Never do surgery on yourself.

Thanks to all for so much great advice yesterday about how I should deal with the non helmet wearing offspring. By far the most popular approach came from Emma.

You can check out Emma's Blog HERE.

And if I were a diligent parent committed to teaching my children well, I might have actually gone through with it. Instead I just pleaded with them not to do it again, and that I had spies EVERYWHERE and if I heard of them riding without their helmets once more time, they would be banned from their pushes until the Olympic Games commence in Tokyo in 2020.

In other news, I am paying dearly for my actions which were undertaken after my large Saturday night at the election party. I opened the door, crab walked down the wall and went to wash my face.

Numbed by alcohol and despondent by the outcome, I glared at a rather persistent Hermione the Hormonal Pimple and decided her days on my face must come to an end.

Nearly 3 days on after I did drunken surgery on myself, I am sporting what could only be described as a severe case of pash rash, but with out the benefits of the fun pashing bit. Self induced pash rash, if you will.

Oh internet, when will I learn to leave myself alone! Why does my body throw so many challenges at me. My sister once had an ingrown hair on her arm and she picked at it so much, we now call the scar "Picky".

So now I am off to the big smoke to get on with some commitments, including doing my annual David Jones Flower Show review, fighting and jostling with the small but vicious fan club. I am meeting Bev, who has got herself quite excited by the whole event.

(insert Prue and Trude joke here)

You can read last years review here. It was all very exciting. Miranda Kerr held a card.

And finally, I got an email from a friend, from her friend.

SO TA-DA!

Can you please let Mrs Woog know that My colleague Kate H***le  has been following her for years. I get a running commentary every day. I am sure it would make  her year if Mr Woog could mention her in her blog. Not sure if its at all possible but appreciate if you could pass onto Mrs Woog.

You know what would make my year?

No pash rash.

Once upon a time....

Once upon a time, there lived a family who resided in the Sutherland Shire, Sans Souci to be correct.

Mr Wouge was a factory worker in charge of quality control of the Rice Bubbles at the Kelloggs Factory while Mrs Wouge made a decent living as the states number 33rd most successful TupperWhore distributor.

Except when it came to one particular line,  The Heat and Eat Everyday Set, where she was number 13. She was particularly passionate about serving leftovers, and this passion shone though in her animated demonstrations.

They had two sons, Horatio and JazzHands, and one cat called Jasper.

One sunny Saturday, Horatio and JazzHands decided to torture their parents with behaviour similar to the little head turning, spew girl from The Omen. Mrs Wouge was aware that it was Father's Day coming up and Mr Wouge was getting antsy, as he tended to so around commercially organised celebrations.

The other interesting thing about Mr Wouge, was that he tended to display signs of the female mensies, albeit without the unpleasant end result.

It was safe to say that Mrs Wouge and Mr Wouge's cycles had synched, culminating it both of these adults having quite the massive tantrum on the eve of Father's Day, driven by Spring Fete fatigue and general cat's bum mouthing all day.

The next morning, despite everyone in the Wouge family's desire to spend the day in the opposite 4 corners of the house, Mrs Wouge made the decision that everyone was to meet in the car in ten minutes.

They travelled silently for an hour or so, before reaching their happy place.

Horatio later explained that he was just patting his brother on the head.

 Which was just the tonic the Wouges needed.

Why I really hate Indian Mynas.

As sure as the sun rises each morning, I make lunches. Do I like making lunches? I would have to say no, it irritates me enormously, more so when I unpack the lunch boxes each afternoon to find the toils of my labour untouched.

I remember when Mum used to make our lunches. 3 vegemite sandwiches in those useless plastic bags that you just folded the top over. She may have well done away with that step of the process and just chucked the sandwich straight into the paper bag with the obligatory piece of fruit that was offered up as "little lunch".

Today I packed the lunch boxes as usual. One salami and lettuce and one old stalwart of the Aussie lunchbox, Vegemite. In fancy insulated lunch boxes.

Which made me think why didn't I die at primary school when, on the odd occasion, my Vegemite was substituted for ham?

By lunchtime, it was HOT HAM and it was delicious. Probably riddled with the bacteria of a billion germs, but I always ate that sandwich without it being accompanied a a little frozen brick of water nestled next to it.

I recall one day, a ham sandwich day, I opened up the sandwich to show my friends that it was ham sandwich day, when a rat of the sky, an Indian myna, took a dump fair smack on the middle of that hot pink slab of pig.... and I howled! 

So traumatised was I, that I got free rein to select anything I wanted from the canteen, gratis. Result!

This morning I did canteen duty and only prepared one sandwich. It was a teachers lunch, a simple tomato and cheese number. I used to be a teacher and recall how much I looked forward to lunch, so I took extra care in it's preparation. I seasoned it well, placed the slices of tomato in between 2 slices of cheese, as to not allow any bread sogginess to occur.

Nobody likes a soggy sandwich.

I then wrapped the sandwich in the same way fancy clothes shops wrap garments, in tissue. I got a bit carried away and ended up wrapping it up like a present. And then, for added flair, I drew a purple love heart on it.

Had I had time, and if it were not frowned upon,  I thought about popping down to the bottle shop and slipping a piccolo of prosecco in along side of it, just for shits and giggles.

It seems for the rest of the school population, it is all about the sushi roll. Not a hot ham sandwich in sight.

What did you used to get for school lunches?

Is it different to what you pack now?

Did you ever fall victim to a hot egg sambo?

Hump Day Report, now with added Mundane.

Mundane-A-Plenty this week and the year continues to whirl by like a big rig with dodgy breaks being driven by a truckie hocked up on no-doze and Red Bull.

I saw Christmassy shit in the supermarket and freaked the fuck out.

Panatone is not nice. Please restrict it's marketing to commence on December 24.

But around this place, a few events stand out.

I was dared to wear a large floral headband on National TV while delivering a deadpan message about dodgy fashion trends that are in shops. Done with APLOMB people.

On Saturday Night we went en-mass Woog style out for dinner, where Jack showed us that white pants are not just a summer staple.

BabyMac was in the house and so I trotted her off to New Shanghai at Chatswood where I watched her eat things and shake her head for an hour. There may have been a tear. Have you been?

Celebrated pay day by making a small purchase. Click here if you love them as much as me. Bonus as they cause pain to small children to tread barefoot on your feet.

And finally.....

I unintentionally nearly burnt the house down.

The other morning, on exiting the shower, I smelt a burning pong. I raced into the kitchen. No burning. I checked all the heaters. No burning. I went out into the backyard. No burning.

I went into the bedroom.

HOLY FUCK BECAUSE ALL OF THE SMOKE!

The sun was positively beaming through the windows, it's rays hitting the magnifying mirror I keep on the dresser for emergency squeezing sessions.

The beam, in turn, reflected off the mirror onto the pine with such ferociousness, that actual smoke was billowing up, filling the air with a putrid pong.

And it was then I discovered, as evidenced by my forensic photo above, that I had actually cheated death by fire 3 times before. The scorch marks tell the tale of my near death experience.

The mirror has been removed and, in effect, I may have saved everyones life. And they are yet to thank me.

Ungrateful is the word I would use here.

How about you?

Have you been a hero lately?

What are your worst new/old fashions in the shops?

Me?

Chambray Shortie Playsuits.
Try as I may, I just cannot make these work....

When pets die.

Mum is super efficient at giving our family the gift of life. And by life, I mean pets.

It started 4 years ago when Harry was 5. She turned up to his birthday party with a huge hutch containing a tiny ginger and white Guinea Pig. Harry called it XO on the spot while Mum convinced me that this was the easiest pet ever to look after and it would teach Harry about responsibility blah blah blah.

About 6 months later we went away for a week, and shipped XO out to my sister's place for his own holiday. XO was sharing digs with their g-pig, a petite doe eyed brown sow called Coco Pop. 

And low and behold, those pigs shagged for England and produced an heir.

It was a boy! And because of, you know, guinea pigs having no knowledge on the sensitive topic of incest, the son came to live with us. Harry christened him Fooey Fooey Moi Moi and together with XO, they grew to become the hugest, angriest cavies in all the land.

Fooey and XO playing handball

Another time Mum called to say that her friends stable cat had had kittens, and would I like one. I said no, we do not want a kitten.

So low and behold, she turned up with a tiny black kitten. I gave her a lecture of the meaning of the word NO, before realising that this little fella, who we called Chuy, needed us as much as we needed him.

Are you my mother? YES I AM!

And then there was this time, about 6 months ago, that Mum introduced us to the latest forced member of our family.

Harry called him Stanley Psy Woog and he was magnificent. I did not ever write about him, as I figured his time with us would be short. But how wrong I was.

Dem's fighting fish

Mr Woog has taken the most interest in Stanley's health and well-being. I think owning such a beast makes him feel tough.

But then, a series of events occurred each more tragic then the last.

3 weeks ago, Mum and Harry went on an outing and came back with another fish tank. In it was 7 little fluro fish, all kitted out with expensive filters and crap. They required a text book of care. We followed all the instructions, but one by one, they swam towards the light and passed into the next world.

There was also another very plain fish in that tank. Standing at about 1.5cm tall, she was grey and her sole purpose was to suck the tank scum from the sides. She was very diligent at sucking, so I christened her Monica Lewfishky.

Monica out-lived all of the fancy, fluro fish by about a week and I was really sad yesterday when I passed her fancy, expensive tank to find her floating lifelessly at the top. She had sucked her last bit of slime and died alone. In my kitchen.

And so ends out brief flirtation of tropical fish ownership.

RIP Itchy, Bitchy, Sweaty, Sleepy, Bloated, Forgetful, Psycho and most of all Monica. You will be missed.

God speed.

Wearing your heart on your sleeve.

Mr Woog and I were friends for a while before we hooked up. I fancied the pants off him but thought my feelings were one sided until he jumped on me one night and professed his love. I was extremely relieved.

That was nearly 20 years ago.

But things have not always been so direct when it came to matters of the heart.

I recall being at a mixed school camp when I was in year 5. A boy from another school fell for my bucktoothed, dorky charm and declared so to me in front of everyone. He called me Emma for some reason, and I didn't correct him because I fancied the Swatch Watch off him. So I was Emma for a few days until he tried to stick his tongue in my mouth.

I immediately banished him from my life. Which was easy to do as camp was over. Looking back I could see that he was just throwing it all on the line for a bit of bragging rights. This I totally get.

One of my son's has developed the ability to fall in love at first sight. It is swift and it is hard and he does not mind letting the object of his affection know about it.

It is based purely on aesthetics and I hope, with all my heart, that this changes soon. 

Harry always asks me whether I was a dork at school. I tell him yes, and that I married a dork and there was a good chance he will be a dork, because dork + dork = dork squared.

And dorks are cool and grow up to be interesting people.

That is the theory anyway.

Harry has been acting as somewhat of a love note courier for his brother while here on holidays. The target is a lovely looking lady who works in the front desk. Jack is smitten.

I worry about Jack's heart. And if it will be smashed as he gets older. I think being direct is quite a good thing but I also dread to think what he will be like as a teenager.

What about you?

Are/were you coy or direct?

How did you and your beloved get together?

And Ian Bliss, if you are reading this, the names Woog. 

Mrs. Woog.

Patching up Mr Woog.

Sponsored by Band-Aid

It started with a surfboard.

A stand up paddleboard to be correct. You know the ones that were trendy a few years back when you would see pictures of celebrities standing up on a board looking effortlessly cool.

Well I am here to tell you that it is just not true. It is hard. Way hard. I know because I tried it once at Balmoral Beach and, in front of a packed crowd, tried very, very hard to heave myself up onto it in the deep water. As stood as I managed to stand up, I fell off the other side with a yelp.

And that was the beginning and the end of my interest in surfing.

The board is Mr. Woog’s and marked the beginning of his mid-life crises.

He is doing things now, at 39, which he would never have dreamed of doing as a younger man. I am not sure why, maybe something to do with confidence. Although I am glad he is going down this “boys with toys” path, and not take the other well-trodden journey that men of his age so often do.

Although he does draw the line at jumping out of a plane with a parachute attached to him. And I do not blame him.

MADNESS!

Apart from the stand up paddleboard, he has developed a deep obsession with motorbikes, those being both the dirt and road varieties. He will spend hours playing in the garage with his bikes, lovingly caressing them in a way that he may have done to me in days of yore.

Which is fine with me. Leaves me time to watch TV in peace.

He is even trying to convince his sons to get involved. One is keen and the other got as far as putting on the gear, going around the track once before declaring himself uninterested. (Thank god!)

Mr Woog, however, is a man that takes the bull by the horn. He is an “all or nothing” type of fella and when he falls into a new hobby, he does so with great gusto. He enjoys getting his man time on, riding his dirt bike through National Parks with a group, all egging each other on like teenaged boys would.

Wheelies and skids. And stacks.

So it was well timed when Band-Aid came on board as a new sponsor, as we have been flying through those boxes as frequently as my beloved flies through the air.

His latest dirt bike day resulted in quite a nasty spill, which I have been attending to with appropriate nurse-like skills. (With just the slightest eye rolls.)

He also complains that he is a bit sore all over after a day on his bike. I tell him that he is not as young and supple as he once was, and would he like me to fetch him a blankie. And a hot milk?

Do you live with a daredevil?

What is the worst spill you have mopped up?

Recently Band-Aid released their new Quilt-Aid Band-Aid. The new Quilt-Aid technology draws fluid away from the wound and prevents sticking.. Band-Aid help heal cuts twice as fast as uncovered cuts, so kids {and man-child} can get back to what they love doing best.

Always read the label. Use only as directed.

Globophobia

This is my sister Mrs Ryan. She might just be the funniest person I know and, combined with a strong bitchy streak, she most certainly keeps me on my toes.

So it should have come as no surprise when she turned up to Mum's house for a long lunch on Saturday with a large bunch of helium balloons. Which it probably appropriate for a birthday celebration, but she knows that I suffer from globophobia.

Globophobia is a fear of balloons. It is a real thing. I have suffered from globophobia ever since I blew up a balloon so big at high school that it popped and the rubber flung, snapped if you will, into my eyeball, causing me temporary blindness for a few minutes.

I find balloons to be far too unpredictable for my liking. Balloons in cars would have me reaching for a calming medication, all of that unpredictability flying around, hitting me in the head or worse. Popping.

So I probably was not as relaxed as I could have been on Saturday, as I needed to keep my wits about me as Mrs Ryan would wait until I was sipping some wine in the sun, before chasing me around the garden with her globes of evil air.

Janine Robertson from Facebook sent me this yesterday.

A plastic sack of breath. It is so true! So why are you so fucking scary to me?

Nothing Scarier than a Clown

The top 5 phobias roll out as follows.

1. Arachnophobia - Spiders
2. Acrophobia - Heights 
3. Agoraphobia - Open Spaces
4. Claustrophobia - Confined Spaces
5. Mysophobia - Germs

All nice, normal phobias. Texbook phobias, if you will. But the interesting thing is, that if you have a phobia of an unusual thing, there WILL be a name for it.

Tell me your strange phobia and I will tell you what it is called.

And then I will find you a support group to join.

Anyone else antsy about balloons?

So I 

Slide Show

Sometimes I look back through the photos that I take and ask myself...

"Why would you take a photo of that?"

And I will tell you why. Because when you are devoid of words you can share them on your blog. SWEET!

Ok. So this is for the DIY folk out there. Paint. Yes, paint. There is this fancy, special paint called Annie Sloan Chalk Paint. It is basically paint for idiots who cannot be bothered to prep, sand, undercoat and then painstakingly paint.

With this paint, you just literally whack it on. If you notice in these before and after photos, the same pile of dirty washing is in the hallway. This little project took and hour from paint to dry.

I will warn you though, it is fairly addictive and check out the colours! I used Greek Blue. What is your favourite?

Click here for more info.

Jack requested some white pants, which is ridiculous. 

So of course I got him some, and look at the happiness! So worth the Napisan Investment.

Been weaning myself off Diet Coke. Have you ever tried to? It is HARD!

Got sent some clothes from label Sara to wear on the telly, because I have not much fancy tv worthy clothes in ye olde closet. It has been a godsend not having to worry about what to wear. 

Sooo what else......

Oh so Garnier, who sponsor this blog, sent me their latest addition to their famous BB Cream Range.  A little tube of BB Concealer that you apply under your eyes.  I fully endorse. It is $13.95 and is out now, but only just. Keep your eyes peeled (and bright!)

I thought I was so clever and funny when I whacked this photo I took up onto the Blogs Facebook page, asking them which public figure it was suppose to represent. I thought they would NEVER get it.

It took one clever clogs 4 seconds to respond with Camilla Parker-Bowls. Get it? Parker coffee table? Bowl? Of course you do. I need to up my cryptic game...

Aunty Pat sent me a bragging birthday card....

And Russell Hobbs sent me a fancy toaster that toasts as good as my el-cheapo but has glass sides so you don't burn the bejesus out of your bread.  Nifty hey! And no, there is no actual Russell Hobbs. They are two different people. I checked.

Got a strange comment on my latest recipe post, telling me about how wasteful I am with celery... But that lady does not know about my secret weapons in celery unwastefullness......

And FINALLY, it is my birthday eve. It feels like it has been going on FOREVER, which is of course fantastic. Several people have informed me, with authority, that you actually have a 40th Birthday Month. My girlfriends are taking me out for dinner tonight and tomorrow, the actual day, I am celebrating with a long, family lunch out at Mums.

Thank you for looking at my mundane 

slide show.

Any questions?

Yes, you with your hand up. In the funny hat........

Tripod.

Yesterday began fairly unremarkably. Did a little writing, did a little kid-wrangling, did a little washing and did a little staring out the window, thinking. Allens let me know that Two Point 5 Kids had won their promotion!

I passed the couch at least a dozen times during the morning and patted Chuy the Cat each time. After a while, it dawned on me that he had not moved for hours and his breakfast remained untouched.

This was not like him. Not one bit.

I gently picked him up and placed him on the ground.

TRIPOD!

He could not put his front paw down. I felt around for a bit and it was obviously very painful and so I did what I do when faced with an unusual situation.

I over-reacted.

My cat had obviously been whacked by a car. I needed to get him to the vet. Because we are new to the area, I left it up to the Google Gods, who pointed me in the direction of a small practice not far from home.

I called. A handsome voice picked up and I told him my cat had been hit by a car, and he directed me to bring Chuy straight in. Which I did.

The surgery was small and Chuy, at this point was whining like a maniac. The door swung open and the most handsomest vet rushed over. I followed him into the examination room, noting the lack of wedding ring on his finger and going through my cerebral rolodex of single friends.

A hot single vet is a rare thing.

I let Chuy out of the carrier and the hot vet exclaims..

"Oh Muffin! Look at you, you handsome boy...."

Which did nothing for my swooning... nothing at all.......

Hot Vet immediately started sniffing Chuy all over, which was peculiar to say the least and left me wondering whether I should have given Chuy a squirt of Issey Miyake in the car.

I could not help myself as I leant down and took a whiff.

As I suspected, fur smell.

"Why are you smelling the cat?" I enquired.

"To see whether a possum has got to him....." He said. "They tend to piss on cats...."

You DO learn something new everyday! 

Hot Vet proceeded to go over Chuy with a fine tooth comb, stuck a thermometer of his butt, shone lights in his eyes, gave him a massage and checked his paws.

He assured me that Chuy had not been hit by a car. He told me the first thing to check if you suspect this might have happened is the claws. Because just before a cat gets whacked by a car, they try to grip the bitumen like crazy and the claws are always "shattered."

Hot Vet continued to heap praise on the handsomeness and personality of my cat, and I was so proud, like I had actually birthed him myself.

He concluded by saying that it was most likely that Chuy had gotten into a heated discussion with a neighbourhood cat, which ended in assault. He gave Chuy two injections to stave off any infection and to ease the tenderness.

I apologised for my dramatic phone call and for my over-reaction. Hot Vet gave Chuy one more cuddle, and mooshed his face a bit, telling me that it was no problem whatsoever, and he hoped it was a long time before we met again.

Which would be nice, but a shame as well.

When was the last time you over-reacted?

Or are you as cool as a cucumber in times of distress?

Cabin Fever

What do you get when you cross 4 people and a cat in a small house with a weekend of torrential rain?

A very unhappy bunch.

It did not stop raining all weekend. Not for a moment. It was not even inoffensive spitting type of rain. It was big fat drops, falling with such ferocity that at some points, you could not see the back fence.

We travelled back from Jabba on Saturday in this rain and as we approached the big dipper on the F2, Sonia Kluger hit a huge puddle and started sliding all over 3 lanes. It was very, very scary and we were lucky we were not travelling next to a truck, as I think it would have been all over for the Woogs.

Mr Woog regained control over Sonia and commented on the fact that her superior "insert car mechanical safety feature here" probably saved our lives.

Oh Sonia! Is there anything you can't do?

When we got home, we sat around and looked at each other.

Kids started niggling and nagging and fighting to the point that, after one particular incident, a ban has been placed on iPad use until 2014.

Relief was short lived and then I actually said....

"If you keep fighting, then I will ban television for the entire school holidays....."

I am so stupid. 

It is my biggest trump card and I played it before the school holidays actually officially began, which is today. I believe in the follow through so I have actually created my own problem here.

The rain eased for an hour yesterday afternoon so I sent the kids outside. It is council clean up time here, and so the boys got together with the kids in the street to pick through rubbish to make a billycart from an old, defunct lawnmower.

Proper playing. Good old fashioned stuff. Not connected to a device or replying on someone or something else to entertain them.

So I still hold the TV trump card, and I am hanging into it for dear life. Thank the Weather Gods that the rain has cleared for the week. 

And thank the Toyota Gods that we Woogs are still here to enjoy it.