Leaf, probably…

My Public Policy text book is drier than cardboard. That’s right drier than cardboard.  That puts it in the same dryness category as dried up salt lakes, and scrub bushes in the heat of an Australian summer. That’s dry.

Luckily for me (and now for you) I have a plan of action for dealing with dry text books.

First off, I aim to have the right supplies. Highlighters, spare paper for jotting (or, you know, doodling pictures) and two or three of my favorite pens. I also find having a small snack handy can make study that much more pleasant. Perhaps a slice of cheese. I could go for some cheese.

Next I find a comfortable place. I can’t study at my desk because the chair makes me squirm, and I always end up slouched way down in my chair with my legs up sprawled across my desk. It’s comfortable at the time, but a few hours of that leaves one hell of a kink in my back.  

Instead I go for one of the sofas in our lounge, or the patch of sunny carpet by the front door. I NEVER attempt to study on my bed. It’s just too comfortable. The next thing I know I’m studying in the bed, then in the bed while lying down, which naturally progresses to me studying in the bed, while lying down, with my eyes closed.

Then I take a deep cleansing breath and open my book. I’m currently chapter two. The very first page of chapter two to be exact. I have two more chapters plus that one to finish by Thursday.

I like to start my readings by highlighting something. Anything at all. This time I highlight the first sentence. Then I underline the words”public policy”.

It’s important for me to do this now because within seconds of starting my reading I have forgotten I even own a highlighter. This way I at least get to use it once a study session, and I don’t feel like such a study dunce when I see other students massively highlighted and annotated readings during group discussions.

I read a few paragraphs before pausing to nibble on cheese and note down my observations so far. When I realise I have absorbed nothing but that chapter heading I go back and re-read, only this time I do it while massaging my aching shoulders and neck.

When re-reading and neck massages get me no further than page two of chapter two I change tactics. I know when something isn’t working, and I’m not scared to admit it.

Taking my cheese slice I place it between chapter six and seven (the public sector, and the judiciary) of my text.

After lightly rubbing the front and back cover of my book with olive oil, and a pinch or two of thyme, I place it into the oven to grill at a medium to high temperature.

When the cheese is melted I like to cut the text into diagonal slices and serve with a side of The Crazy and a glass of wine. Or ten.

Last night at Taekwon-Do I was grumpy and tired for reasons mentioned here, and here, and for a few other reasons not mentioned here - mostly the one about how I hadn’t eaten since lunch time.

I scowled and frowned a lot, although I really didn’t mean to. When I realised that I was scowling and frowning at my instructor and all the people in my group I tried for a smile. It felt a bit like I was baring my teeth, so I stopped.

Towards the end of the class we were surprised by having to jump up in front of all the others to demonstrate our three step sparring. Or something. We weren’t quite sure what we were attempting to demonstrate so it was a bit of a massive disaster.

I would start forward, and forget to yell in the right spots. Then I’d realise that no one else was moving. So I’d stop. Then the dude at the front would say keep going. One of the other guys in my group started again. And so I would start again, only more nervous, and forgetting to yell at all, or finish.

Meanwhile the rest of the group were still standing still. In the end I just sort of trailed off. It clearly wasn’t the right time to be asking for clarification, so I didn’t.

Also a disaster: While on the mats I managed to pop my second toe out of its joint. It’s something that happens fairly often with me (usually when I’m swimming) as a result of been stood on by one too many horses back in the day when there were horses. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s intensely uncomfortable.

I can usually pop it back in by flexing my foot in the right direction, and so I gave that a try. While up in front of the class. Demonstrating something that clearly I was getting wrong.

So imagine me running back and forwards on the mats, clearly confused as fuck, stopping to jiggle about flexing my foot every two steps.

Disaster.

I couldn’t have looked any more like a dork if I had tried to.

Later on while we watched the other belts do their thing in front of the class we figured out that we were supposed to be simulating a grading. Whoops.

Then I had to take a picture for the clubs website. I didn’t see the picture but I get a feeling that I don’t look amazing in it. I was scowling right up until the camera was pointed at me.

Later on that evening - despite the odds - I managed to look more like a dork. I popped my toe out of alignment while in the shower, and then nearly brained myself on the side of the tub trying to get it back in place.

The lesson?
There is no lesson really, but if I had to pick one I’d go with ‘eat something before working out’

Or if I was channeling my Nana Pointon: ‘don’t scowl like that in case the wind changes. You’ll be stuck like that forever, and then how would you feel.’

Blah. Just staple a box of tissues to my forehead and call me done. I’m so fucking exhausted from all the mucus producing and open mouth breathing that I’m ready for another nap.

Unfortunately napping is not possible today (hell, it shouldn’t have been possible yesterday…)

I was hoping to have the cold over with by this afternoon - just in time for Boxing class at the gym tonight, and Taekwon-Do on Thursday. Unfortunately it looks like I’ll be lucky if it’s all cleared up before Mexican Fiesta Friday at work.

*Sigh*

*Sneeze*

*Mucus*

*Sigh*

This morning instead of returning my mistakenly ordered ream of A3 pink paper to the stationary company, I cut it up into A4 size so that I wouldn’t have to phone them and organise a replacement. The call would have taken 5 minutes. Cutting up 500 sheets of paper took 1 hour. Do I regret it? Hell no.

We also had an office meeting for the first time in about a year. I had nothing to add, and none of the items were of any relevance to me, but it was really nice to know what is going on in the office for a change. It made me feel connected with my co-workers - something that seldom happens because my job is so different to everyone elses.

Louise and Karlie met up with me for lunch. It was nice to reconnect with friendly faces in the middle of the work day. Going back to work afterwards was a bit of a challenge though.

I always pause just as I reach the lobby, before I flash the security guard my ID card. In that moment I imagine turning on my heel and heading back out onto the street. Once out there I’d call my office and inform them that I’ve been in a car accident, or I’ve got food poisoning, or that I’ve been taken hostage by bank robbers, so I can’t come in to work for the rest of the day. Then I pull my ID card out of my bag, flash it to the security guard and head for the elevator back to my office.

One of these days I’m actually going to do it. The way I imagine the phone call going:

Him: Very Important Person’s office, Boss speaking.
Me: Boss, hi it’s Shannon here.
Him: Ah, Shannon, I was expecting you back in the office any moment now, what’s up?
Me: Well, you see, I’m just calling to let you know that I went to the chemists on my lunch break, and they had a toxic chemical scare.
Him: Oh no! Really? How… Improbable…
Me: So, the fire service showed up, along with a whole heap of police officers, and scientists of course.
Him: Of course… What would we do without the scientists.
Me: I know, right? Anyway, I’m stuck in decontamination while they investigate the scene to make sure it was just a false alarm. I don’t think I’m going to finish up here for a long time, so I’m not going to be in the office this arvo.
Him: Ah…
Me: Yeah.
Him: You know I can see you down there on the street right? My office looks right down to the entrance way there…
Me: Er. No you can’t that’s not me.
Him: Yes it is… Your jacket is very distinctive.
Me: Ah! Bank Robbers!
Him: I thought you were at a chemist?
…Dial Tone…

I lay on my back with my hands under my butt and my heels one inch off the floor, wondering why the hell I am here doing this.

Lifting my heels to 45° hurts. Opening them as wide as I can hurts. Holding that position hurts. Dropping back down to one inch and closing my legs doesn’t hurt, but it doesn’t exactly tickle either. Going back up to 45° is an excercise in pain.

I briefly drop my legs before imagining Kat scowling at me, I lift my legs back up to the proper position and scowl back. Kat isn’t even here and she’s being a bully. I’m going to miss her when she goes overseas.

Back down to one inch. I try tilting my hips upwards, but that doesn’t help either. My lower stomach and thighs are killing me.

The things I do for Taekwon-Do I marvel. It’s not like I particularly enjoy this sort of crap, right? I’m not a pain person. If I had a choice between the crazy abs workout from martial arts hell and drinking a mojito on a beach I’d choose the mojito and the beach every time right?

45°. Open. One inch. Close. Back up to 45°.

Actually I’m not even sure I like mojito’s. Sometimes they’re alright but other times they’re just too soda waterish. And I don’t like soda water.

I do like beaches though. I should really call Claire about doing that cleanup dive, it sounds like fun. Or as much fun as picking up rubbish from the ocean can really be. So, you know, lots of fun.

45°. Open. One inch. Close. 45°.

We roll over and stretch our stomachs out. Mine feels a bit like cold taffy - about to shatter into little pieces. I don’t pull too hard on it.

Then we break off into groups to practice our grading skills. I’m with two other 9th gup white belt-yellow stripes, guys that I’ve never actually worked with before. I feel about a million years older than them, and tired.

I don’t make much conversation, because I’ve never know how to interact with highschool aged boys. I can’t tell a good fart joke to save my life. High school boys are a group that I still don’t understand even now that I’m in my 20’s.

We go through our pattern, Chon-Ji Tul. I struggle to get the stance changes right in the second half, and briefly consider throwing my toys. I don’t. Instead I make myself stop after every turn and double check my feet. It’s slow going. I wish there were mirrors here.

We run through our four directional punch and four directional block fundamentals from last grading. I’m a little annoyed at how much I’ve let them both slip.

Then we run through sparing: Forearm guarding block, three offensive paces forward, step back into attention stance. Three defensive paces back, counter attack.

We’re supposed to yell out before we begin our defensive and before we begin our offensive. I do, but it sounds like a dying frog in a hall full of snakes. I don’t like yelling out. I don’t want people to hear me.

I’m tired, and my eyes hurt, and we’re done. My stomach muscles breath a sign of relief, and I touch my toes to try and loosen up my back.

If I enjoyed this my back wouldn’t be tense and sore.

I sort out the ‘good’ pain from the ‘bad’ pain and stretch the bits that can’t wait until I get home. Nobody enjoys this sort of thing, not really.

Leaving the hall I know I’ve got a silly smile on my face. I’m tired and I’m sore and I’m only smiling because I’m done. There’s no other reason to smile. Who the hell actually enjoys that sort of punishment?

I go home and fall asleep in the bath. I dream about doing the perfect pattern, and nailing the stance changes from gunnun sogi into niunja sogi.

The bath goes cold, and I know that I still have that stupid smile on my face.

__

I’m rock climbing tonight with Louise and maybe Karlie, anyone else interested? Send me a text before 5pm. Seriously. I’m actually going to do it this time.

Hey guess what? Tonight, instead of going to Taekwon-do in Kilbirnie, we get to try Kempo Karate in town. And by we I mean Miramar Taekwon-do. Neat right?

I did a bit of research on Kempo and discovered… well, not a lot really. I did find out that nobody is 100% sure exactly where Kempo originated from, and that it incorporates a whole bunch of different techniques from a whole bunch of different martial arts  - including aerial and spinning kicks from Taekwon-Do.

There seems to be a few different styles, and after doing a quick google search, most of the ones in New Zealand seem to be the American branch - although I couldn’t find the exact branch we’re doing it with.

According to Wikipedia “American Kempo employ linear and circular movements with a signature “rapid fire” combination of blows to vital areas of the body.” Now I don’t know exactly what that means but WOW it does sound bad-ass doesn’t it?

And that whole ‘rapid fire’ thing? You know what that means? It means it’s going to be an awesome workout… Or, you know, it means that I’m going to have a lot of bruises on Friday and I’ll have to explain to my boss that I let a 14 year old boy kick me because I was wondering whether to block. Whatever.

And you know what else I found out? They have totally cool uniforms. Lots of black, and everyone knows that black = cool.

I’ll bet Kempo Karate members never have to get up at 6am in the morning to wrestle with an ironing board because they forgot about class that night after work, and then find a stain that looks a lot like cranberry juice on their belt, and then have to figure out whether normal washing powder will get that out of white, or whether they’re going to have to use bleach.

Actually people who belong to Taekwon-Do might never have to worry about that either. It’s probably just something that happens to me.

—

I spent lunch time yesterday in Rebel Sport shopping for new gym pants because of this. I hate gym pant shopping. I especially hate shopping in Rebel. It takes forever, there’s never anything in my size, the shop assistants are few and slow to respond, and it’s hideously over-priced - $80 for a pair of performance enhancing running pants with dry technology?!

I’m looking for a pair of shorts to get sweaty in, they don’t have to be made out of gold and sprinkled with fairy dust.

I did not buy the fairy dust running pants. I brought the first pair on sale that would let me do wide squats and lunges without getting in the way and making my butt look saggy.*

Anyway, the point of me telling you that was because I’m curious, where do you buy your gym gear? And do you get yours with all the sides and toppings, or do you go cheap and nasty?

*Yes I did squats and lunges in the changing room in Rebel sport. It was cramped and I looked like a dork because the doors do not go right down to the floor.

My POLS class took up residence in the lecture theatre at 10.45am. We settled in for cramming and fretting, and a short wait.

I was feeling quite smug with the amount of revision I managed to cram into 15 minutes until I realised that it was far later than it should have been. The rest of the class was beginning to realise this too. The noise level was quickly rising to an angry hum. 

At 11.20 we sent an envoy of students to the POLS INTP head office, to negotiate a mutually beneficial resolution to the crisis, and a ceasefire on the essay front.

The head of department responded, aggressively, with a take home exam, due Tuesday 11am, and an essay word limit of 1500. Our delegation, aided by the plaintive cries of the natives, bargained him down to 800 and came to a verbal agreement on the deal.

So there goes my weekend.

Wintertime really does showcase Wellington flats at their best. Over what seems like the last two weeks our idyllic Miramar flat has turned into a damp chilly fridge box.

In summer, or during the day - when nobody is home - the sun shines into our lounge and kitchen warming them up through our very big windows and ranch slider. At night the heat escapes though those same windows and we huddle under blankets.

As winter mornings are pretty much unbearable to shower in, we’re been leaving the window in our bathroom shut, and sometimes forgetting to open it again once we’re done. As there is no other form of ventilation, and our bathroom has a heat light, our pristine white walls have bloomed with black mould over the space of a week.

I sprayed exit mould onto the walls this morning, and I’m hoping that’s all that’s required to keep it at bay.

Our washroom will also soon become victim to the mould, as whomever designed it chose not to put in any sort of reliable ventilation and one window that does not open. It does have a door to the back to the house, but you have to be home all day, or very stupid to leave that wide open while the washing machine and drier are going.

And another thing, do you remember when I mentioned my bedroom and it’s linoleum floors? Yes? Good, because those suckers are COLD in the morning. They’re cold in the morning, and the afternoon, and they’re even cold in the evening.

Actually my room doesn’t hold heat at all. Despite only having one very small window. It’s damp, and I’m tempted to keep the dehumidifier in there all day every day. Unfortunately the dehumidifier is upstairs being used to solve the drier/ mouldy bathroom/ condensation-y lounge and kitchen issue.

Does anyone actually have a nice ventilated, dry, well insulated house in Wellington?!

Do they even exist?

In other news I have my POLS exam today. I’m freaking out a wee bit over here, so I think I’m going to sneak out of work early to go over my notes. It’s not like my boss is here anyway…

Yesterday I went shopping and brought a Jersey dress to be worn over pants, and a flowey empire type top. I um-med and ah-hed over them for ages, because although I need something to wear to Leslie’s, and for Mums partners 50th, and for Cats on Saturday I wasn’t quite sure whether they drew all sorts of nasty attention to my tummy. I’m blaming winter fat stores if they make me look bloated and preggers (I’m NOT by the way that’s just where I happen to store all my fat.)

That and the strange skinny mirrors in Farmers. They’re honestly like something from a fun house. One minute you’re wondering if you’ve gained weight from all the shitty exam eating, and the next minute you’re standing in front of the skinny mirrors marvelling at your reality defying tummy and butt.

Perhaps I should break out the nasty black corset I brought on our flat’s last outing to Bras ’N’ Things (nasty in a very good way of course)… How do you guys hide the inevitable winter bulk up?

So I have two 50 minute exams coming up, that, to be completely honest with you? I’m not thrilled about.

I also have an essay that I’m moderately interested in writing. It’s on a really interesting subject and the readings for it have been great, however the actual writing of? blah.

It seems I’m always much more interested in writing these essays when they’re still an idea, rather than an activity I have to actually perform.

Loads of people I know are graduating this week notably: Karlie, Louise, and Adey. Ben would have been too, if he wasn’t doing honours this year.

It’s going to take forever before I get to that point. Remind me again why I signed up for all this study and essay and test crap?

I’m kidding I know why I’m here. I just enjoy moaning pitifully about the misfortune it all. It makes me feel like I’m getting my moneys worth out of Study Link.

In fact, this post probably contains more offensive language than it does inoffensive language.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fucking fuck. Fuctituded.

So. Fuck. I screwed up again. for everyone’s information? Today is the fucking 7th of April.

My fucking essay is due on the 9th April. NOT the 18th like I thought it was.

Also? It is not the fucking 14th of April which is - for some reason - the date I thought it was today. Yup. I both knew it was the 7th and  the 14th today. Despite also knowing that it could only be one of those dates.

So, in conclusion the mini grading that I took 2 hours off essay writing to learn Korean for is not today. It’s not even this FUCKING week. It is on the 14th. Which is next fucking week.

So all that stress, and all that fucking ironing with our shitty mini ironing board? WASTED.

WHAT the SHIT.

_____

I’m suffering from a little stress right now. What that post was meant to say was, wow, Kat and Becks went diving near Kapiti this weekend!

Aren’t you so jealous?

Boy if I hadn’t been writing my silly essay (due scarily soon) on France’s foreign policies following 9/11, I could have gone too. Oh, and BTW, I got another date mixed up, this time for my mini grading. How funny is that?!

The next time I take up a hobby, it’s going to be one that doesn’t require ironing.

Pole dancing is all about not wearing clothes right? And I doubt that spandex shows much in the way of creases…