Algebraic Equation

 

Are you like me?  Struggling throughout the annuls of time, trying to find the exact ratio of cereal to milk.  That's me on an almost daily basis.  Not once, since I was knee-high to a gnat, have I been able to find the exact quantity necessary to marry up with the precise volume of milk in order to not consume more than the desired amount of breakfast substance.

I start each day by filling a desirable amount of cereal, whether it be Shreddies, Corn Flakes or even a chocolatey treat like Nestle's Quik or Chocolate Lucky Charms (because of the marshmallows), I can never pour a perfect amount of milk.  Either I'm left with an obnoxious amount of milk after the cereal has been consumed, of which I'm not going to drink out of the bowl.  I'm not a damned animal, after all.  Besides, the milk doesn't taste well enough on it's own to be drunk in such a barbaric manner.  So I'm left with the only option.  Add more cereal.

The extra bowl is welcomed, sometimes, so it's no big whoop, but then the milk runs out, leaving half a bowl of cereal flying solo.  That's not good either, so out comes the jug and more milk is added.  This is where it becomes tricky.  I tend to add too much milk, the second time 'round.  It's not voluminous, but it's enough to throw off the ratio, leaving me once more, with an ample amount of milk in the bowl and no cereal, so the bitter circle begins all over again.

I've found myself, time permitting, in the past finishing off an entire box of cereal before the exact equation of how much to put with how much is ever ciphered to completion.  This happens more with the sugary cereals.  They're not just a source of vitamins and minerals, but they're also a tasty snack.  The nice thing about the latter cereals is that usually, the milk turns chocolate brown and it is somewhat tasty, although, I still refuse to drink from the bowl.  On account that I'm not an animal.

I don't recognize this mission as OCD-related, although I have experienced a similar problem when consuming ice cream.  I live alone so I tend to not use a lot of crockery.  In that, I mean, I drink from the bottle or from the milk jug (chocolate), rather than dirty a glass or cup.  With ice cream, it's the same.  I tend to eat it right out of the container.  (If I'm going to have company, I get a new tub of ice cream.  Like I said before, I'm not an animal.)

With the ice cream, I tend to try to finish with the ice cream being perfectly level, before I can return the lid to the container and place it back in the freezer.  Only problem is, I'm so picky that the ice cream MUST be completely flat with 90deg angles up against the wall of the receptacle.  Anything less than perfect, gets carved out and placed onto my tongue.  I thought I was the only one facing this dilemma, until one night I was watching late night TV and saw comedian Gary Gulman discuss the fact he does the same thing, often resulting in an empty bucket, just like me.  I laughed so hard at the premise because it wasn't just a funny anecdote, but a detailed historic recollection.  Almost like Gary, himself, were peeking in my window, taking careful note of my process.

After the show, I took to Twitter, complimenting Gulman on his very funny stand-up appearance, adding that I did the same with my ice cream.  It was a nice exchange.

I tend to have that problem with a number of factors in my life.  I use too much ketchup when placed on the side of my dish for French fries or bacon.  Too much gravy on my meat and potatoes, but really.  Is there such thing as too much gravy?  I think not, so I might be onto something there.  Hmm.

The question in every high school mathematics class is "When am I ever going to use this in real life?"  I've only come across, in real time, occasions when an algebraic equation might come in handy.  Most recently was just twenty minutes ago, as I was fighting to pour the proper amount of milk into my cereal.  Needless to say, but I will anyway.  I failed miserably.

Them's The Breaks!!

 

I got f**ked by National Pizza Day.  Inadvertently f**ked, that is.  I'm sure the pizza place where I had acquired the pizza from, did not dispatch said pies with the intention of causing bodily damage.  This is not a plausible business plan.

Wednesday, February 9th, 2022, was National Pizza Day.  Or so I learned from the trusty interwebs.  If it is written there, then it must be true, am I right?  I hadn't had pizza for quite some time, so I thought it was in the budget that I could treat myself to some pizza.  I rang up my usual haunt and ordered three pizza's. (Given the outrageous prices for pizza these days, this establishment seems the best bang for my buck at $33 for three pizzas.)  I ordered a Meatball, a number 18 (beef, bacon, & sausage) which is my go to, always.  It's like a meat lovers, but without the ham.  I'm allergic to ham.  Then I rounded out the triad with a Chicken Teriyaki pizza, which is the only acceptable pizza to have pineapple on.

I quickly dispatched the Meatball, followed by the Number 18, into my belly.  I had been dreaming almost the entire day about having pizza for supper, so I avoided unnecessary snacks or mid-day lunch, just to make room for pizza that night.

I realize that by admitting that I devoured two pizzas all by my lonesome seems excessive, but they were small 10" pizzas, most of which are taken up by crust.  I'm not making excuses for my gluttony, as I don't need explain myself to anyone, except maybe my doctor, and I know she does not read my stuff.

The third pizza, the Chicken Teriyaki, I left for another day.  I placed it in the refrigerator until I could give it my full attention later, which turned out to be yesterday.  Friday.

I placed the pizza onto a plate, blasted it a couple times in the microwave to heat it up to optimum temperature.  Cold pizza is f**king disgusting, especially if it's been refrigerated.  I sat down in front of the TV and watched some Bitchin' Rides, while I enjoyed my pizza, now topped with more Teriyaki sauce.  (I buy the Golden Dragon stuff.  It really is the best.)  The meaty part tasted great, as I placed the crusts idly by until I could address them afterward.

The way I like to eat pizza, generally, is eat the center part first, then the crusts after, like a snack.  This is what I did with the first two pizzas from Wednesday night.  No issues, but I hadn't accounted for the crusts to get extra tough in the days since it was made.  Now the crusts were hard.  Really f**king hard.  Harder than I initially thought, actually.

Usually, the crusts firm up a little as they cool off, but they remain somewhat leathery, if that makes sense.  Thick, but manageable to bite portions off, but this was blatantly not the case with the crusts from the Chicken Teriyaki.  I guess the added 48 hours in the fridge caused it to thicken up like f**king concrete.  I wrestled my way through a couple of them, when all of a sudden, I heard a crunch.  Not the kind of crunch that sounds like a pizza crust being crushed between my molars, but a more distinguishable "oh f**k" kind of crunch.  I quickly vacated my mouth-hole to discover that I'd broken one of my lower teeth.  This little f**ker that I had my dentist work on last August, was now sitting in the palm of my hand.

I've always had weak teeth.  Ever since I was knee high to a squirrel, I've had bad teeth.  The dentists would give me shit, passing on the news to my parents.  I remember many a "discussion" with an extremely inebriated father, who would pull my chair in close to his and he'd scream at me to brush my teeth, to avoid having a nasty set like he had.  However, despite all my efforts to follow the guidelines set upon me by the National Dentistry whatever, my teeth have always had cavities, chips, breaks or worse.  Hell!!  When I broke my back, I also managed to break five and a half teeth in the process.  That extra half was because one was already broken, ha ha.

What sucks is, I had insurance at the time, when I broke those teeth along with three vertebrae.  I don't have insurance, now, though.  Every dentist visit is paid for straight outta pocket.  Canada rocks, as far as health care, goes, but dentistry sucks balls.

So far, I'm not feeling any pain.  Chances are, the one that broke on me, had previously had a root canal, I suspect.  Memory losses over the years, hinders me from actually recalling what has been done to what.

Tomorrow is the Super Bowl.  I had planned on making some ribs for the occasion, but to say the least, I'm a little gun shy.  I doubt anything else will be tumbling out of my mouth, but ya never know.  I'm sure if something does, I'll be writing about that too.