Happy Pi Day

So, to most of you heavy drinkers, today is just the day 3 days before St. Patrick's Day. Personally, I'll be celebrating St. Patrick's Day with some Shamrock Vodka Shake, but that's beside the point. Today is a much more important day. The only day, in fact, at least that I can think of, that is universally celebrated. It doesn't matter what country you're from, or what religion you practice, or pretend to practice, you have to believe in today.

It's March 14th, Pi Day. Pi, as wikipedia tells us, is the mathematical constant whose value is the ratio of any circle's circumference to its diameter. That right there is NUTS! Every year Pi Day reminds me how remarkable Pi actually is. Most importantly, however, is the fact that it gives me a day to make a delightfully punny pie! It's apple. Funny enough, nothing good for pie making is in season during Pi Day.

One More Thing...

I think YAZ's marketing team is targeting me. Seriously, I like all the activities commonly depicted in YAZ commercials: getting my hair cut, drinking martinis, buying clothes. The fact that the commercials show birth control-seeking vixens participating in those activities makes me like them even more. I think I have to stop watching Mercy.

Am I Actually On The Hook?

I just watched an episode of How I Met Your Mother because, well, it's 8:45 on a Saturday night, and, no, of course I don't have anything better to do. The episode was about how Ted had been hooked by guest star, Carrie Underwood. The term 'hook' apparently refers to a situation in which the 'hook-ee' greatly wants a relationship with the 'hook-er'. The 'hook-er', in turn, 'hooks' the 'hook-ee' by implying that, while a current romantic relationship is out the question, a future romantic relationship is possible, even likely.


I know I've been hooked at least once, and maybe I'm still on that hook (you know who you are...I don't think you read this...so I'll say chicken soup, ice cream, and cake...if you read this, you'll know who you are and anyone that knows you will likely know I'm talking about you). I have been and likely am on more hooks, I'm sure. I give away too many baked goods, buy too many rounds, send too many e-cards, and am a date to too many weddings to not currently be completely hooked by a handful of hook-ers. In most of these cases, I understand that I may not have been hooked due to the angler's skill, but rather due to my nearly masochistic insistence on scarfing the lure.

The thing is: life on the hook is unfortunately satisfying.

I reckon I probably enjoy being on the hook more than being in a real, hook-free, relationship. That element of anxious anticipation that the hook provides is sort of like the clear plastic cover on the screen of a new i-pod. You know it would be better to remove the plastic cover, but the risk involved is just too great. In hopping off the hook, the hook-ee has to either: (1) confront the hook-er once and for all, no means no, and yes means awesome, albeit nearly absolutely unlikely, or (2) slip away, accepting permanent rejection. So, what's the solution? Do I stop trying to meet the demands of all the hook-ers in my life? No. Of course not. After all, we're just not together right now. We might start something great...later...maybe.

Aw, man.

no no no YOU chill out

Maybe I'm a jerk, but you show me someone typically described as being really "chill" or totally "laid back", and I'll show you someone I'd rather swim across Lake Michigan than meet. Both (1. swimming across the lake, and 2. being in the presence of a laid back person) are unbelievably painful. Both are only endurable in so far as you can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

In the spirit of Casimir Pulaski, I'm begging all of you "chill" people to get a personality. Jot some notes down before talking to me. Pick some conversation topics. Something from the news, I don't care. Make up a story and tell it in the first person. Lie to me. I really don't care. Casimir Pulaski didn't help any laid back people through a conversation. He didn't fill the awkward silences with banter. No, if Casimir realized you weren't going to be an active member of society, he sure as hell wasn't going to offer you a slice of his interesting pie. And as a new rule, I don't do anything that Casimir wouldn't do.*

Happy Casimir Pulaski Day!

*This does not mean that I would do everything that Casimir did. The Revolutionary War does not sound like it was fun. On second thought, I think I would go to war if I were certain that, if I did, tiny little Illini in the future would get an extra Monday off of school.

Julia Child, Get Out Of My Dreams, And Stay The Hell Away From My Car

The other night I had a dream. I'm not exactly sure what this dream meant, but I do know that it was creepy, and that it ruined my relationship with Julia Child.

So, in this dream, I walked into a bakery. The reason I walked into the bakery was to order a coffee from a cute girl that worked at the bakery. the girl may or may not have been loosely based on the girl at the deli counter at the grocery store I go to. I've never had a reason to get anything at the deli counter, but one day, when I walked by said counter, the girl on whom I crush made fun of my flannel to one of her coworkers. Adorable, the making fun of flannel, even if it's one I happen to be wearing.

Anyway, back to the dream. The girl is behind the counter, looks like she's closing up the bakery for the day. I order my coffee, we make some quick banter, then Julia Child comes out of the back room and told the girl to go clean up the kitchen. How dare Julia Child order my girl around like that! Anyway, Julia started chatting me up in that gobble gobble sort of way she talks. It seemed like it was taking her forever to get me my coffee. She started asking me if I like various types of pastries. I liked most of them. She demanded I take some of them from her store. Apparently she was throwing them all out and they'd be of no use to her if they remained after I left. Who am I to turn down some sweets made by Julia? I'm no one to be turning down sweets made by Julia. I took the sweets. She gave me my coffee. She charged me $38.24.

She charged me for all of the sweets. The girl didn't come back out of the kitchen. I woke up and went to work. Great start.

500 Days of Are You Freaking Kidding ME?

So, I did one of those things on the list of things I was told to by no means ever do. No, I didn't watch TV during a thunderstorm, nor did I sleep with a fan blowing near my neck, and no I didn't have fried macaroni and cheese balls dipped in ranch dressing. I did probably the most internally apocalyptic thing on that list: I watched 500 Days of Summer.

I know, this is really lame and would certainly serve as fodder for countless emasculating jokes if there were anyone in my geographic vicinity to craft said jokes, but real talk (see previous post for clarification) this was a roller coaster. Like a boyscout sent into the wilderness with a couple merit badges and a Nalgene bottle, I was completely unprepared for the story that just unfolded.

Dude falls in love with no other than Zooey. Zooey reciprocates emotion albeit in a "casual" disguise. The pair goes to IKEA. They don't even seem to buy anything. They eat pancakes. Are you kidding me? They make whimsical lists on a wall covered in chalkboard paint. They sit in an ugly park with an ugly view. They did things that, if done alone, make one seem either manic or depressed or otherwise completely insane (I mean, pancakes?).

He worked for a greeting card company? He wore skinny ties? He took little tiny coincidences entirely to seriously, assigning to them the gravity typically reserved for a mass of locusts hovering over all known civilization? His name was Tom? This is ridiculous. Merely days after I became overly infatuated with an unsuspecting woman while vacuuming my car solely due to the fact that she also shared an appreciation for automotive tidiness that which she demonstrated while throwing away old receipts from her car while waiting to use the vacuum that I had, at the time, been using, I run into this strikingly similar fool who lost his love to a d-bag that happened to ask her what book she was reading in a freaking cafe?

I'm not really that devastated. I just really want to go to IKEA, and not buy anything. I think I'll now most certainly be ending my evening with this delightfully melancholy XX album and a coconut butterscotch chip cookie. Just one, because there's only one left. Sorry.

New Era In Verbal Economics

This year has started off with spark as I discovered an amazing contribution to the field of verbal economics from a little known expert in the field.

Kelley, R. 2007. "Real Talk." Double Up. Jive/Zomba Records. May 29.

Little did he know, but R. Kelly was on to something truly provocative when he decided to throw away all past societal norms and combine the words Real and Talk, to create a stunning, two-syllable affirmation of or inquiry regarding a previously said statement. Up till now, we've been saying things like, "seriously", or the tremendously outdated and embarrassing (yet equally verbally frugal), "for real". Now with only two syllables, we can question the validity of a statement said by one of are peers with a simple, "real talk?". Or we can wipe away any doubt in a listeners' minds and affirm our previous statement by following it with an explosive "real talk!". If one is expressing a particularly fervent belief, he or she may go one step further in affirming their statement with a , "Real Talk, *insert expletive*".

Enough talk, I'll let the literature speak for itself. I present to you R. Kelly.



p.s. I know this came out in 2007, and that I am way too late to make fun of this without feeling completely out of touch with popular culture, but whatever, happy 2010. Also, the grammar required to write this post was particularly difficult. Referring to phrases and adding question marks in the middle of sentences? It's hard, and I dare you to try doing it right. Real talk.

January at the Y

Over the past few years, I think I've developed the traits and habits required to be completely judgemental of the miserable transformation that has occurred at the local YMCA. Since October, I've given up on the outdoors and have focused my athletic prowess on the treadmills and weight machines down the street at the Y (with the help of my boss's family pass, of course). I've been running somewhat regularly for the past few year. Not far by any means, a couple miles, just long enough to completely saturate myself in vegetarian sweat, and just far enough to sprint past a couple of over confident d-bags who for some reason insist on running with their girlfriends who tend to be in much better shape. I'm pretty sure my main reason for running in the first place was to be seen running. That, and to have an excuse to take a second shower in the day, the one I love the most but would otherwise feel too guilty to take in fear that the water meter reader would raise an eyebrow in judgement.

While running, I'm sure a couple calories were burned, and I know I can handle a flight of stairs with a bit more grace. The point is, my running is neither health-based nor competition-based. I don't do it to fit into my skinny jeans (my ass is too small and feet too big to ever feel publicly acceptable in a pair of those) and I don't do it to look like some sort of famous person. I don't even like running, really. It's just something I do, I have the shoes, I have the shorts, the sweatband, the playlist, the time...why not put them to use?

I describe my own reasons for fitness to demonstrate why all of the people that are now at the Y in January, probably won't be in February. They've all made silly little resolutions to themselves. Some have Keira Knightley in their dreams (either to look like her, or to bed her). Others may want to postpone their future heart disease, or get their diabetes in check. Some post-birth stretch marks may serve as inspiration, or maybe it was the ridiculous number of absolutely terrible NFL teams this year that has motivated some surely to be disappointed loyal fans to try out for their local clubs. Regardless of the specific reasons enticing so many people to join the gym this January, there is a common theme. They're all doing it for stupid reasons. They'll give up soon enough. After all, it shouldn't take long for one to realize that they won't be dating Keira soon (I mean, just watch Love Actually a couple times, she's in love, man, and despite whatever theatrical stunts you may try to pull, she's not leaving your best friend for you!).

I'm all for these resolutioners to get fit (at the end of the day, with health reform, it'll be my ass that'll be paying for their hospital bills) but can't they go before work? I never thought I'd say this, but I really miss the November Y. The one with the old hippie who wore high thick socks and walked on an incline for seemingly ever. The one with the old Asian lady that moved her arms in jerks with 2.5 lb weights in each hand. The Y with the younger guy that would watch the Asian lady while slowly pedalling a bicycle. This is the YMCA I miss. The one full of people that just go because they go, because it's a stupid routine they've picked up along the way. There is no over exertion in the November YMCA. No one is sweating too much, no one is spotting anyone, no one is (god forbid) using multiple cardio machines in a single workout.

By mid-February, I think (I hope) this riduculousness will end. Valentine's day will come and go and the semi-dedicated resolutioners will realize that their loved ones still love them, and that the ones they hope will love them are still beyond their reach. Then, in February, I'll have my Y back.