Leaf, probably…

Last night I stopped procrastinating went grocery shopping. With a list. And a meal plan. I brought vegetables, even. I believe you owe me a round of applause.

I’m going to make jambalaya, vegetable chicken casserole, and zucchini cherry tomato pasta (which I made last night and YUM it was GOOD.) 

Last night I made lemon sour creamy cupcakes with lemon frosting, effectively throwing down the gauntlet for the cupcake wars. My cupcakes were soft and spongy and full of lemony zing. Karlie declared a food orgasm on the point of tasting them. I dared my flatmates, Karlie and Louise, to do better if they could and boy do I hope they give it a go.

I was brousing through NZ girl last night and found this competition to win a handbag. All you have to do is follow a link to a tax agents website and fork over all your personal details, including ALL of your contact information, IRD number, birthdate, a couple of forms of ID, and drivers licence number. Call me crazy, but entering that sort of information onto a website I’ve never heard of before seems like a mighty dumb idea.

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.

Today in My ‘New Zealand in the World’ class I learnt the details for my upcoming assignment. I get to pretend to be an adviser from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and Trade and write a one page brief to the Minister of Foreign Affairs about Zimbabwe.

Several things made me jump for joy (quietly, in my seat of course… I mean come on guys I was in a lecture theatre full of people.) First: One page. Single spaced 12 point Times New Roman ONE PAGE. That’s only 300-500 words.

Eeeee! (squeal of delight!)

Second: The word pretend. That’s pretty much all it took for my heart to do cartwheels. I love pretending. And I love writing while pretending. It implies using a little imagination, and I have that in spades! Spades I tell you.

I love pretending so much that once I pretended to start my own religion (Did you know I’m a Minister for the Church of the Great and Mighty Shannon?) I sent all my friends emails informing them of the new religion in town and then proceeded to fish for credit card details.

I may have taken that one a wee bit too far (daily updates on the inner workings of my non-existent and increasingly complicated church anyone?) but that was almost certainly because I spent too long sitting at a desk in my first boring reception job. I certainly won’t be making that mistake with this assignment.

After all, we’re only allowed one page single spaced 12 pt Times New Roman.

Eeeee!

I haven’t done a post in list form for a very long time. At least a week anyway. So I thought I’d do one today: 

• I might be going for drinks tonight with Karlie and Leslea. Or I might be going to the gym to work out all alone. Considering how much I enjoy working out on my own (I don’t) I’m leaning a lot towards the drinks.

• This morning, while on the bus, I saw a man stumble out of Mermaids (Wellingtons premier men’s entertainment club.) He grinned blearily at my bus and waved before stumbling down Courtney place. He looked very pleased with himself.

• The other day I had to buy a text book for my POLS course. I hate it when the lecturers prescribe books that they, or the course administrator, have written. And I hate it even more when the text is so very obviously overpriced. $50 for a badly written dry-as-toast book.

• Because I was angry about the book and the spending of hard earned money I went on TradeMe and bid on the equivalent amount of trashy romance novels, and winter clothing. I am a very bad influence on myself.

• Taekwon-Do camp is coming up on the 15th-17th (I think) of August. It’s near Lower Hutt somewhere, and Dad, if you’re reading this, family is allowed to come watch the grading, which I’m fairly sure is on Saturday (16th) morning.

• Last night at TKD they made that same joke about the 6am run and swim in a freezing cold river. I think they might actually be serious.

• I hate running.

• It’s winter here in New Zealand. Winter is cold. 6am in the morning is cold. Rivers are very cold.

• I hate being cold.

• Seriously, I don’t like the cold. I have an electric blanket, two duvets, two blankets, a throw rug, a hot water bottle and many many pairs of flannelette PJ’s. Last night I used them all. Except the electric blanket - I’m scared it’s too old to be safe anymore, and I’ll wake up on fire.

• In that same week of the TKD camp I have a briefing paper (worth15%), a class test (worth25%) and a 2000 word essay (worth 25%) due. I’m thinking I’d better start writing now.

• Also: I’d better start practicing and learning my theory for TKD because my mini-grading is in roughly two weeks. (there will be no grading without first passing the mini-grading.)

• Whoops. I agreed to go out for a drink with the girls before considering the fact that I am so not dressed for it. I am wearing trainers, jeans, a woolly casual Friday jumper, and a very baggy thermal top that I stole off my Mum last weekend. Crap. I need to go shopping.

• I also need to go food shopping. I am down to a packet of pasta, three different types of rice, a jar of pesto, and a jar of garlic aioli. I’ve had pesto and pasta for three nights in a row. It would have been four, but thankfully Louise took pity on me last night and gave me some of her chicken and vegetable pie.

• Who says I’m not domesticated huh? THREE types of rice. Domestic goddesses probably only ever have two at a time. And one of my bags is wholegrain brown rice. That’s very healthy.

• Usually I have brown wholegrain pasta too. Last time I couldn’t find any on the supermarket shelf, so I gave up. Also: It takes five times as long as normal pasta and rice to cook because it’s so much denser. Sometimes I’m just not that patient.

• Ok. I’m never that patient. I eat crunchy pasta and rice 99.9% of the time.

Hm. So that was less of a list and more of a stream of consciousness in list form.

Anyway: Homework.

I’ve just started back at uni, and there seems to be an excess of it. You know me though: I like to share the fun around, so today you have homework: I’d like you to list three things you’ll be doing today. If you don’t have three things, make some up. 

Shannon needs some procrastination material…

So it occurs to me that I have a grading coming up.

(Actually it didn’t occur to me so much as it occurred to one of the instructors, who mentioned it in Taekwon Do class the other day.)

I thought I’d tell you about the pattern I’ve learnt for it, because I have to be able to tell the person grading me all about it. It’s called Chon-Ji Tul.

Chon-Ji Tul literally translates to heaven and the earth. It’s split into two parts, one representing heaven and the other earth. Chon-Ji Tul is understood as sort of a creation story, or the beginning of human history, which is why it’s the first pattern us 9th Gups learn.

It has 19 movements. I pretty much always get stuck on number 9, when the switch over from the first half to the second half begins.

Other things I get stuck on? Talking to strangers at bus stops. I’m not a particularly approachable person (I think) and so it always surprises the hell out of me when a stranger decides to chat with me.

The other day I was waiting on a bench waiting for my bus to arrive. A woman in her early 30’s came storming down the road and flopped into the seat next to me. She was rugged up for the winter cold with a multi coloured scarf and a cute knitted cap.

She turned to me, barely making eye contact, before blurting out:

“You know when you’re at a boys house, and he’s acting like a twat, and so you leave and then you feel bad for leaving, and so you text him and tell him you’re sorry but you had to take off and then he doesn’t reply?!”

No ‘I thought. I’ve never been in that situation.

“Yup” I said.

“What’s WITH that?!” She exploded.

Crap. I hadn’t realised that there was going to be a test. “I’ve got no idea. Maybe he didn’t realise that he was exhibiting wankerish behaviour. Guys are idiots sometimes.”

“Too right.”

We settled into a companionable silence. I mused about why I always end up griping about guys and relationships with my female friends - and now a complete stranger in the bus stop. I wondered if I should now be dishing the goss about my relationship.

“So.” She said a little while later. “What’s the difference between a man and a boy?”

I said the first thing that popped into my head. “About 20 years.”

She roared with laughter. Obviously she liked that.

“Very good. I was going to say a marriage, a mortgage, and a kid.”

I didn’t know what kind of guy she was dating, but I know if I was out looking for a man I wouldn’t be picking one with a pre-existing marriage or kid. Maybe that changes as you get older though.

Before the bus arrived she had lectured me on how boys (no mention of men) weren’t worth it. About how everything else in a boys life comes before a serious relationship. And god forbid if you even say the words ’serious’ ‘relationship’ and commitment’. She went on to fume about about how they never texted when they should.

Too right. I thought. They don’t text, they don’t email, and they hardly ever say the right thing.

When the bus arrived she sat down the front, and I scaled my way to the back. Her negativity seemed to be catching and I was going for dinner and bowling with Louise and Karlie.

I was not in the mood to spend my night sitting in a corner bitching about guys. Instead I ate pizza, got a strike on my first go, and lost the game by about 100 points to Chris.

Later on I sat back and took a sip of my ginger beer and honey vodka before finally asking the question that had been on my mind the whole night:

“So what is the difference between a man and a boy, and why do we bother with them?”

Yesterday at Taekwon Do I had to do push ups on my knuckles for the first time ever. On a hard wood floor. Today - I shit you not - my knuckles are black and blue. OUCH. 

Luckily bruises on my hands don’t usually linger too long - as opposed to the ones on my legs that hang around for weeks. 

My marks for last semester came back: I got a B for International Relations, and a B+ for my European politics paper. Monday was my first day back at uni, and I think the papers I’m doing this time are alright. 

They seem a little easier than what I’ve done before - they’ll be covering a lot of old ground, but I choose to look at that as a good thing. I think my average is sitting at about a high B, I’d like to get it up to a B+ at least this semester. 

Finally: This morning I read something on the Internet about bacon. This afternoon my brain went: Bacon. Bacon. I need to do some filing. Bacon. I should probably do a quick milk run. Bacon. Bacon. Phone call. Bacon. Baaaaaccccooooon!

I have bacon on the brain.

Feilding, being the place where I spent the majority of my pre adult life, has more than a few special places for me. One of those places, perhaps the place, is Highfield Hill.

By rights it shouldn’t be one of my special places. It’s surprisingly unspecial. Highfield Hill’s real name is the Highfeild Hill Lookout, and is situated at the top of Highfield Rd.

To everyone in Feilding, though, it’s just Highfield Hill.

The lookout itself is nothing special, just a raised concrete block with a few handrails and a small garden. When standing on the lookout Feilding looks like a flat sunken raft full of houses hemmed in by the ranges on the right, and the hilly farming country on the left.

Back in high school when I needed a bit of time to myself I’d collect the dogs from the back yard and drag them up the road with me for a bit of pavement pounding and hard thinking. The dogs knew the way up there better than I did so usually once we were out of the traffic from town I’d drop the leads and let them pick their own way up the hill.

I took a lot of my photography assignments up the hill, there was something about how clear and calm it is up there makes it easier for me to concentrate.

Highfield Hill was the hill I tried to run up the time I decided to join the army so that I could play with guns and travel and have a purpose. It’s the hill that convinced me that perhaps I was better suited to a job that didn’t involve running. Or guns.

It was the first place I drove on my own after getting my restricted licence. It was the last place I drove on those crazy nights working at the supermarket when I couldn’t quite face going home to bed yet.

I climbed Highfield Hill on Sunday while I was back in Feilding. Maybe I wanted to feel something special. Maybe I looking for a connection to the land. Or perhaps I was hoping for one of the flashes on insight that I imagined I used to feel up there.

Instead there was nothing. The wind blew all the thoughts out of my head and I stood silently thinking about nothing and everything. There was no special connection. No reality check. No moment of inspiration. No flash of insight.

Then I realised that in all the times I climbed Highfield Hill in search of answers and insight, and connections, it never once happened. That’s not the point of the hill.

It’s more of a marker, or a rite of passage, or a workspace. There’s nothing special about that hill, and yet there is - for me anyway.

I stayed up there until my ears got cold, and then I tramped back down to the bottom of the hill feeling refreshed and windblown.

Reasons for me to own a credit card:

• I want one.
• You can buy bus and train tickets online, and outside is rainy wet and horrible.
• I want a Something from the Something Store. Very very much. (Especially considering I’ve only just realised it exists.)

Reasons why I don’t:

• I’d lose it.
• I’m crap at managing money.
• I have no money anyway.
• Online shopping is not my friend.
• I don’t plan expenditure. Expenditure plans me.
• I hate being in debt, and yet? I am Very Much in debt. Stupid student loan.
• I’m still crap at managing money.

Also? Today I had a conversation that went like this:

Shannon: So listen Big Boss Man called about his appointment this morning. He wants some stuff for it, and it was your appointment, so we don’t have the stuff. 

Colleague: Oh. Hmm.

Shannon: Do you have the stuff that he needs?

Colleague: Well you don’t have the stuff that he needs, so we’ll find the stuff that he needs.

Shannon: Great thanks.

Is it just me or does ‘The Stuff’ sound dirty?

And? It’s only 10am and there are 200 trucks parading past work laying on their horns in protest of road user charges which went up suddenly and without warning. Aside from that whole right to protest blah blah blah, I’d just like to say that truck horns are LOUD.

I’m going back to Foxton and Feilding tonight, and I forgot my camera. Since Marvin was stolen back in 2007 I have no family photos stored digitally. Sure I have a FEW in photo albums, but my favorites were all the stupid snaps that I’ve never bothered to get printed.

I might have to borrow a camera and then store photos on a CD. Or something. I’ll see what I can work out.

Yesterday afternoon I snuck out of work to enjoy my last early gym session. I go back to University and long boring work hours (with no lunch breaks) on Monday. I’m so very excited.

I got into the sculpt class late and ended up having to use slightly heavier weights than I had planned on. We whizzed through the leg stuff and then got to the arms. I had a perfect view of myself in the mirror, and I just wanted to share with you that my arms are scary.

Like very scary. One day I’m going to post a photo and you’re going to be all, ‘dude… that’s a chick…’ Or, like my flatmates and boyfriend when they first saw the effect sculpt classes are having on me, you may actually recoil in horror.

I seem to have no issue at all building up muscle on my arms, but every issue in the world with losing weight off my stomach and thighs. It’s so freaking annoying - and it’s not even like I use heavy weights.

Not that I mind having guns. I think my arms look just fine, it would just be nice if my stomach was all nice and flat to go with them.

Then I did a kickboxing class with the same instructor. There were only two of us, so one played on the bag, and the gym instructor held pads for the other, and we swapped around every few minutes. It was a good workout compared to the usual ’sweat 5 minutes, then hold some pads for 5 minutes and rest’ approach.

Shannon: *Gasp gasp* *pant pant.*
Look casual. Pretend to be fit… Gwad my arms hurt.

Instructor: Do you always do boxing after sculpt?
Looks mildly impressed.

Shannon: Sometimes. When I can… 
I am casual. I am fit. I am… having a heart attack. Halp! Call 111. I need a paramedic! 

Instructor: Well done!
She’s probably not buying this whole ‘I’m so freaking fit’ thing.

Shannon: Yeah, I really enjoyed this class, it was fun!
Seriously - I don’t think my heart is beating anymore. I can’t hear it! Stay casual though! Act fit!

Then I realised I had forgotten my towel. I had to travel home on the bus all sweaty and gross being the person that nobody wants to sit next to. Luckily the bus wasn’t even close to being full.

And - wow, I’ve just realised how much I talk about the gym and stuff on here. Perhaps I should give that a break for a bit. I guess lately it’s the only really fun thing I’ve been doing. Unless I count running around town trying to figure out where to buy a plug for my stupid sewing machine.

What else have I been up to…

Well here was works’ Mexican Fiesta which involved some very limey margaritas. I won’t be getting scurvy any time soon. We also had nachos and pizza. Mexican pizza with kidney beans and mince. It was some pretty special pizza.

(And just for the record I would like to know who they hell decided to bastardise a perfectly good pizza with nacho topping? Hm? Hm? Beans do not belong on pizza. Cheese and salami do.)

One of the flatmates boyfriends has been away from the house for an extended time after incurring the collective wrath of our flat. He finally came over again yesterday and ended up snoozing on the couch. I made the mistake of asking whether this was when we punched him in the crotch. Apparently the collective has forgiven him, so there will be no crotch punching. Damn.

Today’s post is probably going to be a big long ramble… It’s a Wednesday, that’s a rambling type of day right? Right.

This weekend is my Mum’s partners 50th. I’m taking Mum’s Mothers Day gift with me. It should have been a photo frame with three pictures - one of Liam, one of me, and one of Ryan.

Ryan is currently overseas and in all the (two) photos I have of him he’s pulling his ‘tard’ face. The only nice picture I have of Liam involves him upside down being snorgled by the dog. I can’t for the life of me find a picture of myself that I’d want hanging in Mum’s new abode, or anywhere where people might see it. 

This Mothers Day it looks a lot like Mum is getting an empty photo frame. I’m beginning to think that this whole picture thing was a DUMB idea.

On Monday night at Taekwon-Do I got my shiny certificate for my last grading. I’m a big fan of shiny things, and an even bigger fan of certificates with my name on them. Sometimes you just have to learn to embrace the little things that make you happy.

Other things that make me happy: sweaty cardio gym classes.

Something you should know about me: I don’t consider a gym session a good workout unless it ends in me covered in sweat. The worse I look the better I feel my session has gone. There’s something very cathartic about knowing you’ve done you’re absolute best at looking your absolute worst.

Last night I bounced into the gym ready to SWEAT. When I found out the X55 class I was planning on doing first was going to be replaced by a cardio class I did cartwheels in my head. Then when I found out that Jeri and Becks were also going to be joining in on the fun I did a victory dance.

A cardio class on it’s own is hard work. A cardio class followed by a sculpt class is very hard work, and a cardio class, followed by a sculpt class with Jeri and Becks? I’m lucky I didn’t pass out in the shower. I always work harder when people I know are in my classes.

Back in 2005, my second year in Wellington, I had a job as a receptionist in the design polytech I did my Graphic Design Diploma with.

It wasn’t the perfect job but I was good at it and I had more money than I’d ever had before.

When summer hit and all the Universities went on holiday my flatmate Brock, occasionally Ben, sometimes Louise or Karlie or Chanelle, would show up at work to take me out onto the waterfront to laze around in the sun.

Chanelle and I would spend our weekends rollerblading, or wandering around oriental bay just soaking up the sun and gossiping about everything and anything.

That was probably the best summer I’ve had while working.

This years summer seemed short and dull in comparison. No one showed up at work at 12pm to take me walking. I felt guilty about taking lunch breaks in general.

I did go diving a few weekends, but generally I was so stressed about getting there on time and negotiating the public transport that it just didn’t have that same lazy hazy Sunday glaze that 2005 had.