out of my pocket by beating Belgium yesterday. I guess I’m going to bet on England today because…I don’t know where Croatia actually is. That seems like sound reasoning. WHAT COULD GO WRONG?!?!

(My account is currently at $31.44)

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.