Being I'm a second degree black belt now, I had some vague notion that I'd be harder to beat up now.
ROWNG!
So I was at the gym at St. Kate's, the one allegedly designed for women's bodies, and I was doing a clean-and-jerk. No sooner had I done the first rep than my lower back went TWANG, and worsened with each subsequent move. Like a twit, I went on with my other exercises until I got to the leg press, when I realized that moving the thing less than an inch put me in enough agony to punch someone.
Then I went to class that evening which, I'll admit, is also not the smartest thing I've ever done. Shifu tried to teach us the details of nanquan, which involves repeatedly jumping into the air as high as you can and then landing really hard in a horse stance. I went on as long as I could (read 'until Shifu said "Turtle! Lie down!"'), and then spent the rest of the class lying on the floor.
The next day, it got bad enough that I went to urgent care, where the doctor prescribed super ibprofen and told me not to exercise for two weeks.
'At all?' I said, horrified.
'Well, you can swim. But only if it doesn't hurt,' said the doctor.
For those of you to whom I haven't mentioned it, I don't usually swim. This is not because I don't know how, but because I'm afraid of sharks. Yes, even in swimming pools. Yes, even though they'd certainly find me tough and stringy. Yes, I know it's irrational, bordering on insane, but it's a phobia. It's not supposed to make sense.
And the moral of the story is... Does anybody have an harpoon?

So yes, the demo:

I spent a great deal of the pre-show time trying to keep the children from running amok. I did this by sitting them down in a circle and playing silly little campfire games with them, like Concentration and Twenty Questions and Find the Cocktail in This Picture of Shimei Turtle. It went pretty well up until ten minutes to showtime, when we all had to be backstage and it got to the point that I said "OKAY! FOR THE NEXT TWO MINUTES, EVERYONE JUST STAND UP AND STAND STILL!!!"
Thankfully, they're good enough kids that they were quiet and polite during the Iiado performance until it was their turn to go on, at which point they totally brought it. They even displayed something of a sense of rhythm while I was counting for them, and I knew that I would be allowed to live after all.
So that was one down. Then, after a few other acts including scath, bluedraconis, and mcsassypants's blow-me-down spectacle of kicking and throwing prowess, Naomi and I got up and did Nanquan with Professor Wong right there in the front row. For the one or two of you out there who hadn't heard, Professor Wong is the guy who taught a special class on Nanquan just 2 days before, and I couldn't go because I had to be at my swag-bellied measil of a job. The man is also considered one of the top ten instructors in China (yes, the one with over a billion people). Naomi had to fill me in on the few highlights that we could realistically incorporate by show-time, and some time into the performance, I look up and there's Professor Wong just smiling and nodding.
So that was two down. Then I was hopping around back stage, trying to evict the remaining butterflies before I had to go on with Sensei Tom, when Shifu called all the black belts on stage. And then, in front of Shigong, Professor Wong, my parents, God, and everybody, three of us got promoted to second degree black belt.
Then I had to go on with Sensei Tom without fainting.
Shifu always says that getting a black belt is like climbing a mountain: You spend all this time and energy on the goal, only to get to the top and see all these other mounts that need climbing. That's certainly true. From here though, you can also see that the world is round.

I know there may be one or two of you in the audience who may be unaware that Feminist Eclectic Martial Arts is having its 20th anniversary demo on Sunday. And to both of you I say, FEMINIST ECLECTIC MARTIAL ARTS IS HAVING ITS 20TH ANNIVERSARY DEMO ON SUNDAY, and you should totally check out fema-martialarts.com for details. We've all been working really hard for months to get ready. Originally, these were my tasks for the hootenanny:

1. Put together a killer performance with Shimei Naomi, the school's highest ranked student.
2. Herd the kids (read 'cats') into a performance of their own, which will hopefully not end in anybody falling off the stage or getting poked in the eye.
Note to self: The next time I write a play, NO ACTORS.
3. Wrangle everybody into getting the venue cleaned up afterwards so that it is as nice/nicer than when we found it.
4. Not embarrass Shifu in front of her friends.

Easy, no? Then I got a call from Shifu a few days ago, telling me the exciting news that Sensei Tom, a sixth dan in judo and one of my favorite guest instructors of all time, needs a stand-in throw-ee for his part of the demo, since his original partner backed out. This brings me to...

5. Learn a traditional judo kata in a couple of days, and be able to perform it eight days later.

But this is why I am in charge sort of. Then I came down with a bit of a sniffle last Thursday, which didn't seem so bad at first. Since then however, I have felt the germs slowly trickle down from my sinuses to my throat, and though I seem to be past the point of greatest discomfort now, I seem to have some kind of gremlin colony with its claws in my larynx. In short, I now sound like a frog, and not some adorable felt frog with a banjo if you know what I mean. This then brings us to...

6. Perform items 1-5 with laryngitis.

I want a brownie.

I have to say, turning 30 wasn't nearly as traumatic as I'd been led to believe. I still haven't finished my novel, but I am taking the time to get it the way I'd like. I still haven't found true love, by I have found true friends. I don't have what I'd call a career, but I've done a lot of decent things, and I do have all of the prof's at St. Kates fooled into thinking I'm the smartest late-teen since King Tut. A couple of months ago, I found my first white hair. Last Saturday, I ran my second half-marathon.

I'm alive. I'm alive.
I'm alive.

Last night, I was out to dinner for a dear friend's birthday. I'd had a drink and a half and was feeling mighty fine, when the subject of who should officiate at the wedding of Rachel and The Boy came up. Ever the helpful (read 'sauced') English major, I said I'd do it. This was mostly in jest, but also in a here-if-you-need-me sort of way. Rachel then looked rather thoughtful and said that I would probably have to include something religious for her Baptist family and The Boy's Catholic one. That is a bit of a noodle-scratcher, but I figure that if anyone can bring together the Catholics and the Baptists, it'll be the Unitarians. Why? Because one is just as confused by us as the other. All I have to do is open with that joke about the UU family who were the targets of hate-crime and had a question mark burned on their front lawn. I can see it now...
"To whom it may concern, we pray that you bless this union of..."

Here is part of a sonnet by Edmund Spenser that I'm supposed to read for class tomorrow:

Most happy letters fram'd by skilfull trade
With which that happy name was first desynd:
The which three times thrise happy hath me made,
With guifts of body, fortune and of mine.

I'm trying to think of something intelligent to say about it during the class discussion, but all I can think is that it has roughly the same meaning as the lyrics to 'I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts.' Here's another one:

The doubt which ye misdeeme, fayre love, is vaine,
That fondly feare to loose your liberty,
When loosing one, two liberties ye gayne,
And make him bond that bondage earst dyd fly.

Eew.

By the way, does anyone know a good restaurant that could accomodate a party of 20 for brunch on a Saturday? I've been searching all day for a place to go after the monster dash, and the most promising thing I've found is an Irish pub. That might not be the best thing for the vegetarians in the group.

You know that English paper that I busted my imaginary balls to write last week? Well, I got an A on it. I also got the hand-written remark "This is a feeble conclusion to a strong summary." That, in fact, is the nicest thing this particular professor has ever written on one of my papers.

I prucured a used dishwasher from one of my bosses. This involved carrying the thing up his basement stairs, standing around and making awkward small talk while it ran through a cycle to see if it worked, getting it outside and into his car, driving from West Minneapolis to East Saint Paul, getting it out of his car, up the steps, and into the kitchen (good thing I'm strong like Polish bull). This happened two days ago, and we still haven't been able to run the thing. Why? Because for all my talents and education, it didn't occur to me that we would need a part to couple the hose to our kitchen faucet.

That is why, in between work, class, labs, Master Su classes, driving to Canon Falls to feed 4 very lonely cats, and writing an English paper that will hopefully not leave me emotionally wounded by my professor, I've been searching far and wide for said part. By far and wide, I mean two different hardware stores (one of which has a cat living in it, so you could also say that I've looked in a zoo). Of course, it seems like a lot more when you've got no time for it. This morning I had the rather overdue idea to bring the dishwasher's manual with me to the next place I look. I forgot the damn thing when I left the house today, because my hands were full of coffee, car keys, English papers, and cat hair.

In this, my junior year of college, I'm taking my first physics class. And you know something? It's bleeping trigonometry! They lied to me! The only reason I passed trig in high school was because I kept showing up. I find now that I'm better at it than I was then, but I still wish to write 'I FREAKING CARE' in the answer of every homework problem. What's the acceleration of a piano as it hits someone's skull when dropped from rest out of a sixth story window? I don't know. How does it affect me???

And you want to know what else? The Canterbury Tales are really filthy. My mother would love them if she were into middle English.

You know how I'm turning 30 in a month and a half? Well, I found my first white hair today. I know it doesn't mean a whole lot, having as I do friends who have been gray as a mule since the age of 17. Nevertheless, it was kind of a slap in the face. I mean, I've always rather liked my hair color the way it is, and the thought of it changing irks me a little. I suppose I should have expected it, though. With working in poison control, trying to understand college physics and Chaucer simultaneously, and trying to teach judo to pre-teen girls every week, who wouldn't get a few gray hairs? Damn my protestant ethic!
Of course, there is a bright side: I will probably be less likely to be asked for a hall pass the next time I teach a self-defense seminar at a high school, which has happened before. Twice.

Weeks until Monster Dash: 6!

I am employed in A-MER-i-ca
So overjoyed in A-MER-i-ca
Like hemmoroid in A-MER-i-ca
Christopher Lloyd in A-mer-I-ca

Weeks until Monster Dash: 8!

Several years ago, a terrible mistake was made and I was put in charge of the class for 6-12-year-old kids at my martial arts school. This is often like herding cats, but we usually manage to have a pretty good time and are now preparing for yet another demo performance. Problems arise however when I forget that I'm an English major and they are children.
Here is the exchange that happened between me and one of the 8-year-olds this morning during announcements...

Me: I hope that you guys are working hard to memorize your part in the demo, because Shifu and Shifu's teacher and Master Wong and all kinds of other very lofty people will be there watching. (Sigh) Won't that be FUN???

8-year-old: That won't be fun. That'll be scary!

Me: Yes, that's what we call SARCASM. It's where we say something that we don't really mean as a joke.

8-year-old: Oooohh...

12-year-old: And sometimes, people use sarcasm to mean really bad things.

Me: That's certainly true, but I'm an English major and can do it artfully.

I told this story to Megan when I got home. To her credit, she was appalled.

I haven't had a dog since about 1996. That dog was a very good-hearted by rather dull beast who would pull me so hard on walks that I would trip and fall, and she would heedlessly pull me along as my pants filled with snow.
On Sunday, I got home from sitting on cats for three weeks and found a dog, living in my house, in abject terror of my cat. Sally is very pretty, and sweet, and very afraid (she jumps and braces herself when people so much as fart). Today though, I have apparently been deemed not-so-bad enough that we went for a nice little jog together. As long as there were no squirrels or men around, she trotted politely beside me for pretty much the whole way. I got asked by not one, but two people along the way what kind of dog she was. I told them she was a mix, and the second guy got one of those sly, nodding grins, as though I'd just used some dirty inuendo.
"Ooooh, a mix, huh? Nice-looking dog," he said.
Wierd-o.

Weeks until the Monster Dash: 9!

The other day was graduation day for the new beginner's class at FEMA, and Shifu took the opportunity to introduce/refresh everyone in regards to the five elements (or if you prefer, elephants). I know there must be one or two of you who haven't got any idea what I'm talking about, and to both of you I say, each belt in the wu chien pai system represents an element, and with each element goes a certain way of moving, a color, a season, and among other things yet, an emotion and the balancing force to that emotion. When Shifu got to the subject of brown belt, she mentioned that the emotion is anger, and the counterbalance to anger is kindness, since anger hurts no one but the one feeling it, and kindness makes everyone feel good.
Earlier in the week, I was really mad at one of my bosses, so I made cake for everyone in the office. I totally felt better afterwards.

So I've been checking out the fall TV lineup in my antsiness for the NCIS cliff-hanger to be resolved, and noticed that NBC is coming out with a new paramedic show called Trauma. If the trailer is any indication, there will be a lot of angst-ridden expressions and things blowing up. I can already tell that this will be the sort of show that I will totally watch with the sound off and supply my own dialogue.

Brunch, I like brunch!
I will chew, and I will crunch!
Bacon, sweets, a poopoo platter
Caf' or decaf'? Doesn't matter!

Weeks until Monster Dash: 10!

... is a woman in a kilt. Or a man in a kilt with a sporran that has been pimped out with the horns of a steer.

I stopped by the Irish festival on Harriet island this weekend. There was some terrific music and dancing, and said man in a kilt, who was telling me about taunting a cow with his sporran when the tornado siren went off and we all had to run for cover. Dammit!

Over the weekend, I went to Chicago and ran in a half marathon. That's right, a freaking half marathon. I, Annie Ferguson, A.S., NREMT-P, who until recently had a policy of not running unless I was either late or being chased, ran a half marathon. Why? Because those of us who aren't getting laid need to get our endorphins somewhere... I mean, because I'm willing to do weird things to hang out with my sister. Besides, I wanted to see if I could. It turns out I can, by the way, and before the three-and-a-half-hour time limit was up. It's just that the aftermath is not pretty. It wasn't quite as unpretty as the several people I saw vomiting on the sidelines in the care of the red cross, but I was seriously in danger of having my rubbery little legs fail me at the end. Within several hours of this, I began to feel like I had been kneecapped by the mob. It's now two days later, and I am so full of lactic acid that if I poured bleach on my legs, I'd probably smoke out the whole neighborhood.

And I didn't even get a lousy T-shirt.

For those of you who haven't seen me for the past couple of days, I've been fighting a nasty bug since I got back from Nebraska. Henceforth, this malady shall be known as Nebraska Dropsie. Yesterday, after trying to work for a couple hours and being told by more than one of my co-workers that I was so pale and weak that they were worried about me, I went home and directly to sleep. In the evening, I woke up just long enough to eat soup and ask Megan about her day, and then went back to sleep until 8am today. This regimen worked wonders. I am now back at work, and more or less functional except for all the snot that continuously tries to escape my head while panicked mothers try to talk to me about their small children who ate rat poison.

Let's poke Chuck Norris in the eye and see how tough he is THEN. Brilliant!