Epic pants purge! With the discerning help of my fashion-maven niece!

From the left: Give-away shorts. Give-away jeans. Keep shorts. Keep jeans.

Three Potential Area Rugs And Some Badass Camo Cargo Shorts You WISH You Were Cool Enough To Wear: A Study In Blues

I’m wearing my new shirt with two people having a knife fight on the sleeve!

Also: BLUE CAMO CARGO SHORTS!

Imma be catnip to the ladies ALL. DAY. LONG.

I’m having my sore knee indicted

And my ripstop camo cargo shorts investigated. BECAUSE THEY’RE TOTALLY COOL.

Apparently my mini-diatribe against halter necklines over the weekend upset a few of my halter-not-hostile (halter hugging? I’m trying to go for cheap alliteration here) friends

As penance, today I’m wearing to-the-knee orange camo cargo shorts with hangy string things, a Dockers T-shirt featuring a fake-vintage eagle logo of a fake pale ale, and electric-orange-and-electric-green running shoes that don’t go with anything in the known universe—all of which I’m selfie-ing in front of a plaid chair I love that apparently everyone else in the family thinks looks dated and sad.

So have at it, halter-lovers: MOCK ME.

Four serious allegations

OK. I’ll cop to the charges of wearing cargo shorts and owning Abercrombie & Fitch over the age of 22—and I will totally Javert you for turning me in, whoever you are—and I assume the other two charges are pre-emptive for grammar-shaming the robocall for saying “four serious allegations pressed on your name” and “so that we can discuss about this case” and for awkwardly flirting with any of the local police who might be cute, but I refuse to lower my standards to the point of calling an an upstate New York area code because I’m a Manhattan-or-nothing kind of wannabe New Yorker. 

So come and take me under custody—especially if we get to sing “Cell Block Tango”—cute local coppers!

More unrepentant cargo shorts—this time with breezy, sun-faded palm trees on them!

My name’s Jake (Hi, Jake!)

and I wear camo cargo shorts without irony (Gasp!).

Pre-work car selfie gymnastics

Snoopy shoes! Mickey ink! Cargo shorts! (Shut up.) But more importantly: Clean car -- I seem to have finally fully eradicated the effluvium of clumsiness lingering judgingly from the catastrophic Great Protein Shake Explosion of 2017. #Progress!

Back on track!

The tile is higher, the mirror is up, the switchplate is accessible, the tools are hiding in the sink where you can't see them ... and check out the subtle downlighting over the backsplash:

Even better, there's now a light above the mirror. And it's mounted nice and safe on a brand-new not-gonna-burn-the-house-down-like-the-developer-intended junction box:
Fun fact! I have a weird thing about lightbulbs. Specifically, I hate seeing them. So I will allow only lightbulb-hiding fixtures in my home. Which really limits my selection. Because apparently the whole damn world likes looking at lightbulbs with their little backlit way of announcing Hey! I'm 60 watts! From GE! And telling you this by having it written on my backlit head makes me classy!

And yes, I'm aware I'm once again posting gratuitously shirtless pix all over the Internets. But our air conditioner is on the don't-produce-cold-air-on-the-hottest-day-of-early-summer-while-Jake-spends-four-hours-on-home-renovations plan. So I did the aforementioned home renovation in my underpants. Because my cargo shorts got so wet I couldn't get up and down off my step stool. So off they came. And contrary to what you might think, hiding your lightbulbs is much easier in relatively dry underpants than in moist, saggy cargo shorts.