Love Long Weekends

I'm a bad Melburnian. I really am.

I've never watched the Melbourne Cup, the race that apparently 'stops a nation'. Instead, I take off for the weekend. Ever since I met Steve, we've gone camping and water skiing most Cup weekends - and this year is no exception.

So, you won't see me around for a few days.

Instead, I'll be camping here, blissfully away from all technology:

And doing some of this:

I'll be back on Wednesday to announce the winner of the gorgeous red Eternal Creation handbag. Did you enter yet? No? Click here!

Have a great few days! xx


Megan

Giveaway: Who Wants A New Handbag?

Starting to think about Christmas shopping? Or do you want a treat for yourself?

How about... a new handbag!

You can never have enough bags and, when it comes to accessories, I especially love red. I fell in love with this one, and the lovely people at Eternal Creation offered to give one away to one of my readers - how lucky are you ladies?!

This is a beautiful cotton, Japanese-inspired bag - click here to read more about it.

The competition is open until the end of day Wednesday, 3rd November 2010. I'll announce the lucky winner on Thursday, 4th November 2010 (drawn at random).

To enter, just leave a comment - how easy is that! (one entry per person - multiple comments still equate to one entry.)
(If you want my undying love as well as a competition entry, you could follow my blog, and join me on Facebook and Twitter too - no pressure, up to you.)


Megan

Why I Abandoned My Religion

A trip to the Vatican did nothing to convert me back

They say there are two topics you shouldn't discuss over dinner: politics and religion. To my mind, the two topics should be toilets and sex, but each to their own.

Today I want to talk about religion (it's unlikely you'll hear me talk about politics here).

I was raised a Catholic. Baptised as a baby, attended Catholic schools, went to church regularly with my family; the whole thing.

But, as soon as I left school, that was that. No more churches (except for weddings, funerals and beautiful old churches when travelling), no pretending to believe in something that never quite sat right with me.

All those years of attending church and school masses, all that chanting of the same prayers over and over - none of it was me. Even in early primary school, I remember sitting in church (and standing, then sitting, then kneeling, then standing...) wondering why.

Why was everyone chanting along? Did it mean anything to any of them? Or were they just saying memorised words like I was?

I learnt a lot about religion along the way - thirteen years of a Catholic education will do that - and I know that millions of people around the world believe in some form of religion. I know that some take great comfort in it, some live and breathe it, and others like being part of something bigger than themselves.

But me? No. It just isn't me.

We haven't baptised Abbey, because I don't believe in making someone part of a religion without then following through on it - teaching them about it and raising them as part of that community. I couldn't make that commitment; it would have been hypocritical. Instead, I want her to learn about all religions from an outside perspective, to know what it all means. Knowledge is understanding.

And if, one day, she decides to join a religion, all I will ask is that she does so with a full understanding of what it involves.

It's my choice not to practice my religion, and it's an educated decision. That's all I want for my daughter too: to make informed decisions.


Megan

Run Don't Walk

People laugh at me when I say I've kept fit for years without running. They have a little giggle when I say I'll walk anywhere, for as far and as long as you like, but I can't run. As though they're thinking - huh! Anyone can walk!

But what I mean is - I can seriously walk. I've hiked 100 kilometres through the centre of Tasmania. I've climbed mountains, scrambled rocks to reach the top, pushed myself more than I ever thought possible. I've walked in the cold, the heat and the hills around where I live every single day. Hell, I even walked from the peak of Mt Buller to the peak of Mt Sterling (in the Victorian High Country) when I was pregnant. And then slept on a cold concrete floor and woke up the next morning ready to walk back again.

So when I say I can walk, I mean it. I can walk.

But run? God, no. I find it hard, boring, and I hate being all sweaty and puffed and red in the face. Yuck.

But you know what? I'd secretly love to be able to run. And let's be honest - I need to be fitter again. I've been a bit slack the last two years.

So, when my friend Naomi at Under the Yardarm started a blogging group for the Mother's Day Classic next year, and then began blogging about her own training - as do lots of other bloggers whose updates I enjoy reading - I thought this would be a good chance to get myself into gear.

What better way to get running than with all that support out there? Not to mention blogging about it to make myself extra accountable.

So last week, off I went. Armed with this:

My new iPhone with the C25k app - a gradual program, at the end of which I should be able to run 5km (right now, that thought just makes me laugh. 60 seconds at a time was enough!)

Although the app is entitled 'Couch to 5km' I went to our local reserve - which is flat. I am not doing this program up and down hills! It also has gravel paths, which are easier on my poor, weak old knees. So, I drove to said reserve, got sorted, started the app, and began walking towards the lake. Until I realised it was closed to visitors today, due to some sort of work happening in there.

Not happy. But, being all geared up to go (and having told everyone on Twitter that I was about to do it!), I decided to just make do.

So I was ready to go...

As was Abbey...

She was lying down pretending to be a baby sleeping... what a slacker

And, instead of being able to jog/walk in the reserve, I used the path next to the road in. Which sounds awful, but it's not that bad:

And I was kept amused not just by the music on my iPhone, but my little girl sitting there making running motions with her hands, yelling "Faster Mum!" and singing Happy Birthday to herself (as you do).

I felt so good for having done this. I'm really looking forward to getting better and better with my running.


Megan

My Early Working Days: A Means To An End

Everyone's had bad jobs; jobs that make them dread the day ahead. Jobs that they struggle through as a means to an end.

I've been lucky to have not had one of those jobs for a while. Of course there have been bad days at jobs in more recent times, but nothing as bad as I experienced back in my student days. Maybe taking on those horrible jobs made me appreciate a good, professional, clean office job.

I began working when I was fifteen. An independent soul, I was eager to start earning my own money as soon as possible. I hated asking for money - and going without things - so I began applying for jobs. I tried applying at all the places I considered 'good' - supermarkets and retail shops - but when I had no luck there I resorted to takeaway food outlets. I did not want to work there, but one big takeaway chain gave me my first interview and I started working there soon after.

It was completely revolting. I had to buy new shoes every few months because the grease on the floor cracked the soles of every pair I wore there. Dad wouldn't let me in the car until I'd wiped my shoes on the grass - something that as a teenager I thought was worthy of many eye-rolls, but now I understand.

The people there were terrible, too. I remember having a stand-off with one manager, who wanted me to start working without clocking on so they could stay within budget. I refused and he wasn't happy. From that moment on, that manager was against me. If he was in charge of the rosters for the month, I'd find myself with only a couple of shifts. I remember him demanding one girl give him a shoulder rub on one shift, while the rest of us raced around during the busy dinnertime shift.

I was still working there for a little while after I met Steve, and he used to pick me up. But, he refused to kiss me until I'd been home and showered and didn't taste of salt and grease anymore.

I loathed every minute of my time there, yet I managed to stick it out for three years, until I finished high school. I still remember feeling so grownup at receiving my first paycheck - until I opened it and saw it was a total of $12. Yes, at the age of fifteen, I was paid $4 an hour. That's when I realised it was going to take a lot of work to start saving any money.

I persisted, and saved almost every cent. By the time I was seventeen, I managed to save enough to go on a holiday to Bali with my best friend and her family. So, although I hated the job, it served its purpose well enough.

Working there was also an important lesson for me. I learnt that, no matter how good you are at your job (I was awarded the store's only perfect score during those three years - on multiple occasions - by mystery customers, and always worked hard), if your heart isn't in it, it's just a struggle.

After that, I moved into waitressing and had some okay times. Nothing dramatic.

My last job before beginning office work full-time was at a bakery. I worked there six days a week for six months - over spring/summer. It was terrible; hot and exhausting work. This was made worse by the owners of the bakery, a brother and sister. The sister had a terrifying husband (she would come in with new bruises every day, poor woman) who would come in on occasion and stand over us. This would cause his wife to start yelling at me, I guess to prove herself to her husband.

I used to have little secret ways of communicating silently with my favourite customers, too. You see, the brother and sister were a little lacking in their standards, so the food was often left there for a few days longer than it should. If they thought they could get away with it, they would. I would let my customers know which things were okay to buy; something that would have infuriated the owners if they'd found out.

Then there was the brother. He was the baker, and a very, very strange man. When I arrived in the mornings and began work, he would stand behind the bread shelves making little comments about me - hello, sexual harassment. I just ignored him (he's lucky I didn't have the knowledge of such laws that I do now!).

Yes, I've had some horrible times in past jobs. It's funny to look back, though, and realise how much impact each one had on where I am now, and how they've made me appreciate a good job when I come across it.

How about you? What have been your worst or funniest working moments?


Megan

Before And After

A couple of weeks ago, I showed you how our house looked on the outside when we first bought it. Now, are you ready to see the inside?

Are you really ready?

Sure?

OK, well, don't say you weren't warned...

Oh - and please note, this is not our furniture! These are the photos from when the house was on the market!

How lovely: peach curtains with matching peach architraves,  mission brown doors and window frames, yellow glass sliding door (we got rid of that door before we even moved our things in!) and dirty old carpet.

Wasn't the kitchen bright and beautiful? Mission brown cupboards, pink benchtops, lacy curtains and brown lino; just what I always dreamed of.

Anyone guess which era this house was built in? Lovely 70s archway, yellow light shades and a skylight right next to the window (made extra useful by the fact that it leaked).

Um, what can I say?? This was the spare room - and yes, that was bright blue sponging all over the walls.

Now for some more recent shots:

Some renovations in 2004 - redoing the kitchen (I know you're asking why; it was perfect just the way it was!),  the carpet ripped up (these beautiful boards were underneath it the whole time) and squaring off that archway.

The kitchen just after it was done (not fully complete yet, but you can see the patch in the ceiling where we knocked down a wall to open it up)

More recent shots to come - soon I'll show you what it's like now, while theses renovations are happening! (Another warning - those photos will contain a lot of mess.)


Megan

Renovations: Days Forty-Eight And Forty-Nine

The last two days have seen more tiling happening in the new bathroom. The other day, the shower wall had been tiled, but now...

Getting there!

And the plastering in the whole new section is done and, with the builders having a week off this coming week, we'll have plenty of time to begin painting. Yay (sarcasm optional).


Megan

Help! I'm On A Bandwagon!

I'm jumping on a bandwagon here, and doing a 'vlog' to ask you a question...

(As an aside - why oh why did the video have to sit on this bit here, making me look like a complete fruit-loop??)

My god, I hate seeing myself on video!

So, tell me - what do you like here, what don't you like? What do you want to see more of?

Thanks for your help! xx


Megan

Renovations: Days Forty-Four To Forty-Seven

What a week this has been!

Our roof is finished at last...

We have cornices...

And tiles in our new shower!...

I think we can safely say it's been a productive week!


Megan

Guest Post: The Class Clown

This week we've been hearing from people with far more interesting school stories than mine. And a week of sharing mischief wouldn't be complete without my husband, Steve, who was the ultimate class clown...

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Well, Megan asked me to write a guest post about some of the “fun” that I got into during my school days. Trying to think up things to write is quite hard, not because there aren’t many things to write about, with me it was more the opposite.

Don’t get me wrong, I was never one of the kids at school that beat up other kids, or a “bogan” that smoked up the back of the school oval. I was more what is referred to as the class clown. You know the type… sitting up the back of the class, smart arse comments flying at the teacher, most of the other students cracking up laughing (not everyone would get the jokes), teacher losing it and in the end me ending up either kicked out of the class or in detention. I recall getting kicked out of English for telling dingo jokes and doing really bad Meryl Streep (A dingo’s got my baby) impersonations while debating the Azaria Chamberlain case.

Detention… now that was funny at my school. As 90% of the kids travelled by bus, the teachers really only gave detention during lunch or recess, as most of us had no other way to get home if not by bus. So really, who cared if the teacher made you sit in the classroom for another 10 minutes? My theory was the teacher wanted to be out of there more than I did (after 45 minutes with a room full of kids, I think the teachers needed their Winnie Blues more than the bogans), so I did everything to make sure that I stayed my full time in detention. But… if I did want to get out of there, I made sure I did. I remember jumping out the window once to get to a game of hockey I wanted to play in.

Once in my chemistry class, I had some leftover milk after making a coffee (yes I was addicted at an early age!), so I stapled the carton to a bit of string and hung it from the roof like all the other chemical elements they had hung up (ie H2O, NaCl etc) and labelled it MiLk. Doesn’t sound that funny but, well, this was during summer in the old classrooms with no air-con, so after a few days it started to reek. The school ended up getting the science wing fumigated because they couldn’t work out what the smell was.

But one parent teacher night was the best. My mum always got the “he could do soooo much better if he just applied himself a bit more”, so she was ready for that, but what neither of us were ready for was one teacher’s reaction when the dad of one of the kids in another year level turned up... in full drag! (he later had the snip snip, but the stories that go with this guy are a whole other post). The teacher’s face was priceless and he was totally speechless, and for weeks after that we kept leaving notes in the teacher’s pigeon hole pretending to be from that dad, thanking the teacher for his time, saying he made an impression on him, and could they catch up some time. He never suspected it was me.

Amazing what you can get away with when you put on your innocent face, something I am now seeing in our little girl, and a cheeky streak. Guess I’ve only got myself to blame for that one. Can’t wait to hear some of her school stories.

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Oh dear god - I hadn't thought of that. The next 16 years could be interesting...


Megan

Guest Post: Ah, High School

Today the lovely Naomi at Under the Yardarm joins me here to talk about her school days - because, if you'll remember, mine were utterly non-eventful and boring. Get ready for a laugh at the lessons Naomi learnt during her days as a student...

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Ah, high school. I’m not sure just how much of my time there is fond memories… but some of that depends on which high school I think about. I went to two high schools and a college for years eleven and twelve.

In Tasmania unless you attend private school, high school goes to year ten. After that it is on to college for years eleven and twelve, with the giddiness of no uniform and more freedom.

Freedom to smoke in between classes… ‘study’ in the library by watching Monty Python movies and wag by catching a bus to the Mall or K Mart with my Walkman playing my cassette of Bon Jovi. Yes I was a little bogan. It also came with a range of social gatherings at nightclubs with alcohol… ah yes those were the days… just never say the words Bacardi, Southern Comfort or Bundaberg to me. Ever. Hey, at least I can say I never drank Passion Pop. Yes, I’m sure my parents would be proud.

One thing I know is that my big mouth got me into a bit of grief… and that I could run fast, faster than anyone at school, so that was a winning combination!

High school was a time of learning. Some of it even educational. I learnt how to draw the smoke back into my lungs and then blow it out in a steady stream and how to chain smoke. Classy. And oh so healthy in a set of young lungs. At least I was training hard for athletics and cross country, so hopefully that levelled out some of the damage I did. Fingers crossed.

I learnt that a plastic coke bottle can be filled with the spirit of choice, and that as long as you leave some coke in there no one will ever know…. Yeah, because not being able to stand up and walk in a straight line is not a give away at all. I also learnt drinking games. From a teacher. Off duty. No joke.

I learnt that there are good teachers, bad teachers, and teachers that should never have been in a classroom. My grade seven maths teacher had a former life as a Commander in the British Army. It’s where he should have stayed. Because all he did was put the fear of maths and god into a bunch of twelve year olds. On the plus side I can tell if each individual desk is exactly 30cm apart from the next one. Just a pity that never came up on a maths exam.

I learnt the meaning of the words incorrigible and incompetent. As that’s what my sewing teacher called me for a year. I also learnt that wood work was not my thing.

My German language teacher, although not very good at teaching us German, was great at séances. From three years of German classes I leant that some dogs in Germany are called Lumpi, how to ask for a hotel, a bakery, and (of course) say, excuse me, can I have a cigarette? I also learnt how to lift a person on a chair with only one finger and how to scare the crap out of ourselves and others by evoking Bloody Mary in a mirror. Not that any Mary, bloody or otherwise appeared in any mirror, but that may have been because she was hard to see through the smoke form us chain smoking German language students.

There are some things though, that have stayed with me from high school. While at the end of high school and college I was ready to cut the ties to a whole range of places and people, some stuck. Some are still with me. The knowledge that some people are there for you no matter how much you stuff up, through high school, university, starting a career, motherhood and beyond. That is what I have carried with me from those years. So, at the end of the day, this incorrigible, incompetent, reformed (thank goodness) smoker can say that perhaps high school wasn’t so bad after all.

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Thanks Naomi! Don't forget to head to Naomi's blog, Under the Yardarm, for more fun and beautiful words, and chat to her on Twitter.

Guest Post: The One Where Lori Takes A Gun To School

Continuing this week of guest posts is the gorgeous and hilarious Lori from Random Ramblings of a stay-at-home-mum, sharing her funniest 'bad student' moment when she, um, took a gun to school...

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Whoa.

Let me begin by saying- chill out. Yes, the title of the post is correct- I took a gun to school. But it wasn't a real one...

Allow me to tell you the story. It goes down as one of the dumbest things I have ever done.

Now, before we begin, a preface- all this happened before the very tragic events at Columbine. Had this had taken place after Columbine, I would like to think I would not have been stupid enough to take a replica pistol onto school grounds.While I am guilty of doing some really, really stupid things sometimes, I'm almost positive I'm not that dumb.

Here's hoping.

Anyway. Flashback to early 1999. A soundtrack, you say? Don't mind if I do.







I'm 17. I wear Doc boots and stripey socks to school, with my skirt rolled up as high as it will go, and boxer shorts underneath. I always wore my school tie (how punk!) and had my hair in little buns or pigtails. I listened to Triple J. And thought I was very, very cool.

I was doing my HSC at school. I sucked at maths, I was good at English. My favorite subject, the only one I really cared about, was drama. I was pouring my heart and soul into an eight minute monologue based on the movie Natural Born Killers. Remember that movie? It was a bit twisted. I loved it. I took the story, took Juliette Lewis' character, and made it my own.

And that's where the gun comes in.

I don't even remember where I got the stupid thing. I think my boyfriend-at-the-time (Eyebrow Piercing Dude) bought it from the markets for $2. It was matte black molded plastic. It didn't even shoot caps or water or potato pellets or anything. It just sat there, looking all gun-like.

Lori, circa 1998. Don't I look sweet...? (Apart from the over-plucked eyebrows..?)

And I took it to school. Totally. Innocently. Really. As a prop. As a piece, to go with the character I was playing in my monologue. I know that seems hard to believe, but remember this was before Columbine. Before you were actually afraid that someone would bring a real gun to school.

I got as far as roll call.Five minutes after the bell rang. That was when I started (stupidly) bragging to my mates. And (stupidly) pulled that black plastic gun out of my bag.

Things kind of went downhill from there.

My roll call teacher confiscated the gun and phoned the principal, with the chorus of my friends defending me in the background ("But sir!! It's for a drama project! She needs it!!). The principal stormed in five minutes later and announced to the teacher and the whole class that a student who "pulled this sort of stunt would most definitely be expelled".

And that point, we cue Lori, bursting into hysterical sobbing. Despite the occasional bad stuff I'd done- smoking at school, wagging school to smoke, wagging school to smoke and watch old Patrick Swayze movies- I'd never been in Big Trouble before. I'd never been suspended. From memory, I think I had a handful of after-school detentions. And that was it.

I was marched up to principal's office. Still crying. Parents called. Still crying. Drama teacher called. Still crying.

Half an hour later, I was sitting the office with my grandmother (in lieu of my parents), the drama teacher and the principal. Still crying. Trying desperately to explain my own stupidity. And save myself from being expelled.

In the end, there was a loophole, and I leaped through it. Replica weapons are forbidden during HSC drama exams (after a very unfortunate incident with a stressed out student and a real, not fake, handgun, which may or may not be the stuff of urban legend). But, our drama teacher had never given us a copy of said HSC guidelines. How was I to know that I couldn't use a gun as a prop..? (Once again remembering this is before Columbine.)

 Looking slightly more bad arse. But hardly a member of the TrenchCoat mafia.

And this leaves the ridiculously proud and headstrong principal in a precarious predicament, given that she's already announced to a whole classroom full of kids and a teacher that she's going to expel me. Her happy medium was a suspension. For the rest of the day. So, I returned to school the very next day. Obviously, without the gun.

My father, being the over-dramatic type, wanted to go all hell-for-leather and start suing people and trying to avenge my good name. He was most worried that this would go on my (dunnn dun dunnnnn) Permanent Record.

I'm pleased to report I've yet to be turned down from a job, or a place at university, or a car loan, because I once bought a plastic gun to school.

So.. there you go. Not quite as hard-core as it first sounds. It goes down as one of the stupidest things I've ever done. And, thankfully, absolutely the worst thing I ever did in high school.

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Thanks Lori! Don't forget to visit Lori's blog, Random Ramblings of a stay-at-home-mum and chat to her on Twitter.

Guest Post: The Infamous Lucy

The post I wrote the other day, about when I met Steve, got me thinking about a few things. Like, how I was still at school when we met. Which means this time of year is exam time for many students out there.

That, then, prompted me to think about doing a post about my school days. I wanted to write something fun, like my rebellious moments. Great! But when I realised the most rebellious thing I did at school was tell a teacher to 'shut up' (I know! crazy, I am), I decided I might need to borrow some stories. Because a post about how I sat in class, listened attentively, did my homework well in advance and got good marks could be slightly dull.

I decided to approach a few others about the antics of their school days - and I'm so glad I did, because you're in for some laughs this week! A few of my favourite bloggers and another non-blogging guest (okay, my class-clown husband) are joining me this week to share their stories of fun and rebellion.

Kickstarting it all is the gorgeous Lucy of Diminishing Lucy fame...

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When Megan asked me to write a guest post about my school days, my memories of my time at school came flooding back.

I attended a secondary school in England, from 1980 until 1987.

The school was located on the South Coast, and was a young school, by English standards. (It is just about to celebrate only its 50th anniversary.)

At a little over 700 students spread over an entire high school, it was, by today's standards, very small.

Which makes me wonder why on earth I ever thought that my mischief would go unnoticed?

The arrogance of youth, I suspect.

From the day I started, I was, I suppose, infamous.

From a locally known family of "characters" (my elder siblings had preceded me) the teachers’ reactions to me were amused but exasperated.

Our deputy head mistress, Miss Maple, took each and every first year class, for Religious Education, in order to get to know each pupil. She told me on my first day that she had no need to teach me, she knew my type already. And to let my skirt out please.

My housemaster was constantly "disappointed" in me, for "wasting ability". He has since told me he found my behaviours frustrating but amusing.

I was a good kid, to be honest.

I just talked too much, smoked in the toilets too often, made too little effort in an academically focused arena.

I performed in all of the school plays, and was involved in netball and hockey teams. My ability to work as a team was probably my best strength.

But I also graffitied at will; and played truant with alarming regularity.

My uniform was constantly "non standard" for a variety of reasons.

I did OK in the debating society and won the school literary competition some years.

I represented my school in public speaking at the same time I was hauled over the coals for swearing.

I left everything to the last minute and was a cheeky flirt. But, I never hurt anyone else, nor did I ever bully or taunt.

I headed up the sixth form committee when I was in my leaving year. I used my apparent ability to organise and influence (mostly) for the good.

They breathed a collective sigh of relief, I suspect, when I left. (I should add, I sailed away with better than expected exam results that took me swiftly to uni. I am not sure who was more surprised: the staff, my parents, or myself.)

The best friends I made at school at age eleven are still my closest friends now, despite distance.

I loved every moment of my school life.

I lived my school life to the full, in every sense.

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Thanks Lucy! Visit Lucy's blog, Diminishing Lucy, for lots of laughs and inspiration, and chat to her on Twitter.

Renovations: Days Thirty-Nine To Forty-Three

We're now watching our extension evolve into part of our house. It's still all boarded off (so that Abbey can't get in there) but I caught a sneak peek of it opened up the other day and was so excited to see it as one whole house rather than two bits. Here's how it's all looking:

The entranceway. That bit boarded up is the rest of our house.

The new spare room

Abbey cleaning her new room - I thought it was an event that should be documented!

The bathroom

This is an existing part of the house - the main bedroom. Now with a big whole in the wall, the beginning of our new wardrobe. (Next to this is my our office - the office and wardrobe combined used to be Abbey's room.)

The other thing happening is the roof - it's now SO close to being (finally) finished. All we need now is for winter to end and spring to continue so it can be finished (and the tarps over the remainder of our roof changed to non-leaking steel) - surely not a big ask for October?


Megan

Twelve Years Ago

On this day twelve years ago, I met the love of my life.

It was October 16th, 1998 and I was heading out to the pub with some friends. I was eighteen, just coming to the end of Year 12, but most of my school friends were still seventeen so I started going out with my sister and brother and their friends. We were going out for one of the girls' birthdays, first having dinner and then staying to dance.

Steve, meanwhile, had written off his motorbike during that week. He needed some cheering up, so a friend invited him to the pub that weekend to celebrate his sister's birthday.

We sat at the table that night, October 16th, eating dinner and I knew everyone in the group. Except that one guy. Who's he? I wondered. I thought he looked nice and I decided to find out who he was. (And if he was single.)

It wasn't until later in the night that we started talking. He was buying me drinks (and, although I actually felt a bit off and didn't really want to drink, I took the drinks he bought and, when he wasn't looking, gave them to friends - I thought if I said no to him buying me drinks, he'd think I wasn't interested) and we started dancing together.

I still remember my sister pulling me aside and telling me that she and her then-boyfriend (now husband) had to leave. She looked over at Steve, then back at me and said one word: "Don't". I nodded, waved goodbye to her and went back to dancing with Steve.

Soon we had our first kiss.

I know - a very classy story, meeting and kissing at the pub. In my defence, this was not something I made a habit of; Steve was my first boyfriend.

We shared a taxi home, holding hands the whole way. We exchanged phone numbers before we, yes, were each dropped off at our separate homes.

The next day, he rang. We made arrangements for a mid-week dinner (at this point he'd tell you that I said no to his first two suggestions - I had other plans - and that he decided to try once more).

This was followed by another warning, this time from my mum. When I told her I was going to go out with this guy I'd just met, she asked how old he was. Twenty-three, five years older than me. She looked worried and suggested I might like to be careful, because by that age men are beginning to be 'serious'. She also suggested I shouldn't go out with him that week, as I had my final exams to study for.

I chose not to listen to those suggestions.

I was so nervous before that first date. Steve took me to an Indian restaurant - unfortunate because it was the first time I'd tried Indian food and didn't like it, but I was too nervous to eat much anyway. We talked all evening, mostly about travelling as he had recently returned from a trip to Europe - something that was a dream of mine.

From then on, we were inseparable. We saw each other at every possible opportunity.

And my family soon came to see why I ignored their protectiveness. Our first Christmas together, Steve was playing with my younger brother, then eight years old. My dad came over to me and pointed to them: "Hold onto him" he said. That, coming from my dad, who used to suggest my sister and I might like to call him if a gathering we were at a party that had boys present.

Steve was quickly part of my family, and I part of his.

I could list all the ways that Steve makes my life better, and the ways he makes me a better person. But there isn't enough space in a blog post to do that.

Twelve years ago, we decided to be together. And we will stay that way forever.


Megan

Word Of The Week

Abbey's Word of the Week this week is...

Please adverb
Pronunciation: Teeeeez

When a child first starts talking, it's just a relief to hear them telling you what they're after. Finally, some of the mystery of parenting is solved.

Then, after a while, the words start to sound like demands - "Yoghurt!" "Read!" - and a parent starts to think they should teach their child some manners. It makes parenting feel slightly less like slavery.

We're in the process of teaching Abbey to say "Please". And she's doing really well. "Teeeeez Mum", "Teeeeez Dad", she'll say.

The only problem now? She thinks that, as long as she has manners, she can do and have whatever she likes. This next lesson could take a lifetime.


Megan

Brought To You By The New Millennium

Earlier this week, I was fortunate enough to attend the launch of Graeme Base's beautiful new book, The Legend of the Golden Snail (and have him sign my copy - squeeee!). I wrote about that here, but the way I got there deserves its very own blog post.

I drove. I've actually driven quite a bit in the years since I was eighteen, so that in itself is not noteworthy.

However, the fact that I'm not good at knowing where to drive is.

(Firstly, let me explain why I did what I did. I was running late. I had to wait for Steve to get home from work, so I walked out the door at 3.30pm, to go to a suburb I anticipated taking over an hour to reach (plus finding parking) for this function starting at 4.30pm. So, because I was already behind - and, um, hadn't managed to organise myself to look up directions during the day - I grabbed Steve's GPS and ran to the car. I decided to trust that little computer wholely and completely, with not an inkling of where I was going.)

So. There I was, driving happily down the highway, vaguely wondering which way the GPS would take me. I felt rather vulnerable putting myself completely under its control. You see, although I'm addicted to my computer, in other ways I'm actually rather behind with technology. I prefer to look up a street directory, or an online version, and plan out my own route. Control freak? Yes.

When I came to the part of the highway that meets with a tollway, the GPS instructed me to turn left. Left? I didn't think that's where I was supposed to head, but, okay. You're the computer, I guess you know what you're doing. From there, alarm bells began to ring in my mind. It made me get off at a road that I had already driven past to get onto this tollway. Weird.

I continued along, until it told me to drive onto a freeway. This really frustrated me, because to get onto this freeway I would usually go a different way with less traffic, fewer lights, and much more direct. This way had already taken an extra ten minutes. My heart rate increased a little.

But I got onto the freeway. Driving blindly, with no idea where it would ask me to disembark said freeway. And, right on cue, the GPS died.

Gone.

I panicked. I wanted to pull into an emergency lane to find out where I should head, but cars were sitting next to me, doing that annoying thing of speeding up when I did and slowing when I did. I started muttering under my breath.

When I finally reached the stopping lane, I pulled out my street directory. Before realising there was one other problem here. My slackness with all things related to my car was about to be my next undoing.

My street directory is captioned 'the new millennium edition'. Yes. Despite my preference for using street directories over GPS systems, I have not managed to remember to buy a new one since 2000.

And, apparently, there have been a few changes to Melbourne roads in the last decade. (Although it could have been worse - the tollway I had been on earlier hadn't even existed at the time my street directory was printed.)

A few choice words started escaping.

I did what any modern, independent, composed woman would do. I rang my husband in tears. He mentioned the road he thought I should be heading for, but, as he went to the computer to check this, he had a small go at me for swearing. Unfortunately, I don't take well to being told what to do, so I hung up at this point. And turned my phone off. (Yes, so mature. And really, what was I thinking? That'll teach him for telling me what to do, by being home safely and happily while I'm out here lost?!)

Anyway, with the name of the road he had mentioned in my mind, I kept driving. And driving. And driving. Through the tunnel. Past the city. More alarm bells. Signs towards the Westgate Bridge - cue very loud swearing and very loud alarm bells.

I drove over the Westgate. Now, this might be time for a basic geography lesson. When one lives in the outer eastern suburbs and is heading to a destination in the inner southern suburbs... one should not go via the western suburbs.

By now it was 4.30pm. The time the function began. And I was convinced I had missed meeting Graeme Base, one of my favourite childhood authors.

I had to then swallow my pride, pull over and call Steve again. Still in tears. And still swearing. He ignored the swearing this time, and talked me through it. I put my phone onto loudspeaker (which still probably breaks the law, but it was either that or camp under the Westgate Bridge for the night) and he directed me to the place I needed to be at.

I arrived at 5pm. I walked in just as Graeme Base was about to begin speaking. Phew. Big sigh of relief.

This experience proves a few things...

1. My husband is awesome.
2. I can be a hot-tempered idiot.
3. My husband is wonderful.
4. Trust instinct, not computerised directional tools.
5. My husband is very patient.
6. Buy a new street directory at least once during a new decade.
7. My husband is awesome.

Oh, and in case you're wondering - yes, I did get lost on the way home as well. And called Steve and got him to talk me through it again.


Megan

Kiss Better

Our little Abbey is very brave. She seems to have quite a high pain tolerance; she'll bang her head, fall over, graze her legs, even burn herself - without a cry or a sound. It's something we've learnt to be very cautious of as, while it's usually a good thing, it can be a bit dangerous. Like the time she burnt herself, pointed and said 'ouch' and kept playing. I didn't do anything about it, thinking it mustn't be bad. Within a few hours, it was blistered, red and sore-looking (although it still didn't bother her!).

Normally, though, it's something that our friends and family find really funny. While they cringe as she walks into the corner of a table, Abbey just keeps going. While the blackberry thorn in the side of her nose bothers everyone else, she doesn't even notice it. Strangers look at us oddly when she falls over in the playground and Steve and I don't move an inch to help or comfort her - they don't realise that if we were to do that, we'd just be pushed away.

What this also means is that when Abbey does cry, we know she's really hurt herself (or is really tired!). And that requires a Kiss Better.

I remember the Kiss Better from my childhood, and started it with Abbey fairly recently. It acts as more of a distraction than anything, making her giggle.

The only problem with the Kiss Better is when the soreness is on an area of the body that, well, even a parent doesn't want to kiss.

Like when she doesn't have a nappy on and falls on her little bum. "Kiss, Mumma, kiss!" as she sticks her bum in my face. Um, how about I blow a kiss to that one? "No, Mumma, kiss!" Oh.

Or her feet that have been running through the mud and, quite possibly, chicken poo in the backyard. "Kiss, Mumma, kiss!" Gross.

A new one is when she accidentally bites the inside of her mouth when she's eating. The other day, she did this and came over to me, mouth open wide and full of porridge. She put her open mouth over my very tightly closed lips, trying to get me to kiss the inside of her cheek.

I know I'm her Mum, but seriously - surely I'm not expected to go that far?! (I pretended to, though, to make her feel better.)

Yes, there are limits to the Kiss Better. And it's just another reason I love it when she's a happy, wide awake, brave girl.


Megan

Christmas Shopping

Christmas 2009

I used to be more of a last minute Christmas shopper. Although, my version of 'last minute' is not during long trading hours two days before Christmas like some of my friends; it's more like sometime in December.

I used to think that Christmas shopping before the actual Christmas month was funny, and overly organised.

Now, I see the point of such over-organised souls, and I confess - it's October and I have begun my Christmas shopping.

I think online shopping has added to the need to shop earlier, in an effort to make sure the presents actually arrive before Christmas - and if there are two things I love, it's online shopping and being organised.

There is no more rushing through the crowds for me - it would be a nightmare with a toddler in tow anyway! - or wandering around for hours trying to find that one right gift. No. Now, I sit on my bum in the comfort of my own home, clicking away for hours searching for that one right gift. And then that one gift at the best price. (Although, it's always annoying when the best price turns out to be in the actual shops.)

I'm a bit stuck for ideas this year though. I have to buy for these nieces and nephews:

Girls - aged ten, four, three and one
Boys - aged six (times two) and three months

Plus Abbey, and I have no idea what to get her this year!

Any suggestions?

When do you start Christmas shopping; do you like getting in early or do you think I'm crazy for thinking about it this early? 


Megan

Writing Goals

I don't often post about my direct goals. This is not because I don't have any; most people who know me know that my problem in life is not being directionless. It's the opposite. I have too much I want to do and I put a lot of pressure on myself to do it.

At this time of year - the pointy end of things when we're leading up to the busy time of Christmas and summer - I tend to get all reflective about what I want to achieve next year. And whether I've achieved what I wanted to this year.

My goals for 2010 included becoming a writer (as in, articles and blogs), writing a manuscript, renovating our house - and raising a happy toddler. Tick, tick (times six and a half!), tick and tick!

In terms of my writing, 2010 has been the beginning of it all for me. I started the year a little vague - I wanted to write, but what? and by February I had begun writing for Kids Book Review; in March I was typing my first manuscript. The ideas began flowing, and I was - and still am - convinced that I should be writing for children. (As a side note, I'd love to write for adults too, but thought I'd be better off starting with one part of my dream at a time!)

Writing, though, can feel a bit open in terms of time. I have all the time in the world to complete a manuscript, right? It doesn't matter if I don't work on it today, or tomorrow; there isn't anyone waiting for it. I don't have a deadline. It's very open-ended.

It's that open end that bothers me sometimes. I'm not a procrastinator; I like to do things right now. Today. But when there are a hundred other things that are demanding your attention right now, it's hard to get around to the open-ended things.

It's hard to ask someone to look after your child while you do something that, right now, is purely an interest doesn't even have to be done right now.

That's why I wanted to set some more specific goals for myself.

By the end of 2010, I'd like to have finished my junior fiction manuscript. I'm halfway through it, and just want to get it done. There are so many other ideas floating around in my mind, which I'm jotting down and then pushing aside, and I want a chance to focus on them.

So. If I finish off my work-in-progress this year, I can start fresh in 2011. I can begin editing that manuscript after a break from it over the Christmas period. And I can let my mind wander through other ideas.

More novels. More non-fiction. More hassling and nagging publishers giving publishers the opportunity to publish my work.

Let the writing begin again!


Megan

The Job Of A Lifetime

I wanted to start sharing with you our entire path to getting this house the way we want it. And so, (as they say in the classics) we should start at the very beginning - a very good place to start.

When we first moved into our house, in January 2001, it was in desperate need of love... and being brought into this century. The beautiful red cedar boards were painted mission brown, with the windows a very dirty cream:

The front - 2001

The back - 2001

When we first went to look at this house, we drove right past. "Too brown and ugly," we declared. But the next week, when we saw it was still being advertised, we decided to take a look inside (I'll show you soon that the inside actually wasn't much better!). After all, it was all just colour.

We quickly set to work on the colours; a dirty, revolting job involving lots of paint stripper and most of one summer. Add to that new front and back deckings - more paint - and a lot of work (by Steve) in the garden - and here is what we had:

early 2010

The back (in progress) - 2010

We've come a long way with this place - but that isn't even half of it. I'll bring you up to date with the inside of the house soon...


Megan

Cook, Share: Jam

It's been a while since I posted a recipe. The last one I shared was a hit, but really, who doesn't want a slice of Baileys Cheesecake?

Today I thought I'd share one of the things I do that makes me wonder if I really am thirty, or perhaps an eighty-year-old hiding in a thirty-year-old's body.

I make my own jam.

Yes, I do. I know it sounds like an old person thing to do, but it is seriously the EASIEST thing I've ever made in my life. And it tastes SO much better than bought jam.

Once a year, I go to a local berry farm and buy a few kilos of berries - usually just raspberries and blackberries. We used to go with some friends and pick them ourselves, but the last time we went together we decided to buy the pre-picked ones and then just go for coffee. Anyway, I freeze the berries and use them in cakes, desserts and jam all year round - that way, there's no need to buy them when they're really expensive during the year, or pre-packaged.

Here's how I make my jam:

1kg berries (I use raspberries or blackberries, or half/half)
800g sugar
3 squirts lemon juice
Dollop of butter

Mash berries in a saucepan and bring to the boil slowly. (I mush them up a bit, but like to leave lots of chunky berry bits - mmmmm.)
Add sugar and lemon juice, bring to the boil stirring continuously, and boil for 7 minutes.
Place a tablespoon of jam onto a saucer and refrigerate to check if the jam will set.
Turn off the heat and add the butter, stirring through thoroughly.
Bottle, but do not cover until jam has cooled. (I bought some jam jars, but I also sometimes use drinking glasses with cling wrap over the top - as long as it's refrigerated, it'll last for months.)


Megan

Renovations: Days Thirty-Six, Thirty-Seven And Thirty-Eight

The builders have begun hanging plaster!

The new spare room

Abbey's new bedroom

Insulation!

That's the most noticeable change, but the electricians have also been back installing powerpoints and light fittings. And the builders have been doing all manner of things that are fiddly and unnoticeable to me.

Meanwhile, Steve has been busy installing insulation into the walls and ceiling. This probably isn't noteworthy to most people, but our house has never before been insulated, so this should make a big difference to us. As well as the new section, Steve's going through and removing the cedar boards from the existing part of the house, bit by bit, and insulating that as well. And he's going to do the floors too.

And me? I've been shopping. I've ordered new blinds for the whole house (Roman blinds everywhere, except for the bi-fold doors which will have panel blinds), and bought a beautiful red chair for the office. This shopping really is the fun part.

Oh, and we're both doing lots and lots of painting at every opportunity as well.


Megan

A New Look

I mentioned last week that I was flat out working on some exciting new things for Kids Book Review... and now it's ready for you all to see!

Click on the picture above to see the new-look website that Tania and I have put together, and let us know what you think.


Megan

Ssssshh

It's been a bit quiet here the last few days.

And today I don't even have a Photo Friday for you.

I've been super busy working on some very exciting things for Kids Book Review, writing and working.

And somewhere in there I even managed to fold the four loads of washing that had been sitting on the couch all week, and unpacked the dishwasher that had sat full and clean for two days. I cooked dinner twice this week, too. Yay me. (My standards are, clearly, very low this week.)

As you read this (I wrote this post last night), I also have no electricity at my house, which equals no internet. Which is also my worst nightmare.

But I'll be back next week with lots of bloggy goodness.

I hope you all have a wonderful weekend!


Megan

Blogging Carnival

One of the best blogging events that I know of is the Aussie Mummy Bloggers Carnival. This is the time that lots of AMB members get together on one blog, to share their best post for the month.

It's really worth a read. There are always heaps of fantastic posts and some great new blogs that you'll be introduced to.

This month, the gorgeous Alison at Melbourne Mumma is hosting - go and check it out!


Megan

Renovations: Days Thirty-Four And Thirty-Five

A tour of the latest developments:

Welcome!

The entranceway. Oh, and anyone good with decorating - any suggestions for what to do with this big entranceway? I'm thinking lots of photos on the walls, but should I have a piece of furniture here?? (The hallway continues a little behind the photo, and turns to the right of this photo into the lounge room.)

Up until last week, this was Abbey's room (hence the mobile still hanging from the light!). It is now partly a built-in wardrobe for the main bedroom, and the rest is my our office.

Be still my beating heart; my our very own office. I'm so in love with this room that Steve's concerned he'll never see me again after it's finished. My Our desk will be under that window, looking out over the trees. Every single wall will be covered from floor to ceiling with bookshelves (the builders looked at me strangely when I said that, until I pointed out that the couriers they have got to know, who drop by every single weekday, are delivering books...). And that corner to your left, just out of the photo? I think a nice comfy reading chair would go nicely there. Yep, Steve's probably right to be worried...

Megan