Tis the season to hemorrhage money, tra-la-la-la-la lalalalala fuckit

The Mazda had almost shat it’s pants. Every time I gently applied the breaks, it let out a sound that was reminiscent of a 5 cats rooting. The squeals were enough to send shivers down your spine. The Black Volvo and BMW’s that line our school’s kiss and drop zone were laughing at it. And there was also a mysterious rattle that I suspect was the cars polite way to alert me to the fact that the suspension was about to drop out from under it.

So I took it up for an additional service and told the mechanic the truth. I was an unemployed single mum and needed my car fixed within the hour, preferably for free.

He told me that it would not be done within the hour and to go away. He would call me with some news.

The call came and I do believe it began with “Are you sitting down Mrs Woog?”


So I have dropped an absolute bundle on that piece of crap car that Mr Woog refuses to discuss upgrading as his argument stems from the fact that the kids do not respect nice things and we will be driving that car until they finish high school.
We have a fridge. It is Fisher and Paykel fridge and we have had it for 6 years. Now I am not sure what the average life span of a fridge is, but I am fairly sure they can outlive a gold fish. It has taken to sporadically beeping quite loudly. Loud enough to hear it from our bedroom in the middle of the night. And you have to get up and press a button on the back of it to shut it up. It is like having a newborn in the house. Mr Woog and myself enquire each morning “How many times did you have to get up to the fridge?” It is shitting me to tears.

And this weekend, it has taken upon itself to make the sound of fireworks as well. So we will be crossing our fingers today when I call Mr Fisher and Paykel Repairman Spencer, that he will not look inside, shake his head and pull out a calculator. I am giving it a hug and a kiss every time I walk past it. But it does not look good.

That time of year has arrived. Where you put your kids in some clean clothes, spit on a tissue, you know the drill. You walk up, join a queue of millions. When you get to the front of the queue, you open your purse and empty the entire contents out onto the counter. And bend over. Because that is how much it is going to cost you to get your kids photo taken with Santa.

Over the years, we have had very mixed success with Santa photos. And we mainly walk away with something like this. Because the small one has done the bolt.

So me and my girlfriends thought if we did it altogether one year, we would have a better chance. This Santa was soo fucked off. And that is my Goddaughter, not having a bar of the whole scene. And this was snapped a nano-second before Jack did the bolt again.

But I caught him and dragged him back. And this is our 2007 photo. (Check out Santa here, about to totally lose his shit. Where is the twinkle in your eye, you old bastard?).

It was all too much for everyone, so we took a few years off. But this year, we went back to the Santa at Westfield Chatswood (not a sponsored post) as I think he is one of the more quality Santas around. And Jack was totally down with sitting on his lap, because he had cottoned onto what Santa actually does, which is give him shit. And because I said there was no way in world he was ever going to get a Pink DS from me, he decided he was going to bypass the middleman and go straight to the source.

So here is the first real photo of him with Santa. And because it was such a first, he wanted me in the picture. I was wearing a deep v neck top and when I sat down next to Santa, it somehow got pulled down a bit, to reveal a little too much festive cleavage. I asked the photographer to wait while I sorted my shit out, to which Santa squeezed me around the waist and said “Leave it, and we can be Breast Friends!”

I am not making this shit up. I couldn’t make this shit up! But I no complain as he was funny and I like a Santa with a sense of humor, not like the other axe Murderer Santa. No wonder he has got such a twinkle in his eye, dirty old perv. Anyway, he is the most Santa like of all Shopping Centre Santa’s. Just wear a skivvy when you visit him. He is conveniently located near Muffin Break.

These things come in threes. So I figure I am done.

till then,