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.

Skill Testing Question

At the end of last year, I entered a contest.  In exchange for making a small donation to a charity, I would receive some calendars, each with an eight-digit number that acted as a draw code or an entry into a bank for a chance to be drawn throughout the year for a number of prizes.  There's a daily draw for a $1000, which would be a nice exchange for the thirty bucks I shelled out.  There's also a weekly draw for various trips (or their monetary equivalent) as well as a monthly draw for a new vehicle, provided by Dodge (or the cash equivalent).  It being a leap year, adds one more daily draw, which increases my odds of winning (at least) one prize, significantly...  Bad?

Almost three months have passed us by, and no prizes as of yet.  I check every few days, my eyes scanning through the prize winning numbers, but mine never appear.  Come to think of it, nothing remotely close to my numbers ever appears.  The odds of my winning may have gotten worse.

On the off chance that I do get one of my three draw codes drawn, according to the rules, I have to answer a skill testing question without the aid of a mechanical device.  I hate to think that on the off chance that I was lucky enough to win a $40K automobile, that the prize will elude be because I don't know algebra.  I know it likely would be a more simple adding/subtracting/multiplication number, but back in high school, I never pulled off 100% marks on my math exams, which proves a chance of failure all these years later.

I doubt that officials would allow this to happen.  In fact, I recall one draw that required a mathematical question to be answered at the time of entry and the ticket sales person whispering to every entrant, "The answer is fifteen."

Win or lose, the thirty bucks I invested into this delusion, goes to a worthy cause.  It was for the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation.  I like boobs.  I've always liked boobs and if it takes thirty dollars of my money to help preserve boobs for future enjoyment, then it's thirty dollars that I'm happy to part with.

It's All Greek To Me

As a guy, I of course hate asking for directions.  I'm not entirely certain of this, but I believe it's a predetermined trait exclusive to the male DNA.  Almost as if a female scientist began the Human Genome study with hopes of pinpointing the exact strand that makes a man unwilling to consult outside aid for directions.  Personally, I can read a map pretty damn well, so my reluctance is rarely called upon.  However, I have been known to swallow my pride, pull the car over and ask a local for directions for a desired destination.  More often than not, I'm given adequate, easy-to-follow instructions and we're well on our way.  However sometimes...  Sometimes you get someone who, I don't know if they're deliberately trying to f*ck with me or if they're really that f*cking stupid.

There's a plethora of terms that can translate into the measurable mile, but it's the non-specifics that tend to plague my fragile mind.  "It's just over yonder." they'll say, leaving me scratching my head, wondering, is it past 'yonder'?  Like, do I have to physically cross over yonder to get there?  What the f*ck is a 'yonder', anyway?  Or they'll say, "It's up the road a piece."  A piece of what?  A piece of pie?  A piece of dog shit?  I hear that it's English that's pouring out of their mouth holes, but I haven't got the foggiest idea what the f*ck they're saying...  The one term that takes the proverbial cake (I wonder if it was a 'piece of cake' that other fella meant..,) is when they wave their arm in the direction and tell me, "It's down the road a spell."

I wasn't such a great student in school.  Some reading difficulties and I tended to daydream a little, but what I was able to catch in my math class, none of it referred to a spell.  My English classes covered grammar and spelling, and I can spell words better than most, though I do falter once in a blue moon, but as for math class, a 'spell' never was mentioned.  Granted, I never took calculus or trigonometry or any of those complex math sciences.  I don't know what the f*ck all that shit was about, but I can be fairly confident that no spells or sorcery was dealt with in those forums, either.  So, what the f*ck is a 'spell'?

How far is it?  What is it's measurable distance?  Being Canadian, I (along with most of the world) was taught the Metric System.  A series of tens, hundreds and thousands, blah blah blah, and so on.  It's a fairly simple program for measuring distance and mass, that the Americans seem to dismiss a little too easily.  My father was raised learning the old Imperial system that measured distance with miles and feet.  Weight with pounds and mass with gallons and/or bushels.  I remember asking one time, how big a bushel was and he pointed to a basket and said "About as big as that."  I was so confused by it all.  However, he never once mentioned the elusive 'spell'.  He never informed the family that he was going to go fishing at such 'n' such lake, located one hundred spells from home.  No.  He never did that, because he was a smart man.  Not some f*ckin' rube from around the way.  (*Apologies for using 'around the way'.  I don't know how far that is.)

Mathematics is universal.  Literally.  No matter where you go on the planet or out in the galaxy.  Wherever you are, two plus two will always equal four.  And whatever you call it, a mile will equal a mile and a kilometer will equal a kilometer.  And I guess, the same will go for stupidity.  As Forrest Gump's mama used to say, "Stupid is as stupid does."  If people are going to continue using f*cking dumb-ass terminology, then we're always going to have men parked at the side of the road, frantically looking over a map, rather than asking for directions.

A Stack of Playboys

I always quote, especially to cashiers who screw up my change, "The one constant in the universe is mathematics", because no matter where you are.., here in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan or on the far off planet, Kepler-10c, two plus two will ALWAYS equal four.

Another constant, at least on this planet, (I can't speak for Kepler-10b or 10c) is the fact that young boys seem to have the adept ability to find a virtual treasure trove of skin magazines in forests.  Practically, every television show and/or podcast, that I've seen or listened to lately, makes reference to finding a stack of Playboy magazines in a nearby forest.  This strikes a cord with me, as the very same thing happened to me when I was a young boy.

Growing up, I lived (practically) a stone's throw from the city limits.  From my kitchen window, I could see the western end of the city, creeping towards our farm.  The sight was obscured partially by a small collection of trees that dissected the wheat field between us and them.  Me and the neighbour kid, Darren, would often ride our bikes into the city, headed to the mall with a hand full of change for the arcade, always cutting through the trees to pierce the outer skin of the growing metropolis.  Located smack dab in the middle of the trees, was a small clearing where high school kids often conglomerated to party and listen to music.  Quite often on a late Friday or Saturday night, you could see the light of a bonfire breaching the dense forest and rocking melodic beats could be heard in the distance, followed by panic and roaring engines as the police came to break up the festivities.

On one of the return trips from our excursions into the city, Darren and I stopped in the open area to look around.  During our inquisitive search, we located and ultimately divvied up a stack of pornographic magazines.  Apparently, in addition to drinking, gossiping and listening to music, people also enjoyed looking at porn.

I can't remember where I kept my stash, but it was likely under the bed.  I don't know why all kids think the narrow space under the bed is impervious to mother's ever suspicious gaze, but that seems to be another constant in the universe.  Even the villains on television seem to believe that hiding the murder weapon under the bed will thwart the police.  Stupid kids.

They were Penthouse magazines that we found.  I guess Playboy offered too many articles for the youth at hand.  I did, however, find and procure a box of Playboys on a solo trip.  That was kinda cool, but as I recall it was hard..., or difficult, rather, to balance the heavy box on my handle bars as I rode my bicycle home across the bumpy terrain.  The reward did outweigh the hassle, though, I admit I never read any of the articles.

No matter where you are in the universe and no matter what magazine you're gawking at, two plus two will always equal four.  And FYI, not that any of you care, I had the magazine on the left of the photo above with the girl in the green dress (Sherilynn Fenn of Twin Peaks).