Quiz: How Dependent on Coffee Are You?

Coffee: the fuel that fuels a lot of us when the fuel tank is on empty. But just how dependent are you on this fuel? Take the ten question quiz below and find out. How does it work? Read each question and simply answer yes or no. At the end, total up the yeses and see where you fall on the dependency spectrum.

1. When you wake up in the morning the first thing you do is get coffee. I’m talking roll out of bed, still in your snoopy pajamas and not totally sure what day of the week it is first thing. Yes or No?

2. You dream about coffee more than once a week. Maybe you’re sipping a freshly brewed cup on the patio of some cafe in Milan, or maybe you’re dancing slowly to You’re Beautiful with a tall, dark, handsome cup of joe. Yes or No?

3. You have more than three cups a day. Yes or No?

4. You’ve thought about the idea of wearing one of those beer dispensing helmets and filling it with coffee. Yes or No?

5. You’ve thought about setting up an IV to pump coffee straight into your blood stream. Yes or No?

6. Sometimes you have trouble falling asleep because you’re so excited about the coffee you’re going to have in the morning. Yes or No?

7. When desperate, you’re willing to top off that cold, half empty cup of Maxwell that’s been sitting in the break room since Monday. It’s now Thursday. Yes or No?

8. You know when people talk about the love of their life and say how when they’re with them it’s like they’re in this bubble of complete bliss and happiness? Coffee does that for you. Yes or No?

9. When bummed out you often drive to the grocery store and spend a long amount of time just sitting in the coffee aisle taking in the smell. Yes or No?

10. You can’t remember the last day you went without coffee. Yes or No?

Okay, now that you’ve finished the quiz, it’s time to tally up the yeses. To do this, you’ll need to go back through the quiz and add up all the yeses you circled in either pen, pencil, or other marking device. (Oh, you didn’t use a marking device because you only had to count to ten at the most? That’s cool, too. Just don’t tell your buddy who is proudly taping his quiz to the refrigerator, that he completed in crayon.) Once you’ve done this, refer to the graphic below and view the results.

Yeses: 1-3 — Amount of coffee dependence: low

What this says about you: you’re not against a good cup of joe. You even like it, and probably enjoy one in the morning on the odd day or at a coffee shop with a friend, but you don’t rely on it to get through the day. You could just as easily go without it and not feel like your life is spiraling out of control.

Yeses: 4 to 6 — Amount of coffee dependence: medium

What this says about you: you’re like most Americans. Coffee plays an important role in your day. It gets you going in the morning, and often in the afternoon too. Everything seems a little more manageable and a little less exhausting when you have coffee by your side. Go without it, however, and you might want to stab somebody with a blade that wouldn’t physically do them any harm but would still probably sting a little.

Yeses: 7 to 10 — Amount of coffee dependence: high

What this says about you: for you, coffee is no longer just coffee. It’s something more. It’s a reliable companion. A shoulder to cry on. An ear to speak to. A friend to go on a road trip with. Like a long road trip, too. Perhaps you could start in Key West, Florida and drive all the way to Alaska. Yeah, that’d be fun. Coffee would probably even drive a little if you asked nicely. That’s because coffee is whatever you want it to be, really. And you quite possibly rely on it more than you should. Consult a doctor if necessary.

We All do Dumb Stuff Every Once in a While

Not too long ago, I encountered a printer problem. That is to say, I was trying to print something and my printer all but told me that it had decided to take on a new career and would not be performing printing services anymore. Or at least it didn’t think it would any time soon. Kind of a bummer, considering I’d gone through the frustrating process of setting it up only a week or so before.

With that in mind, I decided I would fix the problem then and there. No waiting around and hoping things would get better or the printer would change its mind on its own and come back from sipping martinis in Punta Cana. Me taking action and being assertive. And to do that, I needed to convince the printer that being a printer is what it was meant to be—similar to somebody convincing a struggling professional athlete or artist or chef or rock skipper that that is what they were meant to be. Always has been. Now it just needs to believe in itself. But, after a long distance call to the easternmost portion of the Dominican Republic, I could see my words were having no impact on the printers crippling self doubt. So I took matters into my own hands.

I began, of course, with Google. I typed in some broad definition of the problem and the brand of my printer, and was able to find some common themes pretty quickly. After clicking around on a number of different links that didn’t quite pinpoint my problem, I found myself halfway down a Yahoo Answers forum. Which was perhaps the first of many red flags I would encounter, but I’ve found useful information there before so I didn’t think too much about it. And, as luck would have it, some kind Yahoo Answers person was providing a link to “Tech Support”. It was even accompanied by some reassuring words to the friendliness and competence of the technicians, as well as eleven thumbs up to only one thumbs down. It seemed legitimate.

The link took me to a website that looked professional enough; the brand name of my printer was in the URL. There was also a giant, flashing phone number at the bottom of the page. Needless to say, I called that number.

It was a decision that was totally out of character for me. I’m not usually one to take action like this. I’m the guy that prefers to let the problem marinate a good while. For example, in college, I waited almost an entire summer before checking my spring grades one semester because I didn’t want the results to ruin my time off. (A week before fall classes began, I conceded, feeling that the time was appropriate, and found the results to be better than expected; something that only happened because I waited until I was ready. If I would have checked the day after classes ended, my grades would have of course been drastically worse, because that’s how things work.) But, for whatever reason, today was the day that was all going to change. I was going to be more decisive and stuff. No over thinking. A step in the right direction.

On the other end of the phone was a man with an Indian accent. He was nice enough, and seemed interested in helping me solve my problem. So when he asked me to use software that would allow him access to my desktop, it was an easy decision: yeah, one second. Sure, his suggestions—potential solutions—had all been rather vague, and could probably be applied to any type of problem you had, like how can one make the color blue using only the condiments in his refrigerator. And sure, he hadn’t so much as given me one real credential. But by golly I was taking action, dammit!

A few downloads later and a foreign mouse was zipping around my desktop. He clicked around rather aimlessly for a while before clicking on something that pulled up some sort of code. It was here that he was able to identify the problem. “Hackers,” he said, highlighting two lines of code that apparently showed two unauthorized users accessing my wifi. This was the source of my printer’s “communication error”.

I had grown increasingly skeptical ever since allowing him access to my desktop. It all just felt, well, kind of like I was involved in a big scam and people somewhere were probably pointing fingers and laughing at me. But, there was this code. And he had highlighted an area that didn’t totally seem to contradict what he was saying. So I went one step further. “What do you suggest?” I asked. A question he gladly answered. Yes, he could fix the problem. However, he would need 20 to 30 minutes of complete and undisturbed access to my desktop.

My heart sank. For so long I didn’t want to believe it. Not him. Not here. Not now. We haven’t even discussed our dreams yet. Even so, I could no longer deny the obvious: I was being scammed.

My attitude changed immediately. We were no longer guys who were probably going to grab a beer later. We were now enemies. As such, I got politely aggressive. I told him this all sounded good and well, but it was getting late and I had somewhere I needed to be. So if we could pick this up later in the day that would be great. He was reluctant to the plan, but I held firm and we soon said our goodbyes. Upon which, I deleted everything I had just downloaded from my computer, put it in the trash, beat it with a hammer, set it on fire, drove to the Atlantic, boated out a few miles, tied some rocks to it, and threw it into the ocean.

I felt sick to my stomach. Not to the extent of having your heart broken sick to your stomach, but probably to the extent of making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and having your dog eat it, only to then find out it was actually the last pieces of bread in the entire apartment, sick to your stomach. Even after my recent trip to the Atlantic, I was still unconvinced about what this strange man may or may not have access to on my computer. I desperately wanted somebody to tell me everything was alright. So I asked both my fiance and twin brother, both of whom are infinitely more computer/tech savvy than I, if they knew anything about scanning for computer viruses, and they both said roughly the same thing: I was probably fine, but if I was really concerned about it I should take it to a computer store.

I didn’t really want to do this. I wasn’t embarrassed to tell a computer professional what I had just done—I’d tell him every little detail of what had just happened, from our blossoming friendship to him ripping my heart out—I just didn’t really want to make the drive. So I sat in silence and stewed about it for the next hour or so, contemplating the worst. Surely by now this guy, this masked man, has access to all my pertinent information and is buying a very heavily used Razor scooter and a bunch of obscure magazine subscriptions with my life savings. How could I have been so gullible? How could I have made such a dumb mistake?

Then, a little while later, I realized something and felt less bad: we all do dumb stuff every once in a while. Sure, some of us, myself included, do more than others—but we’re all guilty of it. And that’s okay. It’s part of life. All we can do is try our best and attempt to limit how many dumb mistakes we make. Or at least that’s what I’m going to tell myself, dammit!

[Authors note: some six hours later, after not so much as touching a single button on the printer, it printed off some five copies of the page I had been trying to print. I guess my words did have an impact. That, or Punta Cana wasn’t what the printer thought it would be.]

Ridiculous Office Rules

A lot of work environments have some sort of office place rules. Some are mundane and expected—like treat your fellow co-workers with respect and don’t drive the boss’s Ferrari into a dumpster. But some can be pretty ridiculous. The following 18 rules are a testament to that.

1. Fifteen minute mandatory yoga sessions immediately following lunch. You work at a trendy upstart. Jeans are acceptable. Flannel shirts are encouraged; the glasses with no lenses, too. And if you can’t touch your toes by the end of the week you’re gonna have to take a 20 percent pay cut.

2. Wear a bow tie with three colors when two colors was clearly said to be the minimum in the employee contract. They said two colors was the minimum, but that hasn’t been acceptable since before Donny from two cubicles over was born.

3. Wear less clothing on Thursday than you did on Wednesday, but still an appropriate amount. For example, you could wear suspenders on Wednesday and a regular belt on Thursday. Or mittens with holes in the fingertips as to not hamper workplace performance and then no mittens. Or a wool jacket making you physically uncomfortable for the entirety of the day, and regular, sane workplace attire again the next day. That sort of thing.

4. Can’t type the letter ‘A’ in emails. If you do, you have to wear a giant letter A on your shirt for the rest of the day.

5. Nerf War Friday. This may sound cool, and it is the first couple of times, but ever since you took a dart to the eye and a karate kick to the back by the always overzealous Ken, you think it’s less cool.

6. No coffee on Monday. Only acceptable substitute: the instant decaf coffee typically only reserved for an overnight backpacking trip for nobody ever.

7. When somebody finishes a project everybody has to stomp their feet twice, clap once, and do a chair spin while yelling, “Woo!”

8. Replace all ‘th’ sounds in names with an ‘f’ sound instead. Jonathan becomes Jonafan. Nathan becomes Nafan. Bethany becomes Befany. And so on. Anybody who has one of these names isn’t made aware of the rule.

9. 20 push-ups for anyone who says “On Fleek” or “Let me tell you a story about a little biscuit who met some gravy last night” when referring to a date or intimate connection. This one everybody agrees on. Even Jason whose favorite word combination is “transcendent yo.”

10. If you fart, silent or otherwise, you have to claim it by saying, “Yahtzee!” 20 push-ups for not claiming it.

11. Mandatory water cooler talk for five minutes at the end of every hour. Any topic of conversation is acceptable, but borderline inappropriate and invasive questions are encouraged.

12. Drink 48 ounces of water ever workday. To track performance, every employee must fill up a company issued 48 ounce water bottle at the start of the workday. There are checks every other hour to track performance by a guy whose only job is to check water drinking consumption. (And before you even think about dumping water, just know: Becky, a friend of a friend of an acquaintance from a few years back, once attempted to dump water into a flower pot, but was caught by said guy who’s only job is to check water drinking consumption, and was fined by an amount of 5 extra ounces the next day. She never showed up to work again. There’s also supposedly a pretty sizable lawsuit in the works.)

13. Every Friday at 2:30 there’s a 30 minute discussion about underground art. You have to make at least one contribution to the conversation.

14. No chair can recline past a 35 degree angle. There’s a guy whose only job is to measure chair reclining angles. He’s ruthless.

15. Paper airplane competition every Tuesday, with the winner getting the rest of the day off. As a result, this competition is taken quite seriously, and Brianna definitely didn’t smash a computer with a golf club that one time for a controversial measurement.

16. Slow clap every time somebody returns to the room after being gone longer than 5 minutes.

17. Be able to tell the difference between the ten different candles that are used throughout the office. Blindfolded.

18. Show up to work ten minutes early. OK, this is probably good practice. As long as you’re getting paid for it, at least. If you’re not, though, its’s more than acceptable to tell the boss this isn’t a high school basketball game, man.

Lost in Turkey

There was some combination of hand gesturing and words in Turkish that seemed to suggest no as I attempted to take my belt and shoes off. I was sweating more than I would have liked, and the confusion of whether or not I should start taking clothes off only made me sweat more.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, and no—I was not seeking the comfort of another human being in a foreign land. I was, however, in a foreign airport (Istanbul, to be exact). And I was seeking to board my flight to Antalya. The latter of which was leaving in a matter of minutes.

Why Antalya? Soccer. You see, months before this, I had flown to California and participated in a soccer combine. What that means, basically, is that a bunch of people who wanted to get paid to play soccer showed up at the same place at the same time to play in front of people who claimed to be of reasonable enough importance. I did well there, I guess, and the people of power invited me to play in front of professional scouts in Antalya, Turkey. An invitation I gladly accepted.

The team, as well as the coaching staff, was compiled of people from all parts of the globe—a good majority scattered around the United States, a handful from South Africa, and some from England. Which meant a couple of things, among them being everybody’s familiarity with McDonald’s. But it also meant everybody had a different flight schedule. As such, we were to all meet at our final location (Antalya) at a pre-determined spot (a cafe just outside the airport). Simple enough, right?

Up until the Istanbul airport my travels had gone smoothly. My biggest problems, in fact, had been occupying large amounts of time between layovers and figuring out European outlets. But since arriving off the plane from Germany, things had gone… less smooth. For starters, there was the incident where I tried to get through the wrong customs line. You know, the one for only Turkish citizens (which feels like something I should have been able to figure out). After hopping a hand rail or two, however, I was able to correct that mistake and eventually make my way to the front of the correct customs line (the one for non-Turkish citizens), where I was promptly informed, rather bluntly, and with a look one might give their seven-year-old after eating sand, that I needed a Visa. I won’t go into detail why I didn’t have one, or why I thought I didn’t need one—we’ll chalk it up to miscommunication—but the fact of the matter was this: it was very much something I needed. The customs guy made it very clear. Painstakingly clear. I can’t emphasize enough how clear he made it. It was like he was telling his mother not to mix his white underwear with his Superman underwear, something he thought she should have already figured out, especially after last weeks debacle. So I backtracked a good bit, found a place that would sell me one, and spent twenty dollars to acquire it. All in all, it was a pretty easy process—even for a first time Visa-purchaser such as myself—but it did cost me a fair amount of time. Not ideal, considering this was my shortest layover; forty five minutes from when I landed to when I departed. Which, at this point, left me with about fifteen minutes before my plane was scheduled to take off. And before getting on that plane I had to make my way back through customs, through security on the other side, and then to a bus somewhere in the airport that would take me to that plane. (Did I mention this was my first time traveling out of the country?)

Eventually, after enough hand gesturing, I determined that the nice Istanbul security men and women did in fact NOT want me to disrobe. As it turns out, it’s not a requirement to take off one’s shoes and belt in a Turkish airport (maybe it’s not a requirement in any other country outside of the United States, I don’t know, this was and is my only such experience). It is, however, one of the faster ways you can expose yourself as being an American. Well, that and wearing American flag pants and a camouflage bandana while gulping down 56 ounces of soda.

I stomped my shoes on, buckled my belt, grabbed my bags, thanked security for not having to give a very PG strip tease, and rushed through the rest of security and into a large open area of the airport. It was almost stop-sign like in shape, but more sides. Maybe a decagon, I don’t know. And at each side was a hallway leading to another section of the airport. I needed to take one of these. The only problem was, I had no idea which one.

It was an overwhelming sensation. Being in this crowded, foreign airport. Running behind, not knowing where to go, while everybody around me seemed to know exactly where they were supposed to go. The airport was all but spinning as I stood there and tried to gather myself. I attempted to navigate by sign, but most of it was written in Turkish. And the little that was written in English didn’t exactly paint a clear picture. Finally, though, I saw something that looked promising enough and took off down the corridor, hoping for the best. Soon, I came upon some stairs, at the bottom of which were a bunch of passengers boarding a bus. Which, by some minor miracle, was the bus I needed.

The flight from Istanbul to Antalya was relatively short. Maybe an hour and a half. For flying, that’s basically enough time to ascend, level out for a little while, perhaps just long enough to enjoy a sandwich, and descend. Which we did. It all went rather smoothly, too, including the eating of my sandwich, which just so happened to be a turkey sandwich—something I thought was more than amusing, and would document with a picture.

Upon landing in Antalya, however, I was greeted with a feeling of uneasiness. This despite the amusement of eating a Turkey sandwich on a Turkish plane somewhere in Turkey. With all the chaos in Istanbul, I hadn’t had much time to think about it before. But as I grabbed my bags and exited the plane I couldn’t help but wonder: what if nobody’s there to meet me? I mean, sure, that’s an unlikely scenario. After all, this is a professional organization and trips like this are what fund their existence, so surely following through on a plan and punctuality are things they believe in, but still: what if?

I convinced myself it was just my imagination. Of course that’s not going to happen, Devon, this is real life. The professional world. People do what they say they are going to do, that’s just how it works. There will be a team of guys in red track suits in the cafe, like we discussed, holding signs that say something like, hey young man, yeah, you, the one looking right at us thinking, ‘are those the guys who said they were going to meet me here?’ Of course we are! Yay for people who do what they say they are going to do! This is all so wonderful! People are great! The world is full of magic and wonder and common courtesy, who needs to be skeptical of others? While we’re at it, would you mind giving us the numbers to your checking account?’  Right?

Wrong. Nobody was there to meet me upon arriving at the cafe outside the airport. Nobody was wearing a red track suit. Nobody was holding a surprisingly descriptive sign answering all my unvoiced questions, easing my nerves and pointing me in the right direction. Just a number of people greeting loved ones, and others trying to leave the airport to find their ride. In fact, it was all pretty dead.

Not knowing what else to do, I took up a seat in the cafe. When—or if—somebody was going to show up, this is where they would come, I thought. I was welcomed by a waiter, who asked if he could get me anything. Surprisingly, there wasn’t as much of a language barrier as I thought there would be. At least, not with him. He spoke good enough english, to the point where we were able to communicate rather easily with basic words and physical gestures. I thanked him, but politely told him I was okay; water would be fine. He responded, politely informing me, in order to sit in this cafe I would have to order something that cost actual money. So I reluctantly purchased a tea. (Spending money wasn’t exactly at the top of my to-do list. After all, I may soon need to buy a scooter, some goggles, a scarf, and a map to a lost city where I could find enough gold to buy a plane ticket back to the United States.)

As I sat there, sipping my tea, I thought about what I could do in the event that somebody never came. I went back through my email—using data, which cost just about the same amount as buying a medium sized yacht—to make sure I was in the right spot, which I was, then I looked up the address of where we were supposed to stay for the next two weeks, some 45 minutes away. An expensive taxi, perhaps?

Just then, an American looking kid, roughly the same age as me, walked through the cafe looking just as confused as I was. It was the best thing I’d seen since stepping foot in Antalya. We made eye contact eventually—being the only two people in the cafe there was always a good chance this would happen—and confirmed what we were both thinking: we were here for the same reason.

This was enormously comforting. Sure, there was still no solution to the larger problem, but at least there was somebody to solve the problem with. And an American at that (which may or may not be a good thing, but at least we could communicate and get made fun of together). We chatted, more about soccer and college than our current predicament. He had gone to school in Hawaii, something I was fascinated with and couldn’t stop asking questions about. Like how much did milk cost there? He also ordered a water and got away with it, something I wasn’t totally cool about with our waiter.

This back and forth continued on for a good while. Between the stories and laughs, it was all but the perfect first date. Even so, there was always an underlying feeling of angst. After all, we were in an unfamiliar country, both of us halfway around the world from home, very much looking the part. And still no sign of anyone.

Minutes that first crept by were now escaping us in chunks. Ten here, fifteen there, five more just for fun. If you were attending a lecture on something you didn’t really care for, you’d be pleased at how the time was passing. But, unfortunately for us, we were lost in Turkey instead. Finally, though, with the question of how the two of us would proceed from here at the forefront of our conversation, we saw something in the distance. People, to be exact. Wearing something red. Yep, it was a couple of guys wearing red track suits, heading our way. And only an hour late.


I’d like to think there’s some meaning I can take away from this story. And who knows, maybe there is. Something about throwing yourself into the deep end, the unknown, and finding out what you’re made of. Or getting out of your comfort zone, or being spontaneous, or not freaking out when things look bleak, or the fact that the professional world isn’t always so professional. But maybe it’s none of that. Maybe it’s nothing more than being totally lost halfway around the world and hoping for the best. And hey, if nothing else, there’s always eating a turkey sandwich on a Turkish plane somewhere in Turkey. And that seems pretty special to me. So much so that I’ve created a list of things one could do that would be equally special in other countries.

Things One Could Do That Would be Equally Special in Other Countries as Eating a Turkey Sandwich in Turkey

1. Get covered in grease in Greece. Go to Greece, maybe Athens. Spend a good while there enjoying all it has to offer—meet somebody special, drink fancy wine, walk the grounds of the original Olympic games. Before you know it, you of course fall in love with all things Greece and decide to live there for a while. You work at an Auto shop, for money to live, and then realize months later that you ironically get covered in grease daily. You laugh a little.

2. Drink a can of ‘Duh’ in Canada. I envision this drink being comparable to a Sprite. Not too overwhelming, just something with a little carbonation. Crack it open and enjoy everything about this.

3. Meet and befriend twins in Germany named Germ and E. This speaks for itself.

4. Find a patch of green land in Greenland. This may be impossible. Pics or it didn’t happen.

5. Dance with a girl named Fran in France. When people ask what you two are doing, tell them you’re ‘Francing’.

6. Stub your toe in Spain. Really sell this one. When people ask if you’re okay, say, of course I’m not okay, I’m in so much spain. This works similar to using meow instead of now. Repeat ad nauseam.

7. Say ‘in the uh’ in India. It would probably look like this:

You [pointing at nothing in particular]: “What’s in there?”
Stranger: “In where?”
You: “In the uh… in the uh… I don’t know, man. I just wanted to say ‘in the uh’. Thank you, and sorry for wasting your time.”

8. Find more than one toy whale in Wales. Again, pics or it didn’t happen.

9. Find a banana in the Czech Republic. And when you do, say this to the next person you see, “So I’m sure you get this all the time, and I think the answer is pretty obvious, but is this how Banana Republic was founded?”

10. Eat chili on a chilly day in Chile. I think we all knew this was going to happen.

Running Has Its Moments

Over the years I’ve done my fair share of running. Not because I’m a runner by nature, or one of those people who just loves to run, but because I grew up playing soccer and doing so involves a good bit of running. Running in games. Running in practices. Running in my free time in order to be in good enough shape to run the duration of the game, and to potentially do so better than the guy next to me. In other words, running and I were pretty close. Maybe even close enough to grab an ice cream cone on the weekend together.

It wasn’t until a couple of years ago when I hung ‘em up for good that I really stopped running. And, for a while, it was nice. Actually, it was better than nice. It’s not that I disliked running—if anything, it was the opposite; I always enjoyed the challenge and discipline it required, even the uncomfortableness of it—and I like to think I was pretty okay at it, but for the first time in a long time I didn’t have to run. And I liked that.

Recently, though, I began running again. Or at least I’m trying to run again (some days are better than others, and some days involve more sitting on the couch wearing sweatpants than others). For a number of reasons, really, among them being training for a half marathon. But if I’m being honest, I kind of just wanted to.

Which is weird. Running isn’t fun. It’s the opposite of fun. Like hitting yourself in the toe with a hammer hard enough to be uncomfortable but soft enough to be tolerable, for an extended period of time. But at the same time, there’s something desirable about it.

For me, running is a place of mental respite. A place I can escape to when my mind is troubled. Sure, it can also be a good place to think, but run far enough or hard enough and sooner or later your mind gets quiet. And then, at that point, all that matters is the next step. Not a professional, or financial, or relationship woe, or frustration with the dog tracking mud all over the house and generally being a maniac, just one foot in front of the other, until you do it enough times to get to wherever you’re going. Beautiful, quiet tranquility.

But that’s not to say that’s the only purpose running serves. Hopefully, on most days, you’re not running for those reasons at all. Hopefully you have more days filled with love and hope than you do anguish and turmoil. Hopefully you can run because you thought it was simply something that might benefit you. In some way, at least.

When I’m running I go through the aforementioned stages. First, I think about whatever is on my mind—a relationship, writing, the future. Then, after enough miles, my mind gets quiet and all that concerns me is putting one foot in front of the other. All this, I like to think, is part of a process to recharge.

Think of your mind as a battery. For a better visual, say that little iPhone battery icon on the top right corner of the screen. Maybe it’s a 6 Plus. Maybe it’s a 5s. Maybe it’s a piece of cardboard that you drew an iPhone on with sharpie, and went so far as to draw a little battery icon in the corner (and then in that case, well played). And before you run, you’re mind may not be fully charged. Perhaps, a lot of the time, it’s closer to red than it is green. But then you run and it starts filling up again, full of good, positive, creative energy, and before you know it your mind is fully charged, ready to tackle whatever challenge lies ahead.

Cool, right?

It’s because of all this, coupled with some intangible, unexplainable thing, that running is magnetic. Even though 90 percent of the time you hate it, and question what sane human being would do this horrible thing to themselves, when you get done you think to yourself, ah, that wasn’t so bad, I think I’ll do it again tomorrow.

If none of that resonates with you, there’s surely something in there about discipline, or pushing through discomfort and adversity, or accomplishing your goals. Not to mention the whole thing about running being healthy for you. Which is also pretty neat, especially when you start getting older and begin to realize nachos aren’t keeping that midsection tight.

Thoughts During a 3 Mile Run

Pre-run: Alright! It’s a nice day. The sun is out. I’ve got my new running shoes, which definitely weren’t overpriced. I mean, when you consider all the running I’m going to be doing it was definitely worth it. Snickers would agree with me. (Snickers is a moody cat that thinks running is for peasants. He also knows his way around a twice baked potato.)

Mile 0.0: Okay, I better do some stretching. Don’t want to pull anything. Let’s start with some toe-touching. How long am I supposed to do this? Can people actually touch their toes? OK, good enough. Maybe some arm swings or something now. Yep. That should do it.

0.1: This is nice. Pleasant, even.

0.2: Look at that, a bird feeding her young. How sweet.

0.4: Oh, another person running. It looks like they’re having a good time too. Man, you really can’t beat this.

0.6: Should I be breathing this hard?

0.65: No seriously, should I? This doesn’t seem healthy. I sound like a guy trying to pound a cheeseburger while climbing Everest.

0.8: Not even a mile yet? Surely I’ve gone farther than that.

0.9: Okay I’ve definitely gone farther than a mile by now. I don’t care what the trail or my fancy watch with fancy distance tracking features tells me! It’s all a scam by the government!

1.0: This was a mistake. A terrible mistake. I realize that now.


1.5: Brownies.

1.51: Cake.

1.52: Cookie dough.

1.53: One of those giant subs you see at parties or in a meme.

1.54: Big steamy pile of lasagna.

1.55: Grandma’s casserole.

1.56: Pizza.



1.71: I didn’t mean that. I’m sure he’s a nice person. The park bench, too.

1.8 to 2.6:

2.7: If I ever get through this I promise I’ll do better, God. I’ll work harder at my job. I’ll be a better friend. I won’t take the good times for granted.

2.8: The end is near!

2.85: So close I can taste it.

2.9: Seriously, only steps away now!


3.0: Ah, that wasn’t so bad. I think I’ll do it again tomorrow.

9 Ways to Appear Busy at Work

Let me preface this by saying I’m a firm believer in hard work. There’s just no substitute for it, whatever the profession. Heck, you could be a fly on the wall with the sole responsibility of being a fly on the wall, but stop working hard and leave your post and all of a sudden you’re not a fly on the wall anymore and you’re fired. It’s as simple as that. That said, though, there are moments during any given day, or entire days for that matter, where you just don’t feel like doing any work (take anytime around the holidays, for example; or Friday’s; or Saturday’s where you get called in unexpectedly; or any day after 4; or that 30-minute grace period after lunch). And understandably so. However, that doesn’t mean you can expect to do nothing and get away with it. For that reason, I’ve provided a few ways to appear busy at work, while actually doing nothing constructive at all.

1. Stare off into space while stroking your chin thoughtfully. Staring off into space is perhaps the easiest way to get busted for doing nothing. And if you’re doing it without stroking your chin that’s exactly what will happen, because it’s quite apparent you’re just daydreaming. However, stare off into space while stroking your chin and you become somebody who is busy creating workplace magic.

2. Look at your co-workers and mimic their movements. Joanne’s crossing her legs? Do it. Trevor’s scratching his nose? Do it. Cindy’s raising an apple to her mouth? Take her apple and do it.

3. Refresh your email. That’s not to say you should read all of your emails. That would involve work, after all. Simply refresh them. Over and over and over again.

4. Organize your desk or work space. Is there a Post-it Note that seems to be crooked? Or a pen or pencil sitting at the wrong angle in your pen or pencil cup holder? Fix it. Oh, is your desk or work space in perfect order? Trash it. Spill coffee everywhere. Clumsily dump old paper files all over the place. Throw the computer monitor through a wall. Then fix it.

5. Look worryingly at your computer while taking a drink of something. Nothing says I’m solving a tough work complication like somebody drinking a Diet Mountain Dew while looking at their computer with a look of despair. The best part about this is you could be looking at anything on your monitor, too. Get caught up on the latest news by reading something from a well respected publication, or knock out a few minutes playing snake. It doesn’t matter. Just keep that brow furrowed and continue to sip away.

6. Sit on the toilet for an inordinate amount of time. Everybody loves going to the bathroom at work and getting paid for it. It’s one of the greater little pleasures of being on the job. So why not prolong the experience and sit there a little longer than you need to. Heck, go for an hour. See what you can get away with. If anybody calls you out, tell them you had bad Taco Bell last night and it’s a battlefield in there.

7. Make coffee. Coffee is to the workplace what cigarettes are to the movie version of prison. It doesn’t matter what time of day it is, people always want it, and Rebecca from three cubicles down isn’t above trading a week’s worth of lunches for a freshly brewed cup. So by being the guy making the coffee, you’re not only doing everybody a favor, but you’re also not doing any work at all. If there’s already a pot of freshly brewed coffee, dump it out and start again. Nobody has to know.

8. Look for something in your backpack or briefcase or purse or whatever it is you use to carry work documents. The main thing here is you’re looking for something that’s not there. That way you can never find it, and how much time you spend looking for it is totally up to you. Pro-tip: start rummaging through said item calmly, but become increasingly agitated as time passes to the point of losing all your composure and throwing said item against the wall. Now that you have everybody’s attention, tell them it wasn’t there and you’re going to go look for it in the car.

9. Take out the trash. This works similarly to making coffee. The main difference, however, is that it’s a thankless job. Nobody wants to take out the trash. There’s no real reward, and, to state the obvious, it doesn’t smell very good. Especially since Tony, your boss, likes to dispose of his half eaten tuna sandwich in it every single day. But that means there’s more opportunity for you. After all, there’s plenty of trash, but not enough willing bodies to take it out. So be the hero your workplace needs.

10 Tremendous Things About the Christmas Season

There’s Christmas, and then there’s the Christmas season. The former is one single day of magic, and the latter is many days of magic, spanning a little over a month, beginning the moment after you eat that last piece of turkey on Thanksgiving all the way up to the New Year. And while it’s not technically a season—at least on paper like Fall, Spring, Winter, and Summer—it’s every bit as deserving of the title. Now, with the seasoning coming to a close, it only feels fitting to reflect and acknowledge some of the tremendous things about it. Hopefully you were able to enjoy a few of them yourself.

1. The change in weather. The extent to which you experience this is entirely dependent on where you live. For example, if you live in Arizona, it’s still going to be Arizona and frying an egg on the sidewalk is always in play. However, for much of the country, the Christmas season means a shift in the weather. Temperatures dip. Leaves age a lifetime in just a few short weeks. Little white specks of snow dot the sky for the first time in almost a year. It’s everything from a Hallmark movie in the middle of December and more.

2. Christmas movies. Speaking of Hallmark’s in the middle of December, this time of year is great for movies. Sappy movies. Old movies. New movies. Short movies made by your 8-year-old nephew on his Mom’s iPhone that make you question your knowledge of technology and classic French literature. And, of course, Elf.

3. Mittens. Two main pros here. First, they keep your hands warm. This means you can take comfortable strolls through the neighborhood with loved ones or throw snow balls at your little cousin for up to seven times longer than normal. And second, they’re fashionable, pairing well with anything from a stylish winter jacket to a peacoat made entirely out of a trash bag.

4. Eggnog. Nothing says it’s the Christmas season like eggnog being served at a family gathering, or being offered as the milkshake flavor of the month at local diners. It’s as Christmas season as a drink gets without being one of those red cups from Starbucks.

5. Eggnog with alcohol. Like number 4, but with alcohol.

6. Ugly sweaters. During the Christmas season ugly sweaters go from why would anyone get a fuzzy sweater with a print of a penguin riding a reindeer being chased by an angry Santa in his skivvies to why would anyone NOT get a fuzzy sweater with a print of a penguin riding a reindeer being chased by an angry Santa in his skivvies and is that David Beckham wearing it? It’s simply the stylish thing to wear.

7. Fires. Because there’s nothing cozier than sitting around a fire with loved ones during the Christmas season. If it’s snowing outside, even better. Pro-tip: this is best when complimented with a beverage—perhaps some hot chocolate, or egg nog with a little too much of Grandma’s not-so-secret bottle of bourbon.

8. Christmas music. Imagine a nice cup of coffee in the morning, or a drive home from work, or yourself at work doing work things. Now imagine it with Christmas music. Better, right?

9. Board games/card games/party games. What happens when you get a bunch of family members together after a few generous portions of food and perhaps a little too much of Grandma’s eggnog? Uncle Dan getting wildly upset with cousin Tim for his inadequate portrayal of a turtle playing a harmonica in a game of charades. And it’s fantastic.

10. Time away from work. That’s not to say work isn’t important. It is, and it’s very much an integral part of our lives. However, it’s not what is truly important. Nor is shopping, material possessions, or your status on social media. Instead, it’s family, and the time we’re able to spend together. And thanks to the Christmas season, we’re reminded of that.

(Honorable mentions: seasonal decorations, opening presents, and almost anything else experienced during this time of year.)

It’s All Fun and Games Until You Fall Off Your Bike in Front of a Bunch of Teenagers

I exited a campus building and jumped on my bike, more excited than I probably should have been. As I made the short trek across campus my excitement only increased. The sun’s rays were beaming their warmth solely upon me. Trees wavered in the cool summer breeze, whispering sweet nothings into my ear. And a squirrel, who was typically rather spirited, almost certainly gave me a thumbs up. I was in a good, and admittedly weird spot.

I had just finished a day of summer classes and was heading to my favorite little eatery. I wasn’t taking summer class because I was doing poorly, necessarily, but because I was playing on the University’s soccer team and we practiced throughout the summer. So it only made sense to knock out a class or two in the meantime.

The combination made for a busy, but manageable couple of months. Not I’m trying to make a grilled cheese while texting my buddy a link to a 3-minute ping pong video that I watched in its entirety manageable, and more I’m trying to make grilled salmon for the first time while teaching myself Arabic on the kindle manageable—but still, manageable. Some days were good, and some were less so. As such, I would try to find little ways to reward myself when things were going well. Chiefly among those things was a trip to my favorite little eatery on the corner of campus.

The day in question was a particularly good day—practice was finished, class too, and as far as I knew my grades were in reasonable order. More than enough reason to spend a few bucks on something tasty. Now, to be fair, I never needed much of a reason to eat there. Waking up and putting on pants successfully would have been reason enough. But that day I had earned it.

I wheeled into the parking lot and locked my bike up, before making my way inside. There, I was greeted by a few friendly employees. One of them who may or may not have known me by name. Not because we were friends or shared a class, but because I was something of a regular. That’s not to say we wouldn’t have been friends, though. She seemed like a cool gal and we probably could have had a pretty decent time sharing a snow cone or giggling together, we just never did.

I placed my order to go, and received the food an appropriate amount of time later. With the food now in my possession, my excitement grew tenfold. I could all but taste it now. After all, it was a short ride home from here. Maybe a mile or so. Which meant, accounting for the one intersection I had to cross, I would be home in no more than five minutes, enjoying what was sure to be my best meal of the week. It was like the final moments before opening presents on Christmas morning, if your Christmas morning consisted of a steamy bag of food under the tree.

I left the eatery, unlocked my bike, and took off toward home with the bag of food firmly in my right hand. Not long later, I approached the lone intersection. Like a lot of intersections, this one was rife with traffic. Similar to a bee hive, actually, but with birds instead, and often in the form of a finger. Anyway, you could quite easily spend a couple of minutes waiting on lights.

With the distance between the intersection and I ever decreasing, I could see the light was green—but not for long. Moments later, the pedestrian signal turned from a walking icon to a red, blinking hand. Which is a scenario that’s typically pretty straightforward. If you’re close to the street at this point, you continue on. If you’re not, you don’t. However, I was somewhere in between. So I did what any hungry man would do: pedal as fast as I could.

My speed grew rapidly. Like really rapidly. I’m not saying I should have been fast tracked for the Tour de France, but I am quite confident in saying that I would have knocked over a good stack of coke cans, if the angle was right. I kept at it. Head down, pedaling as hard as I could. The intersection was mere yards away now, and closing fast. 15 yards. 10 yards. 5 yards. And then, with the intersection within touching distance, I realized something: I wasn’t going to make it.

I slammed on the brakes, halting my bikes forward progress. I, on the other hand, did not stop. I was instead launched over the handlebars. Quite successfully, too.

You see, in all the excitement I had forgotten one key piece of information: the bag of food was in my right hand. That meant I was left to use my left hand to brake, which was the hand that occupied the front brake. Pair that with my newfound speed and it was like my bike had hit an invisible wall, and as a result I had become a high flying, yet wildly uncoordinated gymnast.

My momentum had carried me into the intersection. My bike was on its side, wheels spinning, and the bag of food a few feet from that (from what I could tell, the food was still intact—a minor miracle). I scampered to my feet almost as quickly as I had fallen. I didn’t waste a moment to look for cars, or to see if I had any bruises or cuts. Heck, Tom Brady could have tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to play a casual pickup game of football in the quad, where he of course would have let me play quarterback and provided me with water and wiped my brow when it perspired—but it wouldn’t have mattered. I was too embarrassed. I hastily grabbed the food and my bike, and made my way back to the safety of the sidewalk. Where I was greeted with hysterical laughter.

Teenagers. Nine or ten of them. Maybe eleven. I don’t know. More than I would have liked to see me fall off my bike carrying take out. It was apparent they had seen the whole thing. I hadn’t noticed the laughter before—the shock of the crash must have dulled my senses—but now, as I stood on the sidewalk, my body and ego battered and bruised, I became painfully aware of it. This wasn’t your average standing around the water cooler at work listening to Ted and his joke about broken pencils being pointless laughter, either. This was bending at the waist hands on knees laughter; rolling on the floor maybe vomiting a little laughter. There was finger pointing involved. Sneering. One kid may have thrown a shoe. It was brutal. And to make matters worse, the light had only just turned red.

I endured their laughter for the duration of the red light, which seemed to grow stronger with each passing second. Finally, though, the light changed from red to green and I jumped on my bike and began to pedal—an act that was met with very little resistance. And by that I mean my chain had fallen off in the crash and pedaling could not have been more useless. I was going nowhere.

Seeing no other option, and not wanting to go back to those hyenas teenagers, I stepped off my bike and walked it across the rest of the intersection. Which was like pouring gasoline on an already successful fire. The teenagers’ laughter increased, and one kid, keen to point out the recent development, shouted, “Look, he’s walking now!” All the while I pushed on, my head forward, not looking back once.

The rest of the trip back was perfectly uneventful. After safely crossing the intersection I continued on a good ways, distancing myself from the teenagers, before fixing my chain and biking home the little distance that remained.

Upon arriving I was greeted by my roommate, who was already eating. I sat down and joined him, removing my food from the sack. As I had initially gathered it was in surprisingly good condition. In fact, it really wasn’t damaged at all. If I didn’t know any better, I would have looked at the food and thought the bike ride back was perfectly normal. But I did know better, because I was the one who was thrown off his bike and laughed at by a bunch of teenagers only minutes ago. Something I didn’t tell anyone for week’s to come.

A Candid Interview With My Dog, Denver

This past February my then girlfriend (now fiance) told me she might want a pet. A cat, perhaps. I told her we could look into it, but was sure to remind her of the commitment and responsibility that comes with being a pet owner, even with an independent animal such as a cat. The next day she told me we were getting a puppy.

A few weeks later we picked up Denver, an 8-week-old Goldendoodle. She was playing in the grass outside of Petsmart, accompanied by a bigger dog and her human companion who we paid money. We made small talk for a while – the human companion told us how they had bathed Denver, but on the drive over she had thrown up a little on her leg – and said our first hello’s, which almost certainly resembled a couple of baby pandas having the best time ever, before loading into the car for the first time as one big family. We couldn’t have been more excited, and less prepared.

What ensued over the next eight odd months was beautiful chaos. Furniture was chewed on; floors and pillows everywhere were used as personal bathrooms; a shocking number of socks disappeared never to be seen again. At times it was infuriating. But then she’d rest her sleepy head on our feet, and suddenly we’d forget about the coffee table she destroyed.

Now, as she’s approaching nine whole months of age, things are a little calmer. I can sit and work on the couch for hours at a time and she’ll lay right next to me. Or we’ll go to the store and she won’t throw up in my car. All this without trying to play tug of war, or another really fun game called Bite My Hand. Of course, there are still those puppy moments every now and again, but hey, that’s part of the fun, right?

Here, Denver reflects on her first nine months of life. What has she learned? What are a few of her favorite things? Did she really get stuck in a clothes hanger when she was younger? Find out below, as Denver candidly answers those questions and more.


[Authors note: all answers have been edited to make sense grammatically, while maintaining authenticity. However, translating bark to english is something of a delicate craft, so it’s very possible some information was lost in translation.]

DEVON NEWPORT: What’s your favorite activity?

DENVER PENELOPE WHITE-NEWPORT: Biting things and making new friends, probably. And eating. I love eating. So I guess my most favoritest thing in the world would be to eat while making new friends, while biting a shoe. Wait, is that possible?

What’s your favorite food?
Cheez-Its and rocks.

Do you condition your hair when Mom and I aren’t watching?
I’d rather not say.

Fair enough. Tell us about a time you really got onto your Mom and I’s nerves?
What’s that mean?

Like annoyed us, or made us upset.
Oh. Well, I don’t know if I’ve made you guys upset. At least I hope I haven’t [sad puppy eyes].

You haven’t! Let’s stick with annoyed.
Okay, good! Let’s see… Oh! There was that time you guys gave me my first bath and I got a really bad case of the zoomies and ran around the room for ten minutes peeing on everything. [laughs] I couldn’t stop peeing!

Most uncomfortable you’ve ever made me, your dad?
Ooh, that one’s easy. It was when I was really little. Maybe three months old. Maaaaaybe. We were out for a walk. I love walks. Anyway, we were walking and before I knew it I had to poop. So I did. The thing is, I was in our neighbor’s yard, and you were making direct eye contact with said neighbor. You should’ve seen your face! [laughs]

Favorite sound?
I actually have two favorite sounds. There’s the crinkling sound of a bag of chips, obviously. And then there’s the sound of the door unlocking when you and Mom come home. Those two are the best.

Favorite TV show?
Anything Disney Jr.! They have the best shows. There’s also this one show on TNT that plays marathons during the day when you and Mom are gone that I like a lot. It’s called Bones.

So, you had surgery recently. Tell us about that. Was it scary?
Not at all. The whole day building up to the surgery I got to meet lots of fun people and they gave me all the belly rubs. That was nice. I like belly rubs. I didn’t always like the belly rubs like I do now, cause I was just a puppy and I kind of wanted my space but still wanted to be close to people at the same time, you know, but I liked them then, and they gave me lots and lots of them. There was also this really fun dog named Bruno. He came from a nice family and had lots of fun stories. Like there was this one time that he and his family went to the park and somebody had a bunch of food on a table just sitting there waiting for him, nobody around, so he ate it all. When he was nearly done his family and these other humans started yelling and cheering for him, like encouraging him saying, “Bruno, noooooo!” It sounded really great. But yeah, surgery wasn’t scary.

How important are naps?
Oh man, naps are like really important. If I don’t have at least seven a day I get cranky. Just ask Gerald.

Gerald, your toy giraffe?
[barks aggressively]

Alright! Take it easy. Gerald, your real life giraffe friend with feelings and ingenious scientific theories and a great recipe for cheese tortellini.
Thank you.

Okay, last question. There’s been some speculation that you got stuck in a clothes hanger when you were younger. Is that true?
What’s a clothes hanger?

That thing you got stuck in when you were younger.
Right! Wait – you tricked me!