Balderdash (Reprise)

After the scatological epiphany of 2013, I thought I had my verbal foibles under control. I was doing so well. Four years. Four years running.

Then this happened.



G: I think they're gonna use the whole kit and caboodle.

Me: That's such a weird phrase.

G: It is.

Me: What do cats have to do with anything?

G: **slow blink **


Just when I let my guard down. At least it wasn't as bad as using scatological in work meetings for years on end. Still, the realization that something I had assumed to be correct for so long was so obviously wrong? Not again.

We have these moments in our relationship a lot, where G discovers things that I don't know. He gets this distinct look in his eyes. A particular cocktail of emotion. Deep disbelief with just a splash of pity.

I see it a lot. Case in point: February 2, 2017.

We all remember the tale of Groundhog Day, right? It takes place somewhere in Pennsylvania, a town with a name that is impossible to spell but we are pretty sure has an x somewhere in it. In the early morning hours, a groundhog will totter out of his groundhog home, He will take a look around, see his shadow, and either a) freak out or b) just see his shadow, as he sees it literally every other day. Depending on his startle status, the universe will either persist in its onslaught of wintry mix or will bestow upon the earth the warm embrace of spring.

Okay. So. I always knew the whole ground-rodent-will-predict-weather part was a farce, However, it wasn't until this past week that I discovered how deep the lies ran. I figured that, at some point, there was a groundhog who came out of his wintry home in the wee hours and the tenants of the town waited behind blockades with bated breath, observing his behavior through binoculars and determining whether he was, in fact, scared of his own shadow. The weather? Sure, they can't control. But they at least bring to bear the aspects of the tradition that can actually happen, right?

WRONG.

Last week G and I celebrated Groundhog Day with Chinese takeout and a screening of the 1993 film starring Bill Murray. Over and over again, the film showed Bill Murray's character reliving February 2 and begins at Gobbler's Knob. A crowd surrounded a raised platform where men dressed in top hats and overcoats reached into a stump, pulled out a groundhog, and pretended to listen to whisperings from the rodent before announcing the shadow-startle-status-slash-weather-forecast

I get that a formal ceremony is warranted. But how did the groundhog even see his shadow amidst the camera flashes?  And of course he's going to be spooked in this moment. He just woke up, got grabbed by the scruff, and held up like Simba in The Lion King to a mass of strangers, cheering and chatting and drinking. I just assumed that, earlier in the day, a quieter ritual took place where the groundhog actually emerged and his level of fear was assessed.

I just assumed that the film wasn't showing us the actual shadow-spotting aspect of the day. That must take place in the wee hours of the morning, quiet and observant. Like those nature documentaries on PBS I always flipped by on my way to Eureka's Castle.

After Murray's third replay of February 2, I had some questions...

Actual(ish) Transcript

Date: February 2, 2017

M: So where does the groundhog part happen?

G; It's at Gobbler's Knob.

Me: No, like the actual shadow spotting. Like where the groundhog comes out of its burrow and they try to tell if he's scared or not.

G: What are you talking about?

Me: You know. The whole shadow-scare-leads-to-weather thing. 

G: Oh that's not real.

Me: Of course I get that it's not real. But, like, when does it actually happen?

G: When does what happen?

Me: The groundhog comes out of its home.

G: That part? We just saw it.

Me: Well t can't live in that stump, that's in the middle of town. He's gotta live somewhere else. What about the other time when he comes out? Where they tell if he's scared of his shadow?

G: I'm confused. They just did it the shadow prediction part.

Me: No they didn't. They just yanked him out of that stump. How could they tell if he even saw his shadow, let alone if it spooked him? There must be something that happens beforehand where he comes out on his own and they see if he runs or not. Maybe there's like a snowy hill where he normally lives.

G: .... you think ... there's an actual point where they actually try to see if the groundhog is scared of his shadow? Like, they hide and watch?

Me: Yeah.

G: I don't think that happens. It's just a funny tradition about the weather.

Me: Of course, the weather prediction isn't true. But the groundhog part is true.

G: Yes, there is a groundhog...that's true. But none of the rest of it happens.It's just a show.

Me: What?

G: They just make it up.

Me: They make what up?

G: Whether or not his shadow scared him.

Me: Yeah, they obviously can't KNOW if it scared him. 

G: What I'm saying is that they never actually let the groundhog walk out and see his shadow. It's just a story. 

Me: .... but...

G: This ceremony at Gobbler's Knob is it. That bit where those top hat guys pretended to listen to the groundhog? That's where they "find out" if he was scared of the shadow. 

Me: ...

G: You thought that the groundhog actually comes out and sees his shadow?

Me: Yes. Because that's what they SAY they do.

G: It's just a story. I didn't realize you didn't know that.

Me: ....

G: Babe? 

Me: ....

G: You okay?

Me: I feel empty.

G: *hands me another egg roll*

Final fun fact: did you know woodchucks and groundhogs are the same creatures? Another thing I had never heard before. I swear I paid attention in school.

Backwards Day

Happy Backwards Day!

Yes, January 31st marks the famous holiday Backwards Day. What's that you say? You don't know about this holiday?

Okay, so not all holidays are winners. There are 365 -- sometimes 366 -- days a year. We are going to run into some filler holidays here and there. This is definitely one of them. Even the instructions on how to celebrate it, found on timeanddate.com, are clearly reaching:

"Go to bed in the morning and start working in the evening ... Talk to people with your back toward them ... Say goodbye to people when you meet them, and hello when you depart."

Look, you're going to spend half of your day explaining to everyone why you are dressing like Kriss Kross and talking in gibberish. This may be a good holiday to leave unobserved. Plus, a lot about the world right now feels backward and turned all around. No need to give people another reason to think the world has gone crazy.

The holiday did remind me of an old diary entry I wrote as a child. I've kept a journal on and off for years. Sometimes I write faithfully every day. Other times the journal sits untouched for months. My favorite part about journaling -- besides documenting my socially awkward interactions and keeping a running list of my enemies -- is going back and reading it years later. If you ever want evidence that you have grown as a person, and yet you are exactly the same, go back and read something you wrote as a nine-year-old. From then until now, my journals have consistently been frenetic. Jumping from a daily rundown of what happened at home... to a rant of anger about something or someone who wronged me ...  to a cataloging of my favorite things. (Then: stuffed animals. Now: one-pot recipes.) At nine or thirty-three, the same lack of discipline and focus is there. It's the only place where I enjoy a lack of structure.

Anyway, back to Backwards Day. A few months ago I found my very first diary and thoroughly enjoyed how ridiculous I sounded. It seems fitting to share on this holiday. To give you the full impact, here is a picture of it. I feel like the visual really adds to the entry.

In case you can't decipher my scrawled, penciled handwriting -- and believe me, this is one of my better efforts -- here is a translation:

Dec 21, 1992

Dear Diary,

Hi! Guess What! I'm off for vacation! I get 2 weeks of no school! Not that I have anything against school, but enough is ENOUGH!

We're having Christmas at our house. I got Anna a E C A L K C E N and a G N I R. The G N I R has a jewel in it, and so does the E C A L K C E N. I wonder what I got? 

Were going to see Aladdin! It's suposed [sic] to be great!

Fin.

That's right. Just in case my sister tried to snoop in my diary to figure out what she was getting for Christmas, I had a foolproof plan: WRITE IT IN CODE. There's now way she's cracking this one. It's indecipherable.

If only this entry had fallen on January 31, 1992 ... That would have been so perfect!

Final fun fact: penguins can't walk backward. Again, in 2017, continue to be the penguin. No backsliding.

Happy Backwards Day!

Be the Penguin

Guess what, everybody? Today is Penguin Awareness Day.

Put on your tuxedo and waddle on down to your nearest iceberg because today is all about your favorite non-flying fowl.

I feel I need to give this holiday some credit. Penguin Awareness Day? Mission. Accomplished. They are everywhere. In our movies… on t-shirts and keychains … in boxes of stuffed animals that our parents demanded we take with us the last time we were home for Thanksgiving because -- and I quote -- “You have a basement. You need to take this crap with you.”

When you think about it, it’s pretty impressive that penguins have been granted this level of cuddliness in pop culture. Birds are traditionally not thought of as huggable, snuggly, or cute. Cartoon birds? Sure, Tweety has his charm. But actual birds? With their beady eyes, sharp beaks, scaly feet, and skittish attitude? They’re hiding something. And it doesn't seem good.

The penguin is one of the rare exceptions. He’s got formal wear! She waddles! Anything that perfectly dressed and perfectly awkward is immediately adorable.

And when waddling won’t get the job done, they just tip over onto their bellies and slide. Imagine cruising down your workplace corridor toward the copier with this kind of action.

Even with these adorkable advantages, penguins are in a tough spot. It has to be lonely to be a penguin in the bird family, not being able to fly. Emus and ostriches can’t fly either, but they have height and speed on their side. Penguins, even emperor penguins, don’t get that tall, and they certainly aren’t breaking any land speed records.And don't even get me started on peacocks.

Penguins are outsiders in their own family, destined to look at the sky and never sail across it. It would have been easy to sit down on their ice float -- or tropical beach since apparently penguins live everywhere except the north pole -- and give up. Get depressed, Feel alone, not a part of anything. Always separate.

That’s now what penguins did. They took a tough situation and made it work. They accomplished the impossible. They are birds that swim, for crying out loud. All of those feathered cousins, soaring through the sky? Enjoy your flapping. Penguins decided to dive.

I’m sure they failed the first few hundred times they tried. It wasn’t like they had those foam kickboards I see three-year-olds clinging to during swim lessons at the YMCA. And they probably didn’t hear too many words of encouragement from their brethren in the air. I mean, take a listen. Does this inspire you with confidence?

Sounds more like a taunt than a cheer, eh? Crows are such jerks.

Despite these jeers from high above, penguins stuck with it. They didn’t cry into their feathers. Okay, maybe they had a few nights of wing-weeping. But eventually, they brushed themselves off, They stopped looking above them at the clouds, pining for what could never be. Instead, they looked around them and decided to do something about it. Something new. They took wings and made them flippers. They took feet and made them, well, more flippers. They developed a taste for raw squid, possibly the most impressive feat of them all. And eventually, through determination, grit, and more than a few ungraceful swan dives, they mastered a world they had no business being in. Think about it: some penguins spend more than three-quarters of their lives in water, a place where they can’t breathe. Can you imagine holding your breath for 75% of your life? I can barely hold it long enough to get in and out of a port-o-potty at a music festival on the third day. But they made it happen. They did the impossible.

In reality, Penguin Awareness Day was created to increase understanding of the endangerment of these funny fowl. We need to keep them around, if only for the fact that they can remind us that hey, things can get better. It would be nice to fly but, without it, their lives opened up to an entire they never knew existed.

Plus, looking at pictures of baby penguins is a certified cure for the Friday gloomy blues. Try it.

See how good that feels? Let's keep that good feeling going. Happy January 20, 2017 everybody!

BuJo

Big news. I think I've figured out how to actually follow through on these good intentions.

Friends and internet creepers alike, may I introduce you to my little friend.

THE BULLET JOURNAL.

A quick primer: bullet journaling is a way to create your own planner, personalized to your needs. It also incorporates important events and memories, so it captures more of your life than just tasks you need to do and appointments you have to attend. Unlike a monthly planner, it isn’t preformatted. You have to create the structure. The "bullet" part of bullet journaling comes from the fact that you set up different symbols for different things. A box or a bullet can be a task to do. A triangle or circle can be an appointment. A heart can be an anniversary or memory. When you finish items, you fill in or cross out the shape. You set your own key. If you don't get something done, you just "migrate" it to another page and indicate that it was moved with an arrow. That way, you can quickly scan what is done, what has to get done, and also what things you keep putting off.

So here’s the thing. I’ve heard about bullet journaling in the past. If you are on Pinterest or have OCD, I’m sure you’ve seen pictures of them. The internet is littered with jpegs and pngs of perfectly crafted pages. After you stare at them for too long, it seems a little bit like OCD wrought out on graph paper. When I searched for examples online, I was immediately overwhelmed by the level of detail and skill these people put into something that you have to create over and over.

Here is an example from the popular bullet blogger Boho Berry:

It’s very detailed, very pleasing, and very intimidating.

Good for you if you can doodle in pen effortlessly and write clearly and confidently in an assortment of fonts. I'm grateful you exist in the world so I can scroll through online images of your creations like a type of organizational porn. They are a joy to look. They are also impossible to comprehend recreating in my own life, every day. I mean, this entry has the weather forecast written in. Isn't that going to change like, I don't know, the weather?

Think about the supplies it would take to keep this up. And, if your brain is unable to imagine that, here is an example from KM Bezner:

Despite hating my handwriting -- it looks a fourth-grader writing with a crayon while sitting in the back seat of a car being driven down a gravel road -- I enjoy the act of writing. It's how I remember things. The limit of a line or a page forces me to really think about what I want to write, instead of mindlessly typing. It's different than typing a to-do list on my phone's notepad. I have about thirty lists on my phone which I’ve interact with a total of one time, when I first tapped them in. I almost never go back to it. I just keep typing new lists with one bullet and forgetting them. But lists I write by hand? Those I always go back to.

Based on this, you would think I would be a prime candidate for bullet journaling. I've considered trying this bullet journaling for a while, but amid the dizzying swirls and block letters and doodles and “Live a Perfect Ten” word clouds, I could never grasp the actual logic. I looked at dozens of examples of how people organized their bullet journals and still left staring a bit dazed, not sure where to start.

My turning point was last month. I came across an amazing post from a blogger who explained *how* and *why* she structured her bullet journal.. It was like everything came into focus.

How to Bullet Journal: The Absolute Ultimate Guide

First of all, it's written by a blogger who calls herself the Lazy Genius. This is my kind of person.

Secondly, this guide? It. Makes. Sense.

Thirdly, the author's intention for her bullet journal is exactly like mine: this is an organization system and a log of important things and thoughts. It does not have to be an artistic masterpiece. I prescribe the same goal to my bullet journal's appearance that I do every day to my own: look decent and interesting, stop when you hit an hour.

My favorite part about this guide is that the author speaks from experience. She's tried doing it in the past and stopped, then tried again. Through those journaling missteps she has figured out what works and what doesn't work. The guide is not just an explanation of what a bullet journal is. It is also a guide about how how to think through what you want your bullet journal to be. The overarching mantra? Keep it simple and easy.

Armed with this new knowledge, I picked up the Cadillac of journals for bullet journaling -- the Leuchtturm 1917. The best things about it is that it has little dots in the shape of squares on each page which makes drawing and writing in line much easier. It *is* a little pricey for what is pretty much a blank notebook, but remember. You can do a bullet journal with literally any type of notebook. You can even try it out with an old notebook from college days to see you like it.

I named it BuJo because, well, think about the alternative with just initials. (I have since learned that BuJo is a common abbreviation for bullet journaling. So much for being creative.) BuJo is a sunny yellow, a bright color I figured would both cheer me up and be so garish I was less likely to leave it on a coffee shop table or bus seat.

When it arrived, I definitely felt a bit of panic staring at the swath of blank pages. Well, crap. This would be so much easier with a planner and it's pre-set structure. This is part of the challenge, I suppose. I have to make choices. To this day, when I start a new page, I feel a flash of this same anxiety. I have zero talent for doodling and for some reason I always wind up way left when I try to center text. Writing anything in pen feels unsettlingly permanent because, well, they are. For my first few pages, I sketched out my design in pencil first, then traced over everything with pen. It's not a bad way to start. Just make sure you have a good eraser. After a few weeks of practice my doodle confidence has grown and now I’m freehanding it.

I decided to focus my bullet journal mostly on personal things. It can certainly be used for work, but I already have a good system of staying on top of work tasks. What I really lack is thinking about things outside of my job. By keeping my bullet journal pretty much non-work, I spend more time thinking about my existence outside my office door.

One of the best parts about the lack of pre-set structure is that it is adaptable. I don't have to worry about running out of pages for a particular collection or list. It doesn't matter that I didn't think to make a collection of crock pot recipes to try until seven months in. (Ooo, that's a good idea. *jots down in Bujo*) I can add it to the next blank page whenever inspiration strikes and make a note of it in my index. What if i happen to meet a crock pot recipe guru on the bus next week and I have to many ideas to fit on a page? No problem. I go to the next free page, continue the list, and make a note about which page to jump to. (This is called "threading" and a more detailed description of it is in the article I linked to. In my experience threading is the thing that pushes people past any trepidation of trying out a bullet journal. No worries about running out of room!)

Here's a quick tour of BuJo:

Hey, good looking. Check out those clean lines and that sweet, sweet color.

Next: my index...

As you can see, I have collections (basically ongoing lists) for a running log, craft projects to complete, date ideas, gift ideas, writing ideas, and movies / books / television I’ve completed. So far I'm using them all regularly except the running log, which boasts a rousing tally of two whole miles in 2017.

After a future log -- a holding pen for future dates and things you need to add at some point -- I have a two-page spread for January, along with my habit tracker for the month. Each month I start with a list of dates for the month, and a habit tracker.

This is especially true with the habit tracker, which is hands down my favorite part of BuJo. I have no idea why being able to fill in a box each day is so satisfying that I can get myself to do things that I otherwise wouldn't be motivated to do. Like doing dishes. What magical power does that little square on a piece of paper hold that it is powerful enough to get me to do something I absolutely hate? Or eating oatmeal. I actually like baked oatmeal. But the structure of being able to fill in (or not getting to fill in) a box keeps my motivation and accountability alive and kicking.

Even this blog post is a direct result of BuJo. I struggling this week to get myself to sit down in front of a computer…. but that little rectangle for “Blog Writing” ... nagging me ... taunting me every time I saw it. And I can’t wait to color it in. So here we are, in this weird snake-eats-tail blog post about how my BuJo got me to write a blog post.

I'm telling you: if you like lists and are motivated by filling in little shapes each day to mark your accomplishments, try bullet journaling. And let me know how it goes!

Okay, off to fill in my habit tracker for blogging. So, so satisfying.

Hey, 2017... How YOU Doin'

HELLO 2017! YOU LOOK GORGEOUS!

2016 was a dumpster fire of a year, wasn't it?

I hope your past year was filled with joyous occasions, personal victories over great challenges, and ordering new items at restaurants that did not fill you with regret about not just picking the dish you normally get. I'm still kicking myself over a salad-over-sandwich choice at Panera from two months ago.
If 2016 wasn't brimming with these wonderful things, I hope you are starting 2017 with a sigh of relief.

My apologies for being absent all of last year. For some reason, I couldn't figure out much to write that seemed worth anyone’s time to read. But never fear. I am over that frustration and  I am going to write more this year.  Even if it is boring and short and totally not worth your time. It’s happening. GET PUMPED FOR MEDIOCRITY.

In fact, writing more is one of my intentions for the new year. That's right: intentions. Not resolutions. I rarely resolve. Too much pressure. However, I *intend* with abandon. Thus, Tearing Toast is proud to present Suano's Intentions of 2017…

• Write more. I had originally planned to make this more specific, requiring one post a week. For now, I'm keeping it vague. If one post a week works out, all the better!)
• Drink more water. This intention derives directly from the fact that I am currently in an office that is located directly across the hall from the bathroom. Fun fact: I also now know the digestive patterns of all of my coworkers.
• Keep up my regular journaling. I started this last year. I had hoped that this would lead to more blog posts. In practice, my personal journal is a collection of rants and pettiness and grudges. Despite not working out for blog posts, it’s been cathartic so I want to keep it up. Plus, you never want to lose track of your enemies.
• Eat more oatmeal. Given my disdain for lumpy, icky textures, this maybe the hardest intention to do.
• Go to sleep with no dirty dishes in the sink. I can already see myself twisting this one around. Well, if the dirty dishes are on the COUNTER, they aren't technically in the sink...
• Do 15 minutes of cleaning each day. Supposedly this can lead to maintaining a spic-and-span household without marathon cleaning sessions.
• Run 365 miles this year. I will get to this once the weather in my town warms up to sub-zero wind chill, hopefully before April.

I think I have about a 30% chance of actually living out these intentions, which is fine. Again, how much less damaging to one's psyche is it to fail at an intention, as opposed to a resolution? If thinking about setting resolutions make your stomach churn, try framing them as intentions. I'm telling you, it works. Me and my calm digestive system can attest to that.

What things do you want to intend for your 2017? Let's make this the best year yet!¹

---

1 Explanation: I've been watching a lot of YouTube videos lately and keep seeing those Weight Watchers commercials with Oprah fist pumping over pasta and power walking her dogs. A side effect has been an invasion of my internal monologue by intense optimism. I'm sure it will go away eventually.^↩

For Your Culinary Consideration

As Christmas approaches, many of you are planning your menus. Some will be refined cuisine, some will be feasts of abundance. Allow me to offer a culinary recommendation.

Growing up, every family gathering involved some amount of time devoted to falling asleep on the floor. After the dishes were cleared, one by one people would drop. Within an hour my grandparents’ living room was strewn with bodies, chests rising and falling slowly. Some aggressive snoring from an uncle who shall remain nameless.

As an adult, I strive to continue this tradition. My goal is never satisfaction. It’s incapacitation. Which Is why I present to you a new recipe for this year: the Loaded Porktato.

A note about my recipes. I write them in a way that focuses on the most important information. I keep it real, if you will. You won’t find many words like cup, teaspoon, or three to five minutes at 350 degrees. That’s intended. I don’t want you to measure ingredients. I want you to FEEL them. Let your instincts be your guide. You can’t go wrong.

(Also, fun fact: every time I type “porktato,” my word processor corrects it to “prostate.” Just in case I missed an auto-correction somewhere.)

The Loaded Porktato

STEP 1: Make your favorite recipe for barbecue pulled pork.

Make a crock pot of it. Make A LOT. The goal of this meal is to have all parties lying on the ground in a pool of meat sweat.

Obviously, if you are of a non-pork persuasion, you can easily substitute barbecue beef.

If you are vegetarian, you can skip this step.

If you are vegan, you should probably bail out now.

STEP 2: Make a baked potato. 

Have you made a baked potato before? Okay, cool. Just do that again. 

Have you never made a baked potato? Okay, no sweat. Close your eyes and pull up a childhood memory of eating a baked potato. Got it? Good. How was it cooked by your mother or father or grandmother or great-uncle or next-door babysitter? Okay, now just do that.

Not have a previous memory of eating or cooking a baked potato? Don’t worry. It involves 1) a potato, 2) tin foil, and 3) puncture wounds. You can take it from there.

Remember, don’t stress about this step. The potato is only a conduit for the rest of the fixings.

STEP 3: Split potato in half.

Spread a pat of butter on each half, as little or as much as you’d like. You probably won’t be able to taste it. Then why add it, you ask? Because this is Porktato Time. Things like calories and saturated fats must be turned a blind eye. Leave your margarine or I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not substitutes for your kale casseroles.

STEP 4: Pile a scoop of pulled pork on top of the split potato. 

Pile on another scoop.

Set your plate down on the counter and take five steps back. Can you still see the potato? If so, plop another scoop on top.

Repeat. Remember, it doesn’t transform into a porktato until the potato is no longer visible to the human eye.

STEP 5: Sauce check. 

Investigate the sauce distribution of your porktato. Does it seem dry? If so, pour more sauce on. You want your porktato to be moist. (I apologize, there’s no other way to say it.) Sauce acts as a lubricant, which is critical as you will eventually be sliding this down your gullet.

STEP 6: Slop on some sour cream.

NOT GREEK YOGURT.

I know some people say: "Greek yogurt tastes just like sour cream." These people are ne’er-do-wells. They bear false witness. Don’t trust them to watch your offspring. Don’t trust them to pick up your mail while you're out of town. And certainly don’t trust them with your culinary choices. Greek yogurt does not taste like sour cream. It tastes like sour cream that has been poured into an abandoned gym sock at the local YMCA locker room, left to curdle and steep for two weeks.

STEP 7: Add shredded cheese. Any kind will do.

STEP 8: Sprinkle a fistful of bacon bits on top.

Why? Because 'Merica, that's why. Did our country’s forefathers reach the Mississippi River, look at each other, and say, “good enough.” No. They pushed on, ignoring all appeals to stop, including fundamental human decency. If you stop at shredded cheese, you might as well pack up and go home. Instead, grab those bits of bacon, slam them on top of your porktato, and shout “MANIFEST DESTINY!”

STEP 9: Add fried onions.

You know, the kind your Aunt Ruth uses to top of her green bean casserole. This step is optional, depending on the structural integrity of your plate. But it does add a satisfying crunch to the proceedings.

STEP 10: Check your waistband. 

You are going to need some give. Does your current outfit seem too restrictive? Change immediately. Sweat pants are a good choice. Jeans are insane.

STEP 11: Don’t forget to stretch.

Side bends, torso turns, something. Do you stretch before running a marathon? Okay, well, this is going to be the equivalent of 26.2 miles for your colon. Give yourself a fighting chance.

STEP 12: Select your consumption location.

I recommend plate on coffee table, ass on floor. You’re going to end up down there anyway.

STEP 13: Wait for everyone else to finish building their loaded porktato. 

Have some manners. You're not an animal.

STEP 14: If you’re so inclined, say a prayer ...

...take a deep breath ... and stomp out any intellectualization of what you are about to eat. You are past the point of rationalizing this decision.

STEP 15: Godspeed.

Remember, the floor is always there to catch you.

Congratulations. You’ve made — nay, survived — your first loaded porktato. Welcome to the club.

Run Around Sue

The morning air hovers, crisp and misty. Through the fog, it’s just me and the garbage trucks, plodding along the side of the road. It’s disturbing how similar our forward progress is: slow, labored, with regular pauses. It stops to tip a week’s worth of human-made refuse into a compactor. I stop to stretch a sore hip flexor. Both maneuvers are less than graceful.

This is perfect. Me and Smelly McSanitation. Seriously.

This summer, I started running.

Correction: I started jogging, with frequent breaks for side stitches. Two months later, I could honestly call what I was doing “running.” And don’t worry. I will not wax poetic  about stride length or heel strike or split time. I mean, I could totally write a post about each one. But I will fight that instinct. You're welcome

This post isn't about running. It's about one particular aspect of running I am still learning to cope with.

The run-by.

For me, running is a gloriously solitary experience. While some people enjoy running in packs, I’ve always been the lone wolf variety. I can run at whatever time, on whatever day, for however long, at whatever pace. When it comes to exercise, I embrace the psychology of the Only Child.

So I’m jogging along, making good time … and then I see it. A bobbing blob, blurry in the middle distance. Same side of the road as me. Creeping closer. No side streets or culs-de-sac offering the sweet, sweet relief of a different direction. That’s it. My fate is sealed.

I am going to have to run by this person.

I get it. I know what you’re thinking: uh, yeah. Run by the person. What’s the big deal? Well, let me start by congratulating you, well-adjusted reader, on your balanced mental capacities and imperviousness to spiraling negative thought cycles. I assume your internal dialogue during this type of run-by would go a little something like this:

… Oh hey, there’s someone coming this direction. I will modify my spatial awareness accordingly and run closer to the curb, thus allowing the person approaching a clearer path.

…..

I will now return to my standard curb-distance spacing — HEY. How did The Black Eyed Peas get on this playlist? I TOLD DEBORAH TO GET HER OWN ITUNES ACCOUNT.

And scene.

By comparison, let me share with you a little glimpse into my head space when I face down a run-by:

So this run is going well I haven’t fallen yet always a good sign in fact I think I can probably pick up my pace let me increase my BPM rate on my music and try to maintain — WAIT.

….

What’s that?

….

A sign? No, it’s moving around too much. Dang it, I really need to remember to schedule that eye doctor appointment — WAIT.

It’s a person.

Okay, stay calm. Don’t freak out — DON’T. Freak out.

You can’t see a face yet, it’s still just a blob. A humanoid blob, yes. But a blob nonetheless. Maybe it’s facing away from you and running in the same direction. That must be, if it’s on the same side of the road as you. Focus: does it appear to be growing smaller … or bigger. 

Smaller, right? I’m sure it’s smaller.

…..

Bigger. SHIT.

Deep breaths. It’s going to be fine. You’re running along, it’s running along — ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE STREET, WHICH MEANS THAT OUR WHOLE INTERACTION COULD HAVE BEEN AVOIDED IF THIS LAW-BREAKING HOODLUM FOLLOWED BASIC RUNNING ETIQUETTE — okay, this is not the time to focus on street safety protocols. You’ll be fine. 

You just need to decide.

Are you going to acknowledge it … or ignore it?

If you go with the Ignore Option, you need to identify your Distraction Maneuver. Change song? Itch your nose? Spot something mesmerizing across the street? Become suddenly fascinated by the pavement?

Or, if you go with the Acknowledgment Option, you need to determine your Engagement Threshold. Polite head nod? Wave of the hand? Smile? Also, vocalization or no vocalization? Say hello? Or perhaps a cheerful good morning? Yeah, that will show that, despite your stilted stride you are the type of person who is optimistic. You embrace the physical torture that is running. That would be nice. It will probably be really impressed and think that you run all the time. Which you do — why do you view yourself as some type of running imposter? You’ve been running five miles easy for three months, You can call yourself a runner at this point — okay, that is neither here nor there. So, if you engage with vocalization, let’s go with an upbeat “Good morning!”

WAIT — it’s six o’clock at night. Good morning sounds insane. Nice catch. That would have been humiliating.

How about a nice “good evening” … but that may be too formal. Good day? No, that sounds like you’re dismissing this person with disdain, i.e. I SAID GOOD DAY. A “nice evening, isn’t it” might work.

Oh wait, you haven’t assessed the approaching target yet. Idiot. Does it look like the type to ignore or to acknowledge? Late middle-age male, running at a relatively slow pace. That typically indicates acknowledgment including vocalization. BUT the target is huffing and puffing. Essential intake of breath may make verbal acknowledgment impossible. This might be an ignore situation. Plus, he has earbuds in, so he probably won’t hear you. Okay, it’s settled. Initiate Ignore Protocol. 

HOLD ON … it — er, he, only has one earbud in. The other one is hanging down like a limp noodle. He must have left it out to hear better. Maybe acknowledgment with verbalization is the better strategy…


Impact in 30 feet … 20 feet … MAKE A DECISION!!!! WE NEED A PLAN!!!

EMPLOY VERBAL INTERACTION. IMPROVE RUNNING FORM. DEEP INTAKE OF OXYGEN. AND FIRE.

“Hi! Nice day, am I right?”

Target does not engage. Run-by crisis averted. Minor collateral damage to Social Interaction Confidence supplies.

I mean, really. Who doesn’t acknowledge someone? He clearly saw me. Ridiculous. This is why we are going to hell as a society. Now where was I? Oh yes, increasing my BPM rate. Helloo 172…

Exerting this amount of energy every time you approach another person is exhausting. In fact, the only time I'm out of breath during a run is during a run-by. I start sweating — okay, my sweating increases — and my stomach churns. All of the physical manifestations of pain and stress I used to have during the entire run are now reserved only for run-bys.

The worst — the WORST — is when I am running on a loop track. I am a creature of repetition. I will listen to the same song six times in a row on my commute. I watch You’ve Got Mail every time I go on a cleaning spree. There’s comfort in the familiar, and running is no different. A few miles from my house is a park with a short running path that circles a set of soccer fields. I include it in my route a lot because it helps me zone out. When I run on a loop, I set my brain to “repeat” and wind up running a mile further than if I were on some new, unknown route.

As with everything, the upside of a loop track leads exactly to its downside: running by the same people again and again. The running path at the park is relatively new. It hasn’t yet established a one-direction culture, so people run or walk in both directions. It's chaos. No matter which way I run, I’m going to have repeated runs-by with the same people. For someone like me, who panics and is seemingly incapable of establishing consistency with my interactions with other humanoids, this spells disaster. The reason I always panic is that I immediately regret the decision I made for our last interaction.

Run-By #1:
If I say hello, I am annoyed about being burdened with the expectation of a greeting  every time we cross paths. If I don’t say hello, I spend the next lap worrying about whether the person thinks I’m unfriendly. And hates me.

Run-By #2:
This leads me to say hello during our second interaction. THIS IS THE WORST DECISION EVER. The first interaction establishes the rules of our relationship. We’ve set our territory, we’ve created boundaries. And now, during the second interaction, I throw our entire world into chaos by breaking all previously established precedence.

Run-By #3:
WHO KNOWS WHAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN ON LAP THREE.

The worst are walkers with dogs. First, they’re walking. This means that the angst-ridden approach is dragged out over an even longer amount of time. I clearly do not need more time to analyze an impending interaction. Second, they’re walking, so they aren’t out of breath and are expecting a chatty greeting. Third, they have a dog. An adorable, happy faced, plopping pawed dog. I do not want to talk to the human. I DO want to talk to the dog. But saying hello to a dog without acknowledging the human attached to the other end of the leash seems like a faux pas.

Or should I say ... FAUX PAW. (Credit to friend and coworker Sarah Howard on that one. I'm so ashamed I missed it. Follow her at @HowardSJ.)

Come to think of it, I wonder if some dogs experience panic when they spy me trudging toward them. Maybe that’s why I sometimes coo at a fluffy canine, only to be barked and lunged at, driving me off the path and into the grass. I always berate these dogs in my head afterward. Truth in advertising, buddy. If you didn’t want any attention, then why were you flopping those ears around so adorably? Turns out, these dogs might not be vicious butt sniffers. Maybe they’re anxious. They saw me coming, tried to decide between ignore and acknowledge, panicked, and went WAY overboard on their vocalization protocol.

I can relate.