Pinky's Book Link

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Z- is for Zee End at Last!




A to Z April Challenge

So... at last we have come to the end of the A-Z challenge and I'd like to thank both of you for continuing to read my efforts.
Because I love you so much I've decided to dedicate a song written just for you.


And now, the end is here
And so I write my final blog post

My friends, I’ll say it clear
I’ve worked quite hard, to keep you en-grossed

I’ve tried, to make you laugh
I pulled out jokes on every new day
Comic girl, I tried to be
Like Ricky Gervais

Regrets, there’s been a few
But that was just, to get attention
I did what I had to do
Revealing all my anal retention

I planned, from A to Z
Each puerile post, just for this blog hop
But more, much more than this
There was the photoshop.

Yes, there were times, I thought I’d stop

When I was tired... of this blog hop
But through it all, when there was doubt
I typed it up, and churned crap out
I faced my fears and I stood tall

...And there was photoshop

I’ve screamed, I’ve punched the wall
I did a bit, of self abusing
And now, I’d like to ask

You found it lame or quite amusing?

To think... I wrote all that;
And may I say - not in a shy way,
No... not Pinky P,
I did it my way

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Y- is for Yam Stick



A Yam Stick is a sharp pointy stick commonly used by Indigenous Australians to dig out yams and other roots. Which is very interesting because I always thought yams grew on trees, like potatoes.

A Yam Stick may also be used to pick out dog poo from the tread in your joggers and pick up your teenage boy's jocks from the floor of his bedroom.

If you burn one end of the Yam Stick you can poke it in your eye when you aren't satisfied with;

# coming second in something

# coming third in something

# having been given an honorary mention in something

# winning $17 in the $13 million Lotto draw

If you’re thinking Pinky has come to the end of her creative tether in the A to Z April Challenge... you’d be right.

I nearly didn’t post tonight but I thought, rather than re-enact the story of my life (apart from an excellent cross stitch I completed twenty years ago), I might actually keep going.

I promise tomorrow night’s Z post will be better.

Monday, April 28, 2014

X- is for X Rated Pinky!



A to Z April Challenge

Caveat Emptor: This is not the site of “Porn Star Pinky” so if you've come looking for her I’m sorry to disappoint you however, I’m told I’m quite good (by my sister and one friend) so you might like to have a bit of a scroll down and you never know. Please feel free to leave a comment... but no coarse language!

Pinky's Bodice-Ripper

It was early morning and the golden rays of sunlight streamed through the dusty blinds. They reflected in a dazzling rainbow from the laptop delicately balanced on the silken skin of Pinky’s knees.

A diamond bead of perspiration left over from her last hot flash wobbled on the cupid’s bow of her sensual upper lip, threatening to splash down onto her keyboard.

“I’m so hot!” the sultry temptress murmured, elongating her slender ankle and kicking the satin bedclothes away with a soft sigh.

Scotto lay beside her, his musky scent of manhood pervading the room.“Awweuu…” he groaned with a deep rasping tone. “You’ve slashed my shin with your toenail, Pinky. How long since you cut your toenails?”

“Since forever,” smiled the mischievous Pinky, raising her small chin in defiance.

“It’s bleeding, you made me BLEED!” scolded Scotto. “Are there any Bandaids up here?” he pleaded huskily.

“No… but there might be a few downstairs,” the tiny minx retorted playfully.

“Can you come down and help me find them?” Scotto leaned towards Pinky, his long lashes blinking lasciviously.



“No,” Pinky replied with a saucy wink. “I’m busy.”

“Busy doing what? Surely you can get off the Internet for five minutes to help me look for a Bandaid?” Scotto scowled, his puppy dog eyes darkened as a menacing storm brewed in his black irises.

“I’m in the middle of reading Mrs Woog! I couldn’t possibly… 'No' means 'no' Scotto,” Pinky trailed off, her finger tenderly but teasingly tracing across her mouse pad.



“That’s enough, you taunting wench!” Scotto cried out as he sprang from the bed, his black ringlets swirling around his chiseled jaw. 


With three vigorous strides he reached the modem and jerked it violently from the socket. His long robust flanks glistened in the …. glistening light and he turned to the mocking enchantress lying prone and susceptible among the glossy sheets.

As sleek as a black panther stalking its prey, he moved lustfully towards the bed.

“I command you woman! I’ll carry you down if you won’t come of your own accord,” Scotto breathed heavily, his top lip curling in derision.

His gleaming torso bent down towards the bed and, tensing the beefy, powerful muscles in his shoulders scooped the porcelain princess from her bed, ignoring her breathy protestations. 

Suddenly he froze, rooted to the spot on which he stood and gave a swift, sharp cry.

“My back! It’s my compressed disc!” he moaned in agony. “I can’t move, Pinky.”

As his rippling biceps relaxed he dropped the writhing, sweaty Pinky like a hot potato on to the floor.

He lurched forward on to the bed, his massive trunk shuddering in relief.

“That’ll teach you to shut off my Internet!” the feisty she-cat spat at him. “No man will ever tame me. Ever! And don’t you forget it!”



Linking up at With Some Grace



Sunday, April 27, 2014

W- is for Why a Ban on Excessive Photoshopping Won't Work

A to Z April Challenge

We had a small gathering at Chez Poinker yesterday as a belated celebration of son Hagar’s twenty-first birthday and as is my custom I heroically sorted through the old photo albums for ‘Hagar paraphernalia’. The violent sneezing fits brought on by layers of dust couldn’t deter me and I managed to unearth his first tooth, ultrasound pictures from the womb and his little newborn ankle bracelet.

I also came across a photo I hadn't seen for decades.



It was of me walking the three eldest boys through Hyde Park in Sydney. Hagar was only about seven months old, Thaddeus four and Jonah about three years of age.

At the time the photo was taken, I distinctly recall hating myself. Giving birth to three kids in four years had taken its toll and I felt fat, hoary, unattractive and at thirty-three years, well past my prime. I was merely a milk machine, a nappy washer and cook.

But this serendipitous little find told me a different story. I didn't look fat or old... or unattractive.

Why then did I believe I was so physically repellent back then?

I wonder why many women allow these festering, terrible self-images to darken their confidence and sense of worth?

How many times have I trundled into the motor registry office to renew my five year driving licence and on seeing the new and disappointing photo (with the inevitable startled, wild-eyed expression) and wished I still looked like the earlier photo…the same one I despised five years ago?

There’s a bit of a hullabaloo in the media about a new bill recently introduced in the US congress ensuring fashion and beauty advertisements don’t promote unlikely and disturbing body images by banning excessive use of photoshopping.

As I ate my Vegemite toast in bed this morning, I listened to a couple of social commentators (whatever the hell a ‘social commentator' is and what qualifies them I’d like to know) discussing the issue on the telly. Their main concern was how photoshopping celebrity goddesses into unrealistically perfect icons might affect the physical and mental well-being of teenagers.

Bugger the bloody teenagers, with their naturally slim hips, dewy skin, post-orthodontist smiles and pert boobies. What about us old chooks? Don’t we have feelings too or are we to be shunted into a corner again with Black Cohosh in one hand and a tube of Estogen gripped in the other?

The only time I ever furtively flick one of those idiotic trash magazines into my shopping trolley is when the headlines scream, “How Celebrities Look without Make-Up!”

                                       
“That’s what your Katy Perry REALLY looks like!” I’ll snidely remark to Scotto, sitting beside me on the couch as I maliciously rifle through the New Weekly.

“Who’s Katy Perry again?” he’ll ask in a weary grunt.

“That young one wearing the weeny, animal skin who sings, Roar!” I’ll snap back in a tone strangled with envy. “You know who she is and don’t pretend you don’t! I’ve seen you looking at her!”

Truth is, I’m old enough to have given birth to the poor girl (and I’m not talking a teen pregnancy here), so why do I find her to be threatening in a sexual-jealousy kind of way? 

It’s ridiculous.

I should be allowing the soft folds of lard to settle on my belly like a comforting life jacket at my age; not squeezing my spare tyre angrily leaving deep, bleeding fingernail marks whilst wailing in anguished torment , “Why am I so freakin’ FAT????”

Why can’t I be happy with the way I look right now? Is it because there are so many glamorous, thin women thrust in our faces via magazines, television, the Internet?

Did my mother have to put up with this crap?

Essentially, I think she did.

There were unquestionably glamorous women in magazines and movies back in the sixties which Mum undoubtedly measured herself up against; women who had stylists, makeup artists, hairdressers, lighting crews, Vaseline on camera lenses and who had their photographs meticulously hand-coloured.

So why is everyone worried about the smoke and mirrors now if women have always been subjected to idealistic comparisons?

Until the notion of beauty as a purely external thing is eradicated altogether, we women will forever suffer constant negative, self-imposed judgements of ourselves.

I look around at my friends sometimes; their voluptuous hips, well fed bellies, relaxed but unmade-up faces and imperfect teeth and I think how fortunate I am to know such stunning and magnificently beautiful women.

I wish I could just get over myself and see the same thing when I look in the mirror.

Banning photoshopping isn’t going change a thing.

Perhaps changing the fundamental idea of where true beauty emanates from and what authentic beauty is may be the only solution.

And in the meantime I’m going to stick that photo of myself on the fridge as a reminder I should be happy with the junk I have in my trunk right now and embrace those jowls and wrinkles... because from this moment on I’ll probably never look better.

Friday, April 25, 2014

V- is for Veuve Clicquot

                 Champagne courtesy of our lovely friend, Mark!


A to Z April Challenge

Some people should not be allowed to drink French champagne and I’m fairly certain I’m one of them… mainly because I don’t pronounce the names properly.

Despite having learnt French at school and having a Francophile father who’s always correcting my gaffs, I still persist in calling Moet & Chandon, Mow-ey, in a distinctly Australian twang (upwards inflection included when I’m asking someone if they’d like one).

Apparently one is supposed to pronounce the ‘T’ in Moet because of the little umlaut which sits on top of the ‘e’. Even though I've spent twenty minutes looking for an umlaut on my laptop keyboard it doesn't appear to be present and I’m not searching through my wing dings for it but…. an umlaut looks like small two dots.

Moet is a word derived from the Dutch and unlike the French they say the Ts at the end of words so yes… you definitely have to sound out the T.

Veuve Clicquot however, is not pronounced Verve Click-ot, because it was named after an actual French man and as you know the French do NOT say the Ts at the end of their words.

It’s all too confusing so I’ve decided I’ll keep on saying “Mow-ey” and “Verve Click-ot” because some people (Scotto) think my uncouth vulgarity is cute.

Another reason I shouldn't be allowed to drink French champagne is that I DO get a hangover from it. 


“Oh! But you can’t get a hangover from good French champagne!” I’ve heard so many times. 

Well, yes you can.

Many years ago, when I was in my twenties, I worked as a sales executive for a hotel chain and one evening my arduous task was to represent the company at a Moet & Chandon product launch.
The bubbles flowed (freely) all night and by the time I’d finished my laborious duties and caught a cab home to my rented terrace house in Woollahra, I was a bit too wobbly to wrestle with our dodgy front door lock.

I hammered loudly on the door in an unproductive attempt to awaken my slumbering flatmates.

After thirty minutes of futile pounding the only thing left to do was sleep in my hatchback parked out the front and wait until daylight.

I woke up sweating like a small pig with the Nissan Pulsar’s gear stick grinding into the small of my back and the piercing sunlight accentuating my blinding headache.

Slowly I extricated myself from the Japanese rotisserie-on-wheels and after glancing both ways down the street to make sure there were no muggers around, resumed my (by now painful) pummeling until finally, both of my livid flatmates thrust open the door.

“What the hell’s wrong, Pinky?” they yelled, one of them standing in his pajamas with a cricket bat in his hand ready to fight off a home invasion.

They didn't believe me that the lock was jammed (probably because I reeked of ethanol urgently escaping my liver via my pores) and consequently neither flatmate spoke to me for the rest of the weekend.

The moral of the story is this; French champagne by any other name still reeks as badly as cheap wine the next morning and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Tastes nicer though.

*Most unfortunately, this is definitely not a sponsored post.

Thursday, April 24, 2014

U- is for Unattainable Dreams



A to Z April Challenge


As I walked my class up the road to the high school today for our ANZAC day assembly, one of my “bubblier” students, who’d only just returned to school after a sick day invigorated with dynamic energy, bounced around beside me. 

“You know what, Mrs Poinker?” he enthused. 

“No, Darius. What?” I asked, glancing back nervously to make sure no-one had slipped down a drain hole or anything.

“I’ve got $75 000 in my bank account now, Mrs Poinker!”

“Really, Darius?” I enthused as genuinely as possible, but realistically thinking it was probably more like $750 since we haven’t even learnt about five digit numbers yet and his mum and dad don't really seem quite that well off.

“Yeah, but I’m not allowed to spend it until I’m TWENTY FIVE!” he bellowed in outrage.

“That’s good. You’d probably just spend it on rubbish before you reached twenty-five don’t you think?” I replied, imagining what my own kids would do with $75 000. It’d all be gone in a week for sure.

“NO I WOULDN’T! I wouldn’t spend it on rubbish!” he bawled back. “I’d spend it on LOLLIES!”

The little girl marching beside me (who is also in possession of a unique brand of unnerving vim and vigour) interrupted.

“My sister’s only got $65 000 in the bank because she spends all her pay on shoes and clothes,” she remarked caustically. “Shoes with high heels, dresses for weddings; spend, spend, spend, she does. She wastes ALL her money. I can’t wait until that one gets married.”

‘I wonder where she’s heard that from.’ I thought to myself in amusement when I suddenly became aware of Darius still prattling on incessantly beside me.

“The ones with pig faces and sheep faces, Mrs Poinker! You know the ones!”

What was he talking about? What pigs? What sheep?

“The LOLLIES with the pig and sheep faces! That’s what I’d buy with me $75 000,” he sighed wistfully and stared off into the distance.

I can still remember when lollies were the most important thing in my life too. And staying up late.

And drinking limitless supplies of Coke. And eating ice-cream until it came out of my eyeballs.

What a pity I still can’t do any of those things. 

Bloody middle-age spread.

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

T- is for The day I ran out of things to blog about!

                                                                  Image credit

A to Z April Challenge
Having reached “T” in the April blogging challenge you would think it’d be easy wouldn’t you?

I could have written about anything really as long as I started the title with the word “The”.

“The day I went to the hairdresser and I walked out liking my haircut!”, “The day I ordered in the drive through at Maccas and they got it right!”, or even “The day I left for work and didn’t have to run back into the house three times to retrieve my sunglasses/lunch/Nicorettes.”

The trouble is none of those things have ever happened to me and as you know I never exaggerate or fabricate.

I suppose I could easily have written a post on, “T- is for Today! The day my students broke every single one of our class rules.”

We only have four rules neatly pinned on the wall in a creatively designed, laminated poster.

Class Rules

1. Listen to the teacher and put your hand up to speak.

2. We pass pencils, rulers and erasers we don’t throw them.

3. We respect each other and treat others as we’d like to be treated.

4. When the teacher rings her bell we stop, look and listen.
I could have written about how little Cedric, whilst playing with his ruler in a reckless fashion flicked it into the ceiling fan whereupon it ricocheted off, narrowly missing my left eyebrow, effectively contravening #Rule 2. Oh how I laughed and laughed at that one.

Or I could have written an amusing little tale about how nine year old Aloysius, yelled in one of the girl’s faces because she daringly touched his lunchbox with her filthy girl-cootie hand and she retaliated by hitting an unassuming Cedric in the head with the same lunch box, violating #Rule 3 in one fell swoop.

It may have been appealing to pen a post about how, despite the fact my two (cough) noisiest students were at home on their sick beds, I stupidly let my guard down for a few minutes and #Rule 1 and 4 were broken simultaneously as I stood at the front of the class fruitlessly tinkling my weeny, little bell watching as a scene from the Attica Prison Riot played out.

Or, if my hands weren't aching so much, I could have written about how I had my angelic students colour in “Twenty Miniscule Poppy Flowers” each, to decorate our class ANZAC day wreath for assembly tomorrow and then realised when they’d gone home I had five hundred and twenty miniature flowers to cut out before I left for the day.

But no… those posts would be far too dreary. Sorry guys, I just cannot think of a thing to blog about today. It’s been a long one.


Tuesday, April 22, 2014

S- is for SEX! Everything You Need to Know!

                                                   Body thanks to Scotto

A to Z April Challenge
Despite threatening Facebook messages from my friend Sinead and plaintive entreaties by my husband Scotto, I decided my “S” post would attract quite a lot more page views if I wrote about sex rather than them.

“Sinead! Everything You Need to Know!”
or 
“Scotto in the Forties and Fifties” just doesn't have that same broad appeal to the masses really does it? 

Let’s face it; sex sells! 
My most popular posts have to date been those with the risqué (albeit misleading) headlines.

Before you start thinking you’re about to be ripped off AGAIN and assume this post is going to have absolutely nothing to do with sex… then you can relax. It is going to be about sex.

And don’t think for one second you’re the only person in the world that can’t resist clicking on this brand of titillating title.

 I can’t either so there’s at least two of us.

Back in the seventies my youngish Auntie Lynn had returned from an overseas holiday and cheekily presented my conservative Nana with a book titled, 

“Sex! Everything You Need to Know!”

Nana was appalled. “You can’t go giving me this!” she objected. “It’s disgraceful! I’m putting it away before anyone sees it!” She trundled off into the bedroom, pursing her lips and holding the lewd and offensive material at arm’s length.

A few minutes later we heard a loud scream and clatter from the bedroom. It had been one of those trick books you see; hollow inside except for a contraption which delivered an electric shock when you opened it. 

Naughty Nana.


‘So what on Earth could you possibly tell us about sex, Pinky?’ I hear you muttering into your Cab Sav. ‘You’re not exactly cougar material anymore! Surely you passed your prime years ago!’

Well yes, that’s true. But not ALL middle-aged women have thrown away the key to the old Cortina and put it up on blocks.

A few years ago, our friends O’Reilly and Mel were about to get married and the Maid of Honour happened to be another rascally friend of ours, Lee-lee.

Lee-lee had organised quite an elaborate Hen’s Party which involved splitting our party of hens into three groups and sending us all out on a Scavenger Hunt. The list of fifteen or so items to be ‘scavenged’ was a mixture of the mildly erotic to a touch lascivious.

Objects such as a set of handcuffs, condoms, erotic movies, lingerie, a copy of the Kama Sutra, battery operated appliances, Playboy centrefolds… you get the drift.

I was put in a team with a bunch of young ones as well as one particular Old Chook who was probably roughly around the same age as myself.

We looked at the list scratching our heads. How were we going to procure all these naughty treasures before the other teams beat us to the restaurant with all their wicked swag?

Suddenly the Old Chook leaned forward and hissed furtively, “Let’s stop by my house first.”

Twenty minutes later the young ‘uns and I stood aghast at the foot of her stairs. She was holding a bag with at least a dozen elements of the required booty in a bag. 

“That’s awesome!” the young girls gushed in passionate admiration. “Who’d have thought the old biddy still had it in her!” 

One quick trip into a servo and we had almost everything on the list!


So my friends, the moral of the story is; some old mares are still kicking that barn door down and you should never think you’re too old for a bit of horsing around. That Old Chook was still pecking around that coop even though the eggs had all been collected much earlier in the day.







…. What????



What are you all staring at?



You think that old chook was me don’t you????

Well I’m here to tell you…under no circumstances, even if hell froze over, not in a million years was that old chook m….



Is that the phone? I’d better answer it. Probably one of the kids…



See you again tomorrow night eh?


Linking up at With Some Grace!





Monday, April 21, 2014

R- is for Rabbiting on with Rubbish.


As a last hurrah before we dropped our Melbournian visitor Mark at the airport today, Scotto and I took him for a drive up Castle Hill; the pink granite behemoth located in the centre of the city area.



There are three different peaks to climb, each of which Pinky; clutching her heart and whinging about the heat, begrudgingly puffed and struggled up tailing her two much fitter companions.

I’m scared of heights and get nervous when I see people standing too close to the edge which is why this guy freaked me out.


And this guy.
                                 Don't worry we managed to talk him down.


There was a really weird statue at the top of the summit which I think is supposed to represent people like me who swoon melodramatically and almost blackout when they look down at the view. 


I've always felt a bit sorry for Castle Hill because it’s only about 60 metres short of being classified a mountain and I can’t see why some of the locals couldn't load up a few wheelbarrows full of rocks and improve its profile to mountain status. Castle Mountain sounds much more prestigious.

I’d been waffling on with quite a bit of obscure and ambiguous information over the last few days and I think our visitor was beginning to question the reliability of the details I’d been sprouting with authority.

“Castle Hill’s real indigenous name is Cutheringa,” I knowledgeably informed our visitor so he could take something interesting back to Melbourne with him.

“Oh?” he queried raising one eyebrow. Clearly Mark suspected this was another of Pinky’s fallacious facts as the previous day I’d blathered on confidently in the back of a taxi about why Magnetic island was named as such, until finally the taxi driver interrupted and slammed my rubbish theory into the ground. Bloody taxi drivers think they know everything.

“And what does ‘Cutheringa’ mean then, Pinky?” quizzed Mark.

“Um…” I stalled, desperately wanting to impress and scanning the horizon for a credible answer. “It means ‘Really, Really High Place’.”

Sounded reasonable to me anyway.





      Thanks for a great Easter and we'll miss you Mark!

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Q- is for Quagmire of Deceit



A to Z April Challenge

Today,Taronga Zoo is presenting bonny Prince George with his very own bilby. So cute and fitting on an Aussie Easter Sunday don’t you agree?

Although, I've been thinking about it and I feel there are a few worrying aspects to be considered.

Firstly, Prince George is only eight months old and since the average life span for the bilby is only six years, who’s going to break the sad news to the devastated six and a half year old Prince George his rare and endangered Antipodean pet is dead, stiff and unresponsive? 

Or will they just tell him it's gone to live at a farm?

Perhaps they'll just keep replacing the bilby with younger versions and hoodwink the young royal much the same way I did when I replaced a Japanese fighting fish over and over many years ago?

But what concerns me is when Prince George becomes a teenager and works out what’s been happening for all those years.

It will suddenly dawn on him that the whole world has been laughing behind his back.

He might get angry. Very, very angry...


Saturday, April 19, 2014

P- is for Perfect Afternoon



A to Z April Challenge

I knew I’d love him when he sent these ahead of our luncheon date on Good Friday. That is class as far as I’m concerned.

Scotto picked him up from his accommodation and I’d just finished scrubbing and spraying the downstairs loo when I heard the car pull up outside.

Within moments of walking in the front door he was demonstrating the five Tibetan Energy Rejuvenation Rites in his self-proclaimed “Lesbian Thongs” (Homypeds) on our back patio.

“It’s helped me to stand taller and suck my gut in,” he enthused. “You guys HAVE to try it.”

“What gut?” I commented drily, scrutinising the slender frame of the man.

“This one!” he replied, sticking his (small) tummy out and arching his back exaggerating the modicum of a ‘gut’.

Scotto and I have tons of gay friends, male and female. 


I love each of them for their mocking, ironic and hilarious humour, superb taste, appreciation of showbiz awards ceremonies, tiaras, neatness, generosity, admirable knowledge of ‘all things outrageous’ and above all their honesty.

But one thing I don’t get is the adoration of a certain ‘Singing Budgie’.

So after a few snorts of effervescent bubbly, Pinky daringly posed the question to her captive luncheon guest.

“What is it you gays see in Kylie Minogue? Why do you all carry on about her all the time?”

I have asked this question of another friend Greigor, who failed to provide me with an adequate answer other than shrieking, “Oh you know Pinky… she’s KYLIE!”

But Mark wasn’t any more helpful really other than to mumble something about her being an underdog having started out on Neighbours or something. 

They don’t like giving away their secrets these gay boys.

I did glean some disturbing information though and it wasn’t about Mark.

“I did the Kylie Quiz on Facebook,” Mark volunteered. “I was the Stock, Aitken and Waterman Kylie!”

There was a moment's pause as I digested the information there was such a quiz.

“I was the Alternate Kylie!” broke in my manly man husband Scotto with great enthusiasm.

And the crickets chirruped.

                                Best company ever!!!!

Thursday, April 17, 2014

O- is for One Day I Sniffed Cheese!



A to Z April Challenge

‘Something’s not right’ I thought when I walked in the front door laden with grocery shopping yesterday. The house stunk of something peculiar, something disturbingly alien… what the hell was it?

The dogs, Celine and Pablo, were nowhere to be seen which was suspiciously atypical. Usually they’d be jumping round madly at my feet, tripping me over as I swore like a navvy and attempted to balance the bags in my arms without losing the lot.

What was that smell? I knew it was something vaguely familiar, but what? 


Suddenly it hit me… Cheezels!


But why was there such a powerful stench. It was as if a hundred boxes of Cheezels had been opened and scattered around the house then stomped on, like grapes in a vat.

“Hello?” I called out nervously.

I’d only just dropped Padraic off to collect his car from the mechanic. I’d seen Lulu working at the Donut Shop just minutes before. Hagar was still in Thailand and Jonah and Thaddeus were at work so I knew it wasn’t any of the kids.


But why would a burglar be eating Cheezels on the job? I could understand if he’d nicked a beer from the fridge while he was robbing me of my big screen telly, but savoury snacks? 

Didn’t sound like a very tough thief.

I made my way tentatively down the hallway ready to slam any intruder in the side of the head with my bag of tinned tomatoes. Surely even I could take down a Cheezel-eating housebreaker?

The dogs were both skulking at the back screen door with tails down, eyes bulging and ears flattened against their enlarged skulls. 

But they weren’t looking frightened. Oh no, they both wore that hang-dog, remorseful expression of shame and guilt as was their custom after committing one of their heinous atrocities.

So it was them! I should have known.

What had they done this time? 

I was used to scenes of carnage; for example the time I came home and they’d completely destroyed twelve toilet rolls and left a blizzard of tissue from one end of the house to the other.

The smell of cheese was stronger in the lounge room so I wandered back in to investigate the probable crime scene.

Then I saw the reason for the pervasive and tangy bouquet of cheesiness. The little mongrels had been into the Parmesan left on the coffee table after the previous night’s spaghetti feast. The container lay on the floor opened and empty but I could feel the gritty remains of whiffy, hard, grated cheese underfoot.


It took ages to clean up and despite my best efforts the first thing Scotto said when he arrived home was, “Bloody hell! Who vomited in here?”

This is not a good turn of events since we have a stylish, classy Melbournian friend Mark, coming for lunch tomorrow.

What will he think of the Poinkers as he reclines on our couch enveloped in the heady aroma of puke?


                                  Pablo the Connoisseur 


# Chihuahua for sale. Going cheap. Please apply below.


Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

N- is for Not Another Stupid Quiz!

                                                      Photoshopping by Scotto



A to Z April Challenge

See that photo up top? 

According to Facebook that image is what epitomises Pinky Poinker. 

 I used that intriguing new app on Facebook which scans your photos to discover which celebrity you resemble. Naturally I was titillated with excitement when it popped up in my feed and was compelled (due to a mixture of vanity and curiosity) to give it a go and I was matched with the gorgeous Jessica Alba.
It’s an uncanny resemblance really (cough).

Perhaps if you shaved thirty years off, left me on a sunbed for a few days, and allowed a plastic surgeon to dig around with a scalpel and silicone-filled syringe for a few months… there’s the small possibility a short sighted Jessica fan might corner me in the IGA and demand an autograph.


According to Facebook, if I was a Muppet I’d be Kermit.

And according to the complimentary Facebook team I have the same intestinal fortitude and character traits of Daenerys Targaryen. 

And according to another quiz on FB my defining colour is... pink (surprise, surprise).

Are you like me? Do you waste valuable time completing inane quizzes in order to glean insightful info? 

Engaging in rubbish like "Which Friends/Downton Abbey/Famous Food Chain Are You ?" when you should be doing something more productive like… well anything really.

There’s even a quiz for which element you are on the Periodic table. How bloody ridiculous is that? I’m Helium by the way.

Now, I happen to know most people cheat on these little quiz things anyway. 

Most punters are already aware of what character from whichever show/category it is they want to be… so they second guess and answer the questions accordingly.

Are you one of those people? I dare you to try my mystery quiz. I’m not revealing the possible outcome until the end!
Go ahead… and be honest, don’t peek!

Remember to keep a tally of what letters you choose the most.

Presenting Pinky’s, 
     
“Which famous (something) am I ?" quiz.



1. Your feel most at home in…

A. Nightclubs

B. Caves

C. Lush Cultivated Gardens

D. Forests and Parklands

E. Tunnels.


2. Your taste in attire includes…

A. A push up bra

B. As little as possible

C. A nice fitted jacket

D. A flower in your hair

E. A stylish waistcoat


3. Your best friends…

A. Are a bit on the shady side

B. I don’t have any friends

C. Get me into trouble all the time

D. Have need of my support

E. Are a bit crazy


4. Your favourite meal would be...

A. Anything from a cocktail platter

B. Steak Tartare

C. Organic Salads

D. Nuts and berries and other healthy fare

E. Tea, cupcakes and crumpets


5. When faced with adversity you’re more likely to…

A. Get blind drunk to blot out your problems

B. Attack your problems head on with determined ferocity

C. Attempt to run away from your problems but inevitably become trapped

D. Put on a brave front but in reality be trembling in your boots

E. Make yourself elusive to avoid trouble at all costs



6. Your friends would probably describe you as…

A. Flirtatious

B. Moody

C. Adventurous

D. Humorous

E. Unreliable


7. What's your favourite movie…

A. The Devil Wears Prada

B. Silence of the Lambs

C. Rabbit Proof Fence

D. The Deer Hunter

E. Sliding Doors


8. Favourite song...

A. Love is the Drug by Bryan Ferry

B. Psycho Killer by Talking Heads

C. An English Country Garden by Jimmy Rodgers

D. I Get Knocked Down by Chumbawamba

E. Rushing by Moby



Okay… the big reveal. This is will perhaps change your entire perspective on your life. Or not.

You have just completed a quiz to find out what famous rabbit you are.

Mostly As

                                    Jessica Rabbit

Image Credit


Mostly Bs

                   The killer rabbit from Monty Python and the Holy Grail


Mostly Cs

                                        Peter Rabbit

Image Credit


Mostly Ds

Image Credit
                                  Thumper from Bambi



Mostly Es


Image Credit


                               The rabbit from Alice in Wonderland

Hope a certain rabbit stops by your place in a few days!
Which rabbit are you?

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

M is for My Girlfriends- Divine Secrets of the Blah Blah Buzz Club




Blah Blah Buzz Club AGM Agenda

 Meeting Time and Date: Monday 5:00 pm 

Meeting Venue: Yacht Club

Attendees: Committee Members: 


Kyles (President) Shazza (Vice President)
Kaz (Treasurer) Pinky (Secretary)
Lee-Lee ( Advisor of all things to do with relationships because she reads Cosmopolitan and is the youngest and closest to hipster we have).

Apologies: To the staff at the Yacht Club for making them stay back and put up with us all night.
Agenda Items:
1. Minutes of the previous meeting: 

Recalled out loud in the car on way to the Yacht Club by Pinky – Kyles was supposed to have sent bulk texts out to other members regarding tonight’s meeting. 

Kyles insists she thought Shaz was supposed to be doing it. Small quarrel ensues in car with accusations flying and tempers flaring. 

Our chauffeur, Shaz’s husband Michael, turns radio up and puts foot down on pedal to speed up process of offloading us so he can go to his tennis game.

                         (L-R) Kyles, Kaz, Pinky, Lee-Lee, Shaz.


2. Business arising from previous Minutes: 

Disputed matter is eventually settled that it was no one’s fault other members weren't notified.
It's unanimously decided Pinky should have the first shout.

3. Correspondence
Pinky (secretary) reiterates verbal warning by each of our husbands to behave ourselves on girl’s night out.

Menus are handed out and youngish Lee-Lee reads them out to other oldish committee members as everyone has left reading glasses at home.



4. Discussion of what “behave” actually means. Nothing conclusive deduced. 

Pinky decides to order Atlantic Salmon.

5. Reports:

Treasurer Kaz, reports that as Pinky is a member of the Yacht Club she will have to pay for all the food and drinks tonight and be reimbursed, in order to receive member’s discount for the other cheap skates. 

Pinky argues that she can’t possibly carry five drinks at once or remember five meal orders and it’s agreed an elected member will come and help her.

As Secretary, Pinky agrees that any notes taken down during evening must be dealt with and recorded on blog but omitting details of salacious and rowdy behaviour. Scandalous or unflattering photographs are banned with the exception of extremely funny ones. See item 3.

It’s voted and passed that what happens at the AGM stays at the AGM.

6. Subcommittee reports:

Lee-Lee reports that when Pinky returns from ordering drinks at bar she has accidentally ordered one too many. Pinky acknowledges that she did wonder why the round was so expensive, then to cover up her mistake, insists she bought the extra drink in honour of our fallen comrades at home watching MKR.



7. Election of Office Bearers

All offices are reinstated but Shaz is appointed “Gopher” as well as the position of Vice President.

8. Guest Speaker

A slightly annoyed lady at table beside us asks if it would be possible to keep the noise level down, especially Kyles' raucous laughter.

Kyles explains we are all teachers and letting our hair down on school holidays.

After hearing us incompetently attempting to sort out money exchanges in order to pay for dinner, same lady makes observation that no wonder kids are like the way they are today if they are being taught by the likes of us.

Committee members begin to loudly throw fake school name into conversation to cover tracks and avoid possible consequences.

9. Motions on Notice:

11:00 pm, Motion by Kaz to move on to the Australian Hotel to discuss General Business because the weary Yacht Club staff had turned the lights out and were bundling us out of now closed and deserted restaurant.

10. General Business:

Discussion of the presence of any interesting prospective suitors for Kaz (our single lady) in proximity at the Australian Hotel, followed by quick scan around room by committee members. 

It seemed eligible gentlemen were thin on the ground down town on a Monday night.

Suddenly a fitting candidate is identified.

Newly elected Gopher Shaz, is sent on reconnaissance mission (on behalf of Kaz)  to investigate suitability of intriguing stranger in mint green t-shirt as possible point of focus.



Discussion of possibility of going home when Pinky looks at watch for first time and notices it is 11:40 pm; two hours past her bedtime. 

Entreaties by Pinky to call it a night are dismissed by other committee members.

Shaz buys another round of drinks.

11. Notices of Motions: 

Motion set for scheduling next meeting as this hotel was closing.

Motion proposed by Kyles to call into Maccas drive thru on way home.

Motion to stuff Kyles into baby seat of (designated driver) Lee-Lee’s car as she is smallest.



12. Next Meeting: 

To be advised.

13. Meeting Close

Pinky attempts to slither into bed without waking Scotto as time is now 1:30 am and ‘some people’ have to work the next day.
Scotto gets up to go to loo grumbling under his breath and Pinky knows she’s been sprung.

Giggles herself to sleep remembering fun night with the Blah Blah Buzz Club.

Inspired by Rebecca Wells' book about the joys of sisterhood.


Linking up with Essentially Jess #IBOT