MULTITASKING ME

So many buttons. What could they possibly all do?

When I told my daughter I was blogging about multitasking this week, she did one of those involuntary snort things. You know, those things people do in sitcoms which usually result in them splurting whatever they're drinking all over whoever's sitting in front of them. Lucky for me, she wasn't drinking anything, proving once and for all, life is not situation comedy. It's real, man. Really real.

Anyway, the cause of the snort seemed to be some kind of feeling her dad wasn't the world's foremost authority on doing more than one thing at once. I had to concede, she had a point. More often than not, I struggle to do ONE thing at once. Even NO things at once can prove problematic, and doing no things at once is my absolute favourite thing to not do.

Daughter then went on to express her doubts about anyone who sports a Y chromosome having the ability to multitask. She backed up this shockingly sexist allegation by quoting the gender imbalance in her class at school. Daughter is in something called the I.L.C. which I think stands for Super Intelligent Freaky Kids. (What do you mean, those initials don't work with those words? Also what do you mean, there aren't even enough letters for that many words? Shut up)

The point is, the girl S.I.F.K.'s (go back and read it again) outnumber the guy S.I.F.K.'s at a ratio of almost 2 to 1. You can't argue with those statistics. It's science.

Some kind of wacky miracle then, I do the job I do.

Superficially put, at least according to my official job description, my core responsibility is the presentation of the breakfast programme on Newstalk ZB. On the face of it, that mostly involves playing a few CDs and telling Hosking to stop talking so we can do the news on time.

The reality is a little more complicated. There are pre-recorded interviews to edit, audio from live events to air, Today In History files to maintain, podcasts to create, a highly popular web video to write, produce and star in... oh, she's all go.

Quite often, I have to do several of these things at once. Sometimes, I actually CHOOSE to, just to make things hard for myself. Right now for instance, I'm writing this blog while pretending to be interested in Hosking talking about Margaret Thatcher's funeral arrangements. Not easy, but then feigning interest in what Mike has to say never is.

Somehow I seem to cope with this. Over the years I've trained myself to work at this level, adding in more and more tasks to my daily routine until now, 12 years on, I'm almost good at my job. Oh, sure I cock it up MOST days, but occasionally I actually get everything right.

In spite of being not JUST a mere male, but the sad old, befuddled dad of a smart-mouthed 12 year-old to boot, there ARE moments some weekday mornings when I successfully manage to do more than one thing at a time.

Case in point...

This is me at 8:15 last Thursday morning; We were playing back an interview we'd pre-recorded with Ozzy Osbourne the week before. As I do with all our interviews, I was recording it to use in the daily Hosking That Was podcast I compile for the Newstalk ZB website after every show. I was also recording it in a different place for the weekly Best of Breakfast show which plays on Sunday mornings. While I was doing that, we were pre-recording ANOTHER interview in a completely different studio. While we were doing that, we were digging up some audio of John Lydon (AKA Johnny Rotton) appearing on the Project in Australia. Once it had buffered, I recorded and edited a 2 minute section of it to play on air off the back of the Ozzy Osbourne interview which was now coming to an end, which meant I needed to get Mike to wrap up the interview he was now pre-recording so he could get back into his usual studio in time to back-sell the Ozzy Osbourne interview we'd just replayed.

By my calculations, that's at least 6 things I was doing at once. (Not counting breathing and remaining upright)

Suck on that, S.I.F.K. daughter.

Next week, I'll discuss how amazing it is I can do my job given how much I hate mornings. Oh, hang on, I may have already mentioned that. About 17 or 18 thousand times.

Staying on air AND keeping to time. Those are the minimum requirements

D.I.Y. NOT-DISASTER

Oh, this old telly may LOOK innocent, but it's a potential death trap

All things considered, I'm pretty useless really.

I'm lazy. I'm a poor listener. I forget things. I tell terrible dad jokes. Oh, and I have a very bad record when it comes to repairing electrical appliances.

Electricity, they say, is to be respected at all times. They also say it can kill you. I assume it's only due to dumb luck I have not yet been killed, so far only mildly maimed. 

I call into evidence Exhibit A: The Security Light.

Security lights are mysterious, aren't they? The basic idea seems simple enough; when it gets dark, the light will come on if someone walks past it. In reality, most security lights I've encountered take a more experimental approach to their core responsibilities. Some come on then stay on. Some don't come on at all. Some come on during the day. Some do a random combination of all of those, just to keep us guessing. Those crazy security lights.

But you've got to have them - how else are you supposed to keep the hordes of prospective home-invaders away? So when we moved to a house that didn't have security lights where it should have, I confidently offered to bung a set up. Take one on/off switch, the existing outdoor spotlight, the new security light and one metal ladder and you've a recipe for disaster - especially if you get the on/off switch and the metal ladder in the wrong order. Easy mistake to make. The ensuing loud bang and smell of singed hair not quite so easy to ignore. Still, the lights sort of worked in the end... eventually.

Exhibit B: The Old Telly.

When you're young and poor and just starting out, you may not be able to afford certain creature comforts the rest of us take for granted. Things like dishwashers, heat-pumps and meat that isn't mince for example. One of the things the Domestic Manager and I didn't have when we first moved in together was a flash, flat-screen TV. In fact, we had the exact opposite of that; an old, curvy-screen TV that took up so much space you almost had to watch it from another room.

Needless to say, the picture was not what you would call "High Res." That didn't stop me whipping the back off in a futile attempt to tweak the horizontal hold a bit. (I actually have no idea what horizontal hold is, if in fact it is a thing, but that's what I said I was trying to do, okay?) You know that really massive round magnet you'll find at the back of a big old TV? Take it from me, it pays not to let the metal buckle on your watch strap come into contact with it. Let's just say "BANG!" enjoy the smell of more singed hair and leave it at that, shall we?

Exhibit C: The Plug on the Microwave.

This was the final nail in my coffin of uselessness. For some reason the socket we wanted to plug the microwave into was situated INSIDE the pantry. "No worries," I said. "I'll just lop the plug off, drill a VERY small hole in the pantry wall, feed the lead through, screw a new plug on it and we'll be reheating our leftovers in no time."

Handy hint for those of you who may wish to attempt a similar procedure at home; you should probably UNPLUG the microwave BEFORE you cut through the cord with a pair of pliers. You should DEFINITELY switch it off. BANG! SINGE! You know how it goes by now.

Like I say, useless, useless, useless.

Therefore, it was with some surprise the Domestic Manager gave me the go-ahead to fix her GHD's this week. I'm not entirely sure what GHD's do - I do know it's something to do with hair and as such I daresay I am I woefully under-qualified to even HOLD them, let alone REPAIR them.

The mitigating factor here though, was replacement cost. Apparently, a new set of GHD's doesn't come cheap. It's been my experience NOTHING to do with women's hair comes cheap, but on the overall scale of not-coming-cheap, GHD's are way up there. Understandably, when the Domestic Manager's GHD's started turning themselves off mid-straighten, a fair amount of panic ensued.

Initially, I took the same approach I take to all of the Domestic Manager's hair maintenance requirements; maintain a respectful distance at all times while expressing absolutely no interest in the trivial matter of cost whatsoever. As a kiwi bloke of course, I was duty bound to at least have a squizz at the pink prongs in question, to see if I could somehow miraculously get them to work by jiggling something.

Sadly, my mere jiggling was to no avail, so I resorted to more extreme measures. I took the GHD's apart and put them back together again. Unbelievably, even this didn't make them go.

The problem seemed to be something to do with the cord, which got me thinking. What if there was some way I could replace the cord?

As it turns out, there was. That way was "screaming_skull". 

"screaming_skull" sells replacement parts on TradeMe. For the exceedingly reasonable price of just $14 (plus $4 postage) "screaming_skull" sent me a new cord for the GHD's, I managed to replace the faulty one without electrocuting myself and now the Domestic Manager's hair is straight again.

Thank you, "screaming_skull", (or just "skull" to his TradeMe friends), you undoubtedly saved our lives...

...not to mention hundreds of dollars.

Sure, I can still smell burning hair, but at least this time it isn't mine.

This is me with UNstraightened hair and then me AFTER the repair.
Viva la difference!

THE ACCIDENTAL RUNNER

Looks so innocent, doesn't it?

Here's my view on exercise; I hate it.

Oh, I DO it, but I don't enjoy it. The only reason I do it is so I can eat and drink. The only reason I do so MUCH of it, is so I can eat and drink a LOT.

It's not that I don't WANT to enjoy it - life would be much more pleasant if I did. Trouble is, the whole time I'm exercising, I'm thinking to myself, "I'm exercising. I'm exercising. I'm exercising. This hurts. I'm hot. I'm exercising."

I've heard people get an endorphin rush from exercising. I've yet to experience this. Well... there WAS that time I beat Sunny Hill in a sprint finish in the school cross country, that felt pretty good. (Mainly because she was the first girl to finish though. Does that make me sexist?)

No, the only thing that seems to get MY endorphins rushing is the smell of melted cheese. Sadly, there's a significant fat content associated with melted cheese. Cue; more exercise. See the vicious circle I find myself trapped in?

In a desperate attempt to make my exercise regime more bearable - if not enjoyable - I have tried to vary it up as much as possible. Some days I lift pointless heavy objects. Some days I get choreographed high-impact aerobics moves completely wrong. Some days I stretch myself in every direction for 45 minutes and then lie on the floor trying not to go to sleep for 8. On Tuesday nights I play badminton - really averagely.

Then one day a week I go for a run.

Again, let me clearly stipulate; I don't run for the enjoyment of it. To make my 8kms more tolerable, I rely heavily on my iPod playlists and the pleasant views offered around the Orewa Estuary cycle/walkway.

You'll notice most of my exercise choices should take an hour at the most. This is another reason I loathe exercise as much as I do; it's just such a monumental waste of my time. Those 60 precious minutes are another hour I could be melting cheese on stuff. Vicious, vicious circle.

Like anyone though, my carefully plotted out exercise regime is thrown into chaos once I leave town to go on holiday - especially if that holiday involves the excess of available chocolate Easter does.

Unfortunately, running is the most portable of my exercise choices. No matter how many suitcases, beach towels and boogie boards we've packed, I can generally find space in the boot for 2 sneakers.

This meant Good Friday morning found me pounding the streets of Mount Maunganui for a change. We have family in Mount Maunganui so it's not unusual for me to go for a run there. Usually it's a bit shorter than my regular route (I AM on holiday) but perhaps a bit harder, given I often do the second half along the beach.

However, this particular Good Friday, things took a slightly unexpected turn.

For those of you unfamiliar with Bay of Plenty geography, let me give you a quick rundown... Mount Maunganui on one side of the harbour, Tauranga on the other, quite an impressive road bridge between the two. Now, in a relatively new development, pedestrians and cyclists can also span the harbour via a boardwalk attached to the old rail bridge at the other end of town.

I've cycled the 2 bridge round-trip before. I didn't seem so far. Ha ha ha ha ha. What an idiot. I woke up on Friday morning feeling really good. This only happens to me about 3 times a year so I thought I'd make the most of it and extend my range a little. Or, as it would eventually turn out, a lot.

I figured it'd be more scenic to start with the road bridge and end with the rail bridge. I figured many things. Most of them I got wrong. Starting with the distance TO the road bridge in the first place. Seems a lot shorter in the car. Funny that.

No matter, no matter. Once I got over to Tauranga, the jog along the waterfront was both pretty, and more importantly, about the same length I was expecting. The rail bridge leg of my journey proved further than anticipated which was perplexing, given I've crossed it both by bike and on foot before. Perhaps the previous kilometres run made the bridge stretch out a little. No matter, no matter.

The part of this run I had completely miscalculated was the distance between the rail bridge and civilisation, in this case civilisation being the Bayfair Shopping Center at the South End of Mount Maunganui. I have no idea how I got this so wrong. Neither maths or geography have ever been my strong points, but given I had actually cycled this road before, how could I have forgotten it so utterly?

By the time I'd left the bridge, I'd already exceeded my usual sub-60, approximately 8km route by some considerable margin. No matter, no matter. Just keep running, Bayfair must be right around the corner... any minute... maybe this next corner... hey, there's a signpost... maybe that'll say how far it is...

BAYFAIR FOUR POINT TWO KILOMETRES!!!

It was at this point I knew I was in trouble.

But what can you do? Only two options really; walk home or run home. For me, the equation was simple - running would be quicker, then this whole nightmare would be over.

The rest is a blur of various joints screaming their protest, bleeding nipples and the desperate (yet, ultimately fruitless) hope the Domestic Manger may have started to worry about where the hell I'd got to and come to pick me up. 

That didn't happen of course and eventually, many MANY k's later, I staggered in the door to find everyone had given up on me and buggered off to the beach. In spite of this, I had survived. I'd run further than ever before, completely by accident, and lived to tell the tale. Still no detectable endorphin rush, just a vague sense of satisfaction and a burning desire for a hot shower and a lie down.

I "MappedMyRun" later on, but I think there must be something wrong with their calculations. Nobody runs 18.2kms by mistake... especially not me.

Behold! The damaging stain a bleeding nipple can leave