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STAY CALM

24 July, 2008

ohmygodohmygodohmygod!

I was going to save this for tomorrow, because I’ve already done the blogging thing today but I just CAN’T keep it to myself. I need to tell you that:

 

THERE IS A CUPCAKE STORE IN WELLINGTON.

IT SELLS CUPCAKES. IT IS IN THE OLD BANK ARCADE ON LAMBTON QUAY AND IT IS CALLED TEMPT!

 

Sorry for yelling. Sometimes I just get all excited and I can’t remember to use my indoor voice.

The Old Bank Arcade also has a chocolate shop (that I am too scared to go to) and the LUSH store that I fell in love with all those (two) years ago. Sigh. Old Bank Arcade is my favorite.

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To the editor

24 July, 2008

The below list provides proof that I am in fact slowly turning into one of those old ladies who can write a letter of complaint for any and every thing imaginable.

A list of complaints I have about my gym:

  • The music blows. Also It’s so small that when there are classes on we have to listen to a blend of gym music, step music, and spin music. If you had to listen to it long enough you would have an epileptic fit.
  • The hours it is open SUCK.
  • There is a real lack of group classes (I hate working out on my own.)
  • The lack of space
  • The naked ladies in the changing rooms. It’s not just that they’re naked (everyone needs to get changed) it’s the fact that they insist on wandering around naked. The changing room is cramped, and I do not enjoy having naked strangers in my bubble.
  • Bring Back Kat!
  • You now have to book in advance for cardio equipment. WTF.
  • Classes are cramped, and I inevitably end up behind a pillar, or behind that girl who wears godawful hot pants.
  • The classes are also small. I enjoy having a much larger audience of people to humiliate myself in front of.
  • It’s kind of expensive for what boils down to being two days a week, and an occasional weekend session.
  • That chick with the teeny hot pants and the insistence on not wearing a bra. I know way too much about her nipples.
  • Where the hell did all the kickboxing classes go? I asked at least twice a month for the first three months without them and they kept telling me that they’d be putting them back on the timetable and yet… No classes!

A list of complaints about having to change gyms:

  • I like hanging out with Becks and Jeri and the random ladies that I talk to but don’t remember names for. I only know one person who goes to Les Mills.
  • Most of the gym instructors know my name and make an effort to say hi. Les Mills is too big for all of the instructors to know all of the members.
  • I’ll miss just being at a gym with girls, I never have to worry about how terrible I look because no one gives a shit.
  • And what if I feel the need to talk about tampons or something? I couldn’t do it at a mixed gym…
  • Boys smell.
  • I have to pay a stupid $99 joining fee for Les Mills.
  • I have to give a MONTHS notice to my gym, and the payment company that steals money out of my account every two weeks.

A list of complaints about the bus:

  • Public transport is expensive. I pay $95.00 a month at the moment I would like to pay half that.
  • There are never enough Express 31’s in the morning. I always end up having to stand, being elbowed by other passengers, and generally regretting the need to bring along a handbag and gym bag.
  • I am always late to work. I blame this on the buses. Shut up. You can’t prove it’s not them.

I have many other lists of complaints; notably ones about yogurt, running, finding a rental in Wellington, and winter. I’m not going to subject you to them today. I might need them for tomorrows’ post.

(You’re jumping for joy aren’t you? It’s alright you don’t have to say anything, I know you are.)

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You know what?

23 July, 2008

Today it is raining. It is raining big fat heavy drops of water that seem to get in under my hood and through my scarf to soak through my hair and wet my back. I think my frog tattoo is actually attracting the rain, because that’s where all the wet is.

The rain is also running down the pavement outside of uni, turning it into a raging river that pools into my shoes and creeps up my pant legs. This is why I need to hem my pants. If they weren’t 3 inches too long for me they wouldn’t be dragging along the ground, and my knees wouldn’t be wet.

The sign up form for regional Taekwon Do camp was posted online today. It’s semi official; there will be running. The equipment list: dobok(s), belt, RUNNING PANTS, sleeping bag, pillow, toiletries, cookies.

Let me start with saying: Cookies are not going to make up for the running thing. Bitter hot chocolate, with chili flakes, and whipped cream would not make up for running.

On the list of questions in the form there is one about medical conditions and allergies and stuff. I have (so far) resisted the urge to write a short paragraph about my crippling allergy to running.

I think that making up a medical condition to get out of physical activity would be very high school PE class.

I did wonder if perhaps I should start a mini running program. Just so that on the day of the running I wouldn’t collapse into a sweaty puddle threatening to throw up/ call my lawyer/ pass out. In other words, so that I wouldn’t completely embarrass myself by crying.

I’d just fit the running in around full time work, and uni, and TKD, and the gym, and study. Naturally it would have to be either late night or very early morning running. Except I don’t actually really do mornings. So late night running. Alone. In Miramar. Yeah that seems like a really smart idea.

The other alternative is running at the gym. On the treadmills which you now have to BOOK for ‘peak’ times between 5 and 7ish - so all of the times I’m at the gym and in the mood to run. (Although in the mood to run is kind of an oxymoron for me. There is no running mood.)

Unfortunately the having to book a treadmill thing was the last straw. I will be leaving my gym just as soon as I find a suitable replacement.

I’m thinking Les Mills.

So anyway. Back to that whole running thing:

Shannon At Camp While Running (sort of):

Shannon: (on the ground, crying, sweating, and thinking very hard about throwing up)
Mhaphmack.

Fit camper: Dude. I thought you were fit.

Shannon: (gasp gasp, pant pant) 
I am. Just you know. Not running fit. I’m squat and lunges fit - I can do like 30. in a row. And I’m free weights fit - I can do a whole class with 3 kg weights. And I’m walking fit. I could walk for miles! Not up hills or anything though.

Fit camper: I don’t think you can claim to be fit if you can walk, but not up hills. And weights are more of a strength thing…

Shannon: (wheeze, cough)
Whatever. I pay good money to my gym! I am fit.

Fit camper: Right. So why are you crying about running? I mean we’re still in sight of the start point.

Shannon: (Goes into cardiac arrest.) (And dies)

There you have it people. Running Kills.

You heard me.

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Jambalaya

22 July, 2008

I have eaten nothing but Jambalaya for three days straight. Well nothing but Jambalaya, and fruit. Also the brownie cupcakes. And breakfast cereal.

So nothing but Jambalaya, brownie, fruit, and cereal.

And before you start to tell me off about balanced diets and stuff know this: My jambalaya had seven different types of vegetables in it - not counting the five (FIVE) cloves of garlic I used.

And it was delicious. Also spicy. It had chorizos (SPICY) and Cajun seasoning (Very SPICY) and about 1 teaspoon too much Cayenne pepper (HOT like all the infernos of HELL).

Also this week: I received a care package from Dad! I have a new electric blanket, and a new lounge blanket! The electric blanket is 72% less likely to set me (or my bed) on fire - compared to my old one that is. And the lounge blanket? I’m excited about that because we have two other lounge blankets and they both smell like homeless man. This one doesn’t. And it’s all mine.

There was also a jar of sand art brownie  (I did say was right?) and a bag of what looks like the junk drawer from home. It’s full of pens and vivids, and highlighters, and I plan to scatter them discreetly around the house. They’re bound to come in handy in all sorts of situations like:

  • When I’m studying in the bath and need a highlighter? I’ll just grab the one in the toothbrush holder.
  • When I’m heading out the door, and remember that I need a vivid to write my name on new gym gear? I’ll just grab the one under the front door mat.
  • All those times that I study in the middle of the stairs and my pen runs out? I’ll just grab one of the pens I’ve stashed on the third step from the top.

The other thing in my care package? A note from my little brother saying that he didn’t know what I wanted, his chocolate bar wrapper or the cats. He sent the wrapper.

Luckily the wrapper had a voucher for a free chocolate bar on it, otherwise I would have had to send him a courier post bag big enough for at least one of the cats.

And just while I’m talking about care packages I thought I’d share the story of my first care package ever.

Picture me, leaving home for the very first time to move into student accommodation here in Wellington. I was wide eyed, overwhelmed, and felt completely out of my depth.

To ease the transition my parents sent down a big plastic box full of items that they had been dying to get rid of from their own pantries (for the first four days I lived on lime green Jelly, and tomato soup.)

When I arrived in my new flat with my Mum I found my first flatmate ever there with her parents. We introduced ourselves and had a wee chat, in the course of which discovering that we BOTH had care packages!

We set about unloading them into our new kitchen when horror!  I pulled out a shiny new box of condoms. Extra safe. My new flatmate and her parents stared for a moment before politely looking away. My mum did no such thing, dissolving into giggles, as I relocated the offending item into my bedroom.

It turns out my Dad has a sense of humour. Ha. Ha. Extra safe. Ha.

Once I had gotten over my mortification the condoms came in handy - our flat ended up blowing them up and leaving them scattered around a friends’ bedroom like big extra safe party balloons.

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Shannon’s Christmas/ Birthday Gift Catalogue 2007 2008 - Exotic Live Animal Edition

20 July, 2008

So back before Christmas in 2007, right before Marvin the computer was stolen, I promised to publish a gift catalogue for all of those hard-to-buy-for people. Then I didn’t.

This year I thought I should probably make good on that promise. Also? I have an upcoming birthday.

(Do you see how I did that? How I casually slipped my birthday into the conversation?)

So keep it in mind: October 16 2008, which is really close when you’re thinking about customs, quarantine, and animal registrations. Just sayin…

Honey Bear $234.00

Bears are best sellers at all times of year. A Honey Bear is the only real way to tell your children that you love them. 

Lion $497.00

Despite their fearsome reputations, Lions are actually quite gentle, and make the perfect family pet. Nothing says “I love you, family” quite like a lion, wrapped up in a spiffy bow under the Xmas tree.

Giraffe $29.99 

Despite their preference for leaves and trees, Giraffes are the natural born killers of the African grass plains. Their long necks and gentle eyes hide massive amounts of speed and blood-thirstyness. For the record, though, I’d still love one for my birthday.

Baboons $154.00

Baboons are like the little old wise men of Africa. For those wanting to know more about owning a Baboon, I recommend making time to view the documentary: The Lion King (I and II).

Duck $80.00

Ducks are fairly low maintenance pets. If you have a bathtub you have a duck habitat. (For the record our flat has a bathtub. So. Yeah.)

Emu $45.98

Emu’s are the serial killer version of exotic house pets. Friends don’t buy friends emus. (Except, perhaps, if those friends REALLY like omelets.) (I hate omelets.)

Cheetah $15.99

Cheetahs are the fastest mammals around, which makes sense because they’re also the finest messengers in the animal kingdom. The Pony Express has nothing on these guys. If I had a cheetah I would write home more often. 

African Wild Dog $4987.00

Like Baboons, African Wild Dogs are (as the name suggests) from Africa. These dogs come trained to obey over 90 commands including: “Do the dishes”, “Take out the rubbish”, “Go fetch mummy a drink”, and the ever popular “Go iron my dobok.”

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The cupcake war.

16 July, 2008

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.

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Recipe for success.

15 July, 2008

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.

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Eeee!

14 July, 2008

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!

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A series of mostly unrelated things.

11 July, 2008

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…

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Bus stop musings.

9 July, 2008

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?”