Pinky's Book Link

Wednesday, July 31, 2013

A Letter to my Deputy Principal


A couple of weeks ago my Deputy Principal walked past me in the staffroom, punched me in the arm and groused under her breath, “Read your blog, Pinky!

Oh crap! I thought scanning my brain in panic as to which particular rubbish I’d written about the night before.

Oh, that’s right… it was the post about playground duty... 


I didn’t think particular duties were so critical in the well-being of teachers!” she commented drily.

Yesterday a survey arrived via email from the Deputy, requesting that we teachers submit a form nominating which duties we find more palatable e.g.; after school, before school, first break, second break etc.

Who’d have dreamt in a million years that the largely ignored and pooh-poohed Pinky, could have so much influence over the boss? So… if you are reading this post tonight oh 'Mistress Yoda', I’ve a few other things you may like to look into.


Dear Deputy Principal,
# If you could source rose petals for the staff toilet, peach-coloured tissues, and designer bath towels in peach too…(because they match my complexion) that would be well… just peachy!

# Could each classroom be equipped with bottled Evian, vanilla room spray and a dozen white roses please?

# If I happen to be late for work I’d like you to overlook it as ‘creative idiosyncrasy’.

# I request that before 8:00 am no one looks at me (especially the students), walks near me, or takes my picture.

# I would like all the doorknobs in the school disinfected and the air-conditioning filters cleaned daily.

# In staff meetings I would like a large bowl of M&Ms (but make sure you remove all of the brown ones).

# I’d like “Do Not Disturb !!!!!!!!!” signs to be put up on our classroom doors at 2:50pm every afternoon.

# A chauffeur to drive me home after happy hour in the staffroom on Friday afternoons per favore. The chauffeur must have strict instructions not to talk to me or stare at me in the rear vision mirror. (A police escort is optional)

# I’d like a special room assigned to me in which to store my wigs.

# I request that any ‘distinct’ smells be kept well away from me at all times…including those emanating from the boys’ toilet.

And finally…

# A supply of Moet Chandon champagne, a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, and some condoms in our pigeon holes every Monday morning sil vous plait (I’ll use the condoms as water bombs to throw at O’Reilly when he makes bad jokes in the staff room).

Have I gone too far this time????




Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Stomach Upset! Oxygen Debt! I can beat the Nicorette!

                       
Scotto and I were watching the ‘Slasher Porn’ movie, “The Evil Dead” the other day when I hurriedly excused myself and absconded to the kitchen in fear, under the flimsy guise of doing the washing up. 


The movie tells the story of a group of unknowing young people staying in a remote cabin ominously haunted by a viciously evil entity. One of the girls is a tormented drug addict and is attempting to go cold turkey with her friends to help her get through the withdrawal symptoms.

Inevitably, the cabin is flooded in, and the menacing entity assumes the form of what can only be described as a disturbing black pudding. 

The black pudding then violently enters the distressed drug addict via one of her bodily orifices (and it wasn’t her mouth, nose or earhole) thus escalating her withdrawal symptoms to unbelievably unpleasant proportions.

However ridiculously bloodthirsty the movie was, it caused me to stop and have a good think about my own addictions.

“Which addiction would that be, Pinky?” I hear you shriek in hilarity.

Well… all those shareholders in Chardonnay manufacturing can relax because I’m not thinking of giving up the booze, yet.

“Blogging!” You’re thinking hopefully. “She’s going to shut down her obsessive blogging so we won’t have to put up with her on Facebook and Twitter anymore! Yippee!”

Sorry guys, I have a few more posts left in me yet.

What I desperately need to give up is my twelve year addiction to Nicorette chewing gum.

Whilst the maximum recommended daily intake is about six hits a day, Pinky has been gnawing away like a manic squirrel at about fifteen gums a day over many years.

My over-extended love affair with Nicotine is coming to an end. 




I’m sick of dropping them between my legs in the car and finding them melted all over my bottom and the car seat an hour later. I’m tired of feeling my heart bursting out of my chest because of the overload of nicotine in my system. I feel guilty when I find my Fox Terrier, Celine, buzzing around on a high chewing away on a dropped Nicorette she found on the floor and frankly, a lot of the time they make me feel sick... just like cigarettes.

Wish me luck to fight the evil substance as I’ve heard Nicotine eats into the grey matter in your brain and as you know I don’t have a hell of a lot of grey matter to lose.




Monday, July 29, 2013

Strike!


There was some discussion in the staff room today (in response to this post…click here) about what sort of ‘Grannie’ various individuals could identify with.

“I’m probably the Conservative Grannie,” declared one senior staff member, “But I wouldn’t go to Morning Melodies. I’d rather have my arm ripped off! And I wouldn’t play lawn bowls either for that matter.”

I was quite taken aback at her last remark. What’s wrong with lawn bowls? I’ve never been any good at organised physical activities and have always given team games a wide berth due to my lack of hand-eye-body-feet coordination. Lawn bowls could be the chance for me to finally shine in the sporting arena.

Tucked away in the back of my mind for the last forty years has been the idea that when all the other seventy year olds are hobbling around on their knee replacements, my knees will be perfectly intact due to a lack of previous over exertion. Lawn bowls doesn’t look hard… rolling a little ball along the ground. Surely even I will be able to master that. Plus there will be all the morning teas and happy hours, flirting with the old boys during the game and chuffing off to the Pokies with the girls and their hats crammed into a Morris Minor after the game to look forward to.


I tell a lie when I say I have NEVER played team sports. Once when I was about seventeen I joined a soft ball team called, “F Troop”. The name of the team reflected our talent and I only lasted one season after sustaining a black eye during training one day when I caught the ball with my face. 

There was also a time a couple of years ago when Scotto and I joined a Ten Pin Bowling League. I went to considerable expense and enthusiastically bought my very own custom-made bowling ball “Golden Boy #1” (the only piece of sporting equipment I’d ever owned in my life). 

We lasted the entire season, even attending the end of year Christmas party, but unexpectedly wound up having to pay for our own lunch because the team manager scandalously absconded with all the club funds at the end of the season. I believe there was a police investigation… the team was immediately disbanded and as Scotto and I couldn’t be arsed looking for another, that was the end of that.

For sale: Barely used Bowling Ball. Purchaser must have skinny fingers exactly the same shape as Pinky’s.



Sunday, July 28, 2013

The Seven Stages of Grief and Pinky's Porn Stars

                          Scotto and his first world problem.

We were off to a Race Day Party at Kirsten’s place yesterday and called in to Doctor Dan Murphy’s to pick up the required supply of aqua vitae (innocuous word for booze). I’d already bought the cold chook and we’d stockpiled our gold coins from behind the couch and the bottom of the washing machine for the anticipated sweepstakes so this was our last errand before heading over.

Scotto, in his usual arsy style had managed to find a rock star car park.

“Are you sure you want to park your BRAND NEW car here?” I asked tartly. “The cars on either side are a bit close. Aren’t you worried about someone putting a ding in your car with their doors?”

“Nah… it’ll be right,” he responded casually.

“But look how close that one is,” I badgered.

“It will be fine!” he said with a slight ‘tone’. So I dropped the subject.

As we returned to the car ten minutes later with our spoils in hand we watched in horror as a three year old terror ran to the car parked beside us, and enthusiastically opened the door. 



There was a sickening thwack of metal on metal, juxtaposed by his mother’s voice screaming, “Get in the bloody car, Jackson!”

“Did he leave a dent?” I squeaked to Scotto after a frozen ten second hiatus whilst watching him intently inspecting his door with his trembling hands.

“Yeah… there’s a ding,” he replied with astounding serenity. (Shock)

“Why are you so calm?” I asked when we were driving off. “I would have grabbed the little sh#t and throttled the living daylights out of him.”

“Well there was nothing I could really do about it.” (Denial)

“I would have given his mother a serve for not watching the little #$#*!” I ranted.

“Actually I should have! Maybe I should turn around and tell the b#stards they have to pay for it!” he shouted, his pupils dilating to liquid pools of black. (Anger)


“I suppose it was an accident though,” I replied selfishly, not really wanting to go through a road rage scene in a bottle shop car park.

“It had to happen eventually. I just didn’t think it would be in the first week of me having it. It was Karma.” (Bargaining)

“I hate to say it but, I told you not to park there,” my spiteful voice blurted out and betrayed me.

“I know. I should have listened to you, Pinky.” (Guilt)

It’s just not the same any more. I’ll never have the perfect car again. Never… (Depression)

You know what? It’ll cost me a hundred bucks to get it fixed. That’s what I’ll do. No one will ever know there was a dent at all.” (Acceptance and Hope)

We did make it to the party and after losing all my moolah pretty much straight away I got bored and took a few photos of my friends who I then pestered for their 'porn star names'
(You know... first pet, first street).

Introducing... "Racy Cup Day"-

Starring, in no particular order...

The demure "Cleo Sheffield"

The sensuous "Poppy Ivory"

The sassy "Sparky Disney"

The inventive "Sandy McGinn"

The luscious "BG Anzac"

The imaginative "Breakfast Greenslopes"

The insatiable "Blue River" 

The frisky "Rusty Queen"

The suave "Pablo Earle"

The desirable "Mr Max Kalangah!"

The cheeky "Kobi Woodwood"

The double act of "Joey Coachwood" and "Snoopy Woodland"
(There seems to be a lot of 'wood' around... soz).

Mr Cool, aka, "Turbo Casuarina"

Now this bloke couldn't remember his pet or his street so I used his own nickname and the street he was currently in.
"Raven Muzzle"
I know... small things amuse small minds.

Meet you back here tomorrow night!


Friday, July 26, 2013

The Secret Lives of Grandparents

                                      

Today a special assembly was held at school where we joyously celebrated the role of grandparents in our community. Hundreds of the students’ devoted grandparents turned up for the festivities (as well as three or four ambulances on standby in case something disagreeable occurred; for example someone breaking a hip or something). 


No they didn’t.

 I just made that up and I’ve a bit of gall to joke about it because it probably won’t be all that long before I’m a granny myself.

In order to decorate our massive shelter shed where the assembly was to be held, one of our crazy deputy principals came up with the unusual idea of assigning each teacher with the task of having their class create 'effigies' in the shape and style of grandparents.

When I think of effigies I think of sticking needles into voodoo dolls made of clothes pegs or straw representations of men being chucked into a bonfire and other such malevolent and pagan practices. There was none of that though. 


Our effigies were strung up on lengths of rope.

I must admit when first informed of this concept, the mental picture I formed in my head was on the macabre side. 

'What is the deputy thinking?' I thought. Has she finally done one too many after-school bus duties in the blistering sun and cracked it?

The end result however, was surprisingly colourful and novel.

What I found to be truly amusing though were two things; the different takes on how the old and wrinklies appear to the kids and how committed to the task each individual teacher had been.

Some teachers went all out and frankly their competitiveness is to be praised. What greater opportunity to display their artistic talent and leave the rest of us looking like we’d held the paintbrush between our toes? Bloody exhibitionists.

Body Building Grandma. 

Also visits the solarium way too often and drinks a lot of protein shakes.

Trendy Granddad. 

Belongs to the golf club, the wine and cheese club, the model train club and writes a lot of letters to the editor.

Bogan Grandad- wearing thongs.

Gives the grandkids Wet Willies, drinks beer, thinks Russell Crowe is a pansy and won't let anyone talk when the footy is on the telly.


Divorced Granddad

Has gone back to Uni to do an arts degree and hangs around with the young folk.
Recently began to grow his own vegetables. 


Glamorous Divorcee Grandma 

Uses Botox and fillers, goes to nightclubs and refuses to babysit the grandkids.
Fave movie, "Shirley Valentine".
Wants to meet a young Greek spunk.  


Fabulous! Granddad.

Fave movie, "The Birdcage"... uses jazz hands when excited.


Living in the Past Grandma

Doesn't leave the house without a full face of make-up and support hose stockings. Fave movie; "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" (loves Elizabeth Taylor).


Conservative Grandma

Off to Bingo followed by Morning Melodies.
Plays lawn bowls with the girls every Tuesday.


Daggy Granddad

Smells like mothballs and old farts.
Makes lame jokes at Christmas dinner too.


War Veteran Granddad.

(Note: only has one arm)
Stays on the back veranda listening to the wireless and never comes out to talk to anyone.


Grey Nomad Grandparents

I wouldn't be taking candy from these two. They look a bit too nice. I bet they drive an unmarked camper van.


Ex-Used Car Salesman Granddad

Takes his false teeth out and tries to bite you with them. Favourite joke... "Pull my finger".



Slutty Grandma! 

Mutton dressed as lamb (she even has a camel toe!)
Smokes outside the school gate, drinks rum and cokes and 
tells the grandkids to call her Debbie.




Freakin Scary Grandma!!!

Has four daughters-in-law and hates all of them. 
No-one visits her on account of her three Rottweilers.


This is what the 'gallows' looked like.



Two of them were so excited they lost their heads so we brought them into the staff room for a nice cup of tea.

And that was my day :)

PS: Guess which one belonged to Pinky's class?








Thursday, July 25, 2013

Myrtle Turtle asks "Who's Been Sleeping in My Bed?"


Today I am delighted to introduce a guest blogger, Myrtle Turtle.
Myrtle is a friend of mine who will tickle your funny bone with a humorous tale of how she could not keep her kids in their own beds! Please enjoy!



When Pinky asked me to write as guest blogger on her Pinky Poinker, Tales from the Mother of Teenagers blog, I was a bit hesitant. After all Pinky had five teenagers, all in close succession, and her journey into motherhood could only be described as a wild, hilarious, ride. Definitely an interesting read. Mine was positively tame (possibly boring) with only two offspring and a hiatus of five years between. But no matter how many children you have, there will always be some obstacle to overcome or hilarious moment to recall!
Who’s been sleeping in my bed?
After much procrastinating I finally took the plunge and had my first child at 30. Tyrone was a good baby and kid. He was toilet trained by 2 ½ years, he did not suck on a boob, bottle, dummy or fingers after 12 months; he had no unhealthy fixations to his toys, blankets or penis. And he never plastered himself with poo or picked his nose and ate the findings. An angel child …expect for one minor flaw. He would not sleep in his own bed…he preferred ours. Now many child rearing experts would say that was entirely his parents’ fault for allowing this to happen. But I can argue that it was not our fault. And here are my three excuses.
1. I went back to work when Tyrone was three months. His daycare mother believed in long afternoon naps so she could watch her soap operas and subsequently when we got him home Tyrone never seemed tired and it was so difficult to get him to go to sleep at reasonable hour. 
2. When Tyrone was two, we sold our house and began building a new home. In the meantime we rented a small Queenslander from a friend and stored all our furniture in the sleepout and second bedroom. This meant Tyrone’s cot was placed in our room and we slept on a mattress on the floor. Of course, knowing we were in the same room as him, Tyrone decided our mattress on the floor looked like much more fun than his cot. So every night he would wake up and push his chubby arms through the rails of the cot pleading to join us. As working parents it didn’t take much for us to give in. I reasoned that this arrangement was only until we moved into our new home. 
3. We moved into the new house on Boxing Day. The Christmas of 93 was the hottest on record. We hadn’t bargained for this as we had not air-conditioned the place. In those days we thought it was a luxury though nowadays we consider it a necessity. We had planned to save up for it. After two sleepless nights hubby Glen could stand it no longer. He went down to Chandlers (local Appliance Store) and stood in line (with receipt in hand) along with what seemed like most of the Townsville population to collect his air-conditioner from the back of a truck. They didn’t even have time to unload the stock as the demand was that high. So with only one bedroom air-conditioned we could not allow our baby to swelter in his cot while we enjoyed a cool night’s sleep. And that’s how Tyrone permanently ended up in our bed. 
By the time Tyrone was four we had managed to install air-conditioning to all the bedrooms and the lounge. I suggested to Tyrone he might want to sleep in his own room for a change? “It’s not fair!” he cried indignantly “You and Dad are big people and you can sleep together. “Why do I have to sleep by myself? I’m only small and I get scared”. Damn that kid’s logic! 
When Tyrone was five, I had completely forgotten the pain of childbirth and had another one. Marigold was a whopping 9lb 3oz. 



 Tyrone was quite independent by then and extremely useful. Although he was disappointed that the new baby was a girl, he was very interested in the baby’s toilette. He would fetch and carry things and test the bathwater for me, but he did have a rather morbid curiosity of the contents of her nappy. “Let me look! Let me look!” he yelled one day when I had Marigold on the change table. “No…go away” I said, thinking his interest in her poo was unhealthy. “Well…that’s not fair”, he grumbled crossly “You can look, why can’t I?” Damn that kid’s logic!
I had explained to Tyrone that now we had Marigold, he would have to sleep in his own bed because there would not be enough room for him. He considered this very carefully and looked at the bonnie baby taking up every inch of her bouncer and reluctantly agreed. He slept in his own bed from then on without protest.
Unfortunately I cannot offer any excuse for why I let Marigold take Tyrone’s place in the parental bed. I took a full 12 months maternity and was basically lazy. I would get up her to feed her in the middle of the night and could not be bothered to put her back in her cot. Marigold had firmly established her sleeping pozzie bang in the middle of our bed. We tried again when she was three to wean her back to her own room. We would put her to bed in her room and she would wake up and trot back into our bed. Marigold didn’t use logic like Tyrone, she would just scream and scream. 

The battle raged on for many weeks until one fateful night. Marigold got up in the middle of the night and went into Tyrone’s room crying that she wanted her toys. Like any normal brother he growled back at her “Get out of my room”. He then heard her toddle down the hallway and to his horror unlock the front door and walk outside. He jumped up and raced into our room yelling “Marigold’s gone outside”. Glen and I bolted upright and then dashed out into the night. Marigold had not gone far. She had actually pushed up one of the garage roller doors which in those days we kept unlocked…we don’t do that now. 

 Now one would think that she is safe enough in the garage. But not in our garage! We used our double garage for storage. It was filled with tools and junk. One of Tyrone’s little mates had suggested to us “If you got rid of all that stuff, you could put your cars in there”. Boy we wished we had that night! It was quite a dangerous place to be walking into in total darkness. Luckily Glen managed to grab her just before she banged into any heavy objects. “I want my toys!” she wailed. That was the first and last night Marigold walked in her sleep. 

 We placed her straight back into our bed where she slept soundly (and possibly smugly). Her parents on the other hand lay there staring blankly into the darkness imagining all the possible horrors that could have befallen their little princess. The next day Glen placed a safety chain on the door and we gave up the bed battle. Our hearts were no longer into it. 
We thanked Tyrone profusely for saving his little sister. He replied scornfully “You would have killed me if I hadn’t said something”. Damn that kid’s logic!
We did however managed to encourage Marigold to sleep on a mattress in our room and by the age of 8 she decided sleeping with her parents was not at all cool. Now she is making up for those 8 years. Her bedroom looks like something out of Home Beautiful while our bedroom looks like the before shot from any DIY reality TV show! Now a teenager, Marigold retires to her bedroom and flat screen TV about 8.30 pm along with laptop, smart phone and iPad. On weekends and holidays she does not emerge until noon.
“You have spoilt her”, mentions Tyrone occasionally. Damn that kid’s logic!


Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Why School Excursions Are Not As Fun As You Think!

                             

It was messy chaos at 8:30 in the classroom this morning. The school bus was leaving at 8:45 sharp and what with misplaced permission slips for our class excursion, missing lunches, water bottles and late or absent students, I was feeling a mite stressed.

“Mrs P’s in a bad mood,” I heard one of them inform the others, “she has that witchy look she gets when she’s cranky, plus she just snapped at me when I told her we were running late for the bus and Miss T’s class left five minutes ago.”

Finally, the highly strung throng of ten year olds all had their backpacks sorted, hats on heads, were queued up in two relatively orderly lines and chafing at the bit to get the show on the road.

I counted the kids on to the bus; twenty-five, twenty-six… the bus was full. A second coach was parked behind us with O’Reilly and the new Irish teacher’s classes ensconced inside.


They could squeeze my extra two students in; but guess what? 

Both buses were completely full so long suffering Pinky was going to have to assume a standing position for the half hour journey.

I use ‘standing’ in a loose sense of the term. 


Ricocheting between the seats as the driver careened around corners, lurching forward perilously close to the windscreen and falling heavily into the laps of frail children is closer to the reality of the situation. And all the time my much younger teaching buddy, Rachael (Miss T), sat comfortably in her seat gazing at the scenery and ignoring the hapless old biddy clattering around the bus like a solitary Malteser in an otherwise empty box.

With shaking legs I disembarked the bus leading the sixty students to our first port of call, the ornate and historical, century old Sacred Heart Cathedral where the Bishop was to guide us around the stained glass windows and numerous sacred spaces. 


We were even privileged to hear a demonstration of the massive organ being played.

“This would be a great place to get married,” I commented to Rachael, “what with the organ and the bell tower outside.”

She looked dreamy for a second then turned to me abruptly, “Yes it would,” she said, “but don’t think I’ll be inviting you, Pinky. You’d drink all the wine.”

After morning tea in the park, (where I ate my bruised banana and longed wistfully for a hot cup of tea… or a rum and coke) we moved on to our next destination of the pilgrimage, St Joseph’s Church; which is the oldest Catholic Church in the city, dating back to 1862.

Our intended expert speaker had been unfortunately called away to other pressing duties so it was left to me to do the guided tour which was slightly unnerving as I really didn’t know much about the church. 


Some parents had driven in to help manage the sixty odd kids and I was quite conscious of the fact that the non-factual facts I was about to inflict upon the students was not going to cut it with adults.

“I was married in this church about twenty-five years ago!” I began, grinning like a fool and hoping for a sign of interest. There was silence. At least no one piped up with, 

Which marriage was that then Mrs P? The first or the second?

Somehow I managed to blather through a half hour talk expanding the flimsy knowledge I owned by using a sh#t load of adjectives. Unlike me, don’t you think?

At last the field trip was finished and as one of the boys decided to drive back to school with his mother I was euphorically in possession of a seat on the bus for the homeward journey.

I sat beside little Matthew, who is a computer game addict and effusive chatterbox. The unsteady rocking of the bus, caffeine deficiency, the high decibel racket of sixty kids and the constant garrulous one-sided conversation from Matthew somehow managed to send me into a semi-comatose state.

I awoke refreshed when we arrived back at school and cheerily stood at the bottom of the bus steps asking the kids if they enjoyed their excursion.



“NO!” replied one little boy emphatically, “It was boring! Churches are boring! Why couldn’t we go to the animal sanctuary?”




Tuesday, July 23, 2013

The Queen and I - my connection to the Royal family.


Obviously as an inhabitant of a British colony, it would be improper to not write a post remarking on today’s birth of the future King of England, Prince No-Name-As-Yet.

I’m sure Katherine will read my blog and the accompanying excellent parenting tips I frequently publish. I wish her and William my hearty congratulations and good luck with it all.

I feel a certain closeness to the Royal family as I’ve actually met the Queen you know! Well… I haven’t in point of fact formally met her, but I’ve looked her directly in the face and she looked back at me.

Way back in medieval times; 1970, Queen Elizabeth II, visited our city to launch the Education Department at our new university. Our primary school was situated on a main thoroughfare which the Queen was required to be driven down on her way to the academic institution.

Can you imagine the exhilarated excitement oozing out of all our little bodies.

The Queen, who we stood in the torturing sun every day on Parade singing our lungs out for God to ‘Save’ was going to cruise by our povo State school. 


I couldn’t believe it.

I eagerly informed my father that the entire school was proposing to line up along the (still unsealed) road and wave to Her Royal Highness and wasn’t it all too thrilling?

“Really?” he scoffed. “I wouldn’t be bothered walking to my front lawn to see her.”

Dad said that about a lot of dignitaries and celebrities who visited our city over the years.

Normie Rowe, Johnny Farnham, the Seekers; even the Pope! I don’t know who he would have walked to the front lawn to see. 

His comment dampened my spirits and I went to school the next day telling everyone how I couldn’t give a fig about the dumb Queen and wouldn’t walk to my front lawn to see her.

This was relayed to my teacher Miss Lang who, from her reaction, happened to be a fanatical royalist.

“Everyone in the school will be lining up and waving flags Pinky, so you’d best keep quiet about your silly opinions,” she sniffed huffily.

The day arrived and we were all lined up along the edge of the road with the Infant School standing in front of the older grades on account of their lack of height.

The black Rolls Royce slowly approached and everyone screamed hysterically like a thousand feverish One Directioners. As the limousine drew closer to me I was overwhelmed with unanticipated Queen-mania.

I shoved the little kids aside and pushed my way to the front screaming in adulation and knocking the tiny tots to the ground.

I clearly saw Queen Elizabeth’s white face staring out the car window at me in alarm, her waving, gloved hand paused for a few seconds in apprehension, her smile was frozen on her face but the light left her eyes. 

She looked frightened.

I remember Miss Lang giving me a blast about pushing the infants over but I didn’t give two hoots.

I saw the Queen and she looked right at me!” I told my mother when I arrived home.

“Yes Pinky,” she sighed indulgently, “I’m sure she looked right at you.”



Monday, July 22, 2013

Do Dogs Go to Heaven?

                                  Padraic and Rocky

One rainy day, when Scotto and I were in the throes of new love and we were playing the ‘telling each other everything that’s ever happened to us’ game, he mentioned to me that he’d owned a beloved Australian Terrier when he was young called Rusty. Unfortunately his parents had been forced for some reason to give it away.

“But it was okay,” Scotto assured me cheerily, “he went to live on a farm.”

“That’s weird,” I gasped, “I had a cocker spaniel called Rebel which my parents gave away to a farm as well!”

It was only later that the penny dropped and I realised Rebel and Rusty were probably frolicking around the misty fields of the exact same ‘farm’ for all eternity.




Since then I’ve heard a lot of adults say the family pet they grew up with went to 'live on a farm'. 

It’s strange. I’ve never seen any farmers advertising in the paper desperately seeking out old dogs to provide a home to.

I don’t even remember my father knowing any farmers.

I found this question (sic) on Yahoo7Answers (where I do all my investigative research).

Wat does it mean if your mum says your dog went 'to the farm'?

this is a puzzling for me, i have a dog in my hut called lassy after the famous lassy, shes a great big dog an i love her every so much, i have lover her ever since my parents both died a couple fo years ago in a freak bus crash on the interstate. anyway so now shes really like my only family cause i live with my aunt who makes me call her mum (so shes the mum in the question) an we live in rural wisconsin so its really cold and nobody at my school likes me and also i don have any shoes. anyway lassy was pretty much all i had to live for but the other day i got home from bible class and she was gone and after three days i looked in the trap i set up for her but there were just dead rats and i asked my aunt/mum and she said lassy had gone to the farm. what does this mean? does it mean our neighbors farm? in consolation we have many farms in our region maybe it cud be one of them?

Best Answer - Chosen by Voters

I think she is dead. Sorry.

Personally I think that answer is a little harsh.


Someone else on the site accused ‘Timmy’, (yes that was the name provided; just like the Timmy who owned the original Lassie) of being a troll because if he was in Wisconsin without wearing shoes he would be taken away by Child Protective Services.

I do love the Internet.

The trouble with pets is their lifespan is so much shorter than ours which entails a fair amount of heartbreak on our part. Having gone through the sorrow and grief of losing many cherished animals over the years, my sympathy goes out to my old neighbours, Newman’s Mum and Dad, on the loss of their pooch, Rocky, who has unfortunately finally ‘gone to the farm’.
I’m not sure what breed Rocky was, but he put up with a lot when our seven rug rats terrorised the neighbourhood with their wicked pranks.

He was sixteen years old. A truly marathon effort. Thaddeus rang me last night to give me the bad news and I recalled with sadness the many times Rocky would climb up the gully to our house with Newman and his little brother George. 


My kids adored Rocky and since George and Lulu are both only sixteen now they can’t remember a time without a Rocky.

If you use the old rule-of-thumb that one dog year equals seven years of a human life then Rocky was 112 years old. 

A fairly decent innings I’d say.

R.I.P. Rocky.

On a more mundane note… this is what I discovered when I came home from work this afternoon.




The couch my mother gave me has been violently demolished by Pablo the Chihuahua!

Hmmm… I wonder if Chihuahuas make good farm dogs?



                         "So... I'm in trouble... again?"

I found this beautiful site arguing that animals do have souls!
Click here! 




Sunday, July 21, 2013

Ladies’ Day at the Races (or Old Girls Behaving Badly)

                                                                          Dolly


“You have to be fricking joking?” I exploded at the girl at the ticket booth. “Eighteen dollars for two Rum and Cokes? That’s a bloody rip-off!”

She burst out laughing in my face; clearly amused and not at all concerned about a tipsy, loud-mouthed, feather-crested woman carping on about drink prices.

Dolly and I had abandoned the pristine marquee in order to get down and dirty with the plebs in the public bar. We’d ordered the drinks at the bar and tried to pay when the barman told us we had to purchase tickets as they weren’t taking money at the bar. He’d already snapped open our two ice-cold cans of Rumbo.

“Keep them under the counter for us!” commanded Dolly to the barman. “And don’t let anyone put Rohypnol in them either! I don’t want to be raped!” 


She was wearing her “Miss Marple” hat and was in very fine spirits. I seriously don’t think anyone would have been game to spike Dolly’s drinks for fear of what extreme behaviours it may incur.

She’d already upset Michael at the photo booth in the marquee when the two of us decided we needed some happy snaps.
                                         Michael

Looking pointedly at the half curtain in front of the booth she turned to Michael before we went in, 
“That curtain’s no good!” she protested. “How are we supposed to get our gear off in there? Everyone out here will see us!”

Michael coughed nervously and didn’t know quite where to look. I think he thought she was serious.

I had several surreal and hysterical conversations with Dolly over the course of the wine-sodden afternoon and it was necessary every now and then to jot down what she or someone else had said so I wouldn’t forget it.

I caught Patrice taking a ‘Basic Instinct’ beaver shot of one of the Dolly Birds to send to her husband. It’s very early in the day for those sort of high jinks, I thought. 
How will this day end??

“Is your husband away overseas or something?” I queried.

“No,” she replied casually, “he just dropped me here.”

“Don’t put that in your blog!” a chorus of sozzled voices would chime in a futile attempt at censorship, each time I pulled out the notebook.

“I don’t like Pink!” declared Dolly vehemently at one stage. “I think she’s a lesbian. That husband of hers is a decoy. I wouldn’t go and see her in concert because she’d probably rape me! So put that in your blog and smoke it!”

I’m not sure what the fixation on being raped is, but never mind. Jules and Dolly then became immersed in a quiet discussion about the merits of Pink as a performer, with Jules defending her (as only a truly loyal Pink fan is able).

                             (L-R) Jules, Dolly and Pinky

Quackers, one of the Dolly Birds joined us in the public bar and a debate about tattoos came up. Dolly confessed that in her rambunctious youth she daringly self-carved and inked a tattoo on to her ankle. It was supposed to be a mushroom but unfortunately looked more like an umbrella which wasn’t nearly as radical as she’d planned.

Years later, wanting to rid herself of the unexciting umbrella tattoo she applied liberal amounts of Wart-Off and lo and behold, now she only has a tiny scar.

Dolly and I took Quackers outside to show her “The Tree of Knowledge” under which we usually sit when we go to the races and pursue ‘knowledgeable chats’ whilst supping delicious beverages. 

As we were discussing the virtues of the tree as opposed to paying exorbitant prices to sit in a boring tent, a Channel Seven cameraman approached and asked if he could film us.

“Of course!” we tittered happily. “We’d love too!” 

After a few minutes of him filming us pretending to be examining Quacker’s marquisate watch, Dolly called out with a dramatic Karate chop, “Cut!”

“Thanks ladies!” he smiled, “Everyone else told me they didn’t want to be on the Telly because it’s too embarrassing. Everyone else.”

I’m being too severe when I say the marquee was boring. 

It wasn’t. 

I had the most entertaining day catching up with the Dolly Birds and meeting new ones. There was even a ‘touch-up station’ set up where a beautician would re-apply lipstick for you when you went to the loo! 

                               Quackers getting a touch up!

Three of the Dolly Birds, Laura, Patrice and Jules made it into the fashion parade and sashayed down the catwalk with uber- style as we raucously cheered them on like a bunch of middle-aged Beliebers.



At one stage I squatted down beside Val and Deb and had a wonderful conversation but there came the moment when I had to stand again and I discovered my leg muscles had clamped into paralysis and getting up gracefully was not an option. I think I nearly took the table down as I used it for support. Too old to squat any more it seems.

                           Val and Deb (and Quackers on the right).

We pooled our bets all day and each of us walked away with crisp twenty dollar notes in our handbags which was fantastic since I probably spent eighty dollars on drinks.

I’m sure at the end of the day the staff were happy to see the back of us.


 But we will be back next year! I love the Dolly Birds!

Presenting.... some of "The Dolly Birds"

                                      Val


Laura


                                         Jules

                                       
                                       Patrice