Pinky's Book Link

Thursday, July 31, 2014

Standing on the Edge of Glory!

                                          
I’d spotted her over the years, wild-haired and rambunctious, running after the boys in the shelter shed at school during lunchtime. 


Sometimes, a teacher on duty would catch her, red-handed and rebelliously disturbing the plovers at the back of the oval with her woolly compatriots and then I'd see her, in consequence, sitting in the office waiting for a reprimand from the deputy principal. 

A diminutive but spirited tomboy she’d smart talk me when I spoke to her in the playground and I’d have to hide my smile when I scolded her on her manners. In short, she was more than a handful.

I just knew I had to have her in my class when she reached grade four.

Her name is ‘Billy’ and her reputation as a tough customer preceded her. Why did I want her in my class knowing the hard work she’d prove to be?

Because she has the spark, that’s why. The spark I’ve seen in many kids over the last twenty years of teaching drama and directing plays and musicals.

Hell… I wrote my honours thesis on the benefits of teaching drama in the primary school. In my fifteen thousand words I extolled the merits of using drama as a vehicle to draw out the fearful child, provide an outlet for the extravert… the class clown, and enable kids to express themselves in an exceptional manner. I interviewed teachers and railed against the over accentuation of the importance of physical education… all at great, yawning length befitting a nerdy, non-sporting drama teacher. 

Wasn’t it appropriate I ‘walk the talk’ then?

Despite being as sharp as the razor I cut my legs with in the shower this morning, Billy isn’t a great reader due to her proclivity for determined disruption in the classroom rather than application to more tedious tasks. But that doesn’t matter a fig when you get to memorise your lines, does it?

I dangled the alluring carrot in front of her late last term.

“Actors need to have self-discipline,” I expounded to my class of twenty-six saucer-eyed wannabes.

“I can’t have naughty children in our term three Eisteddfod play can I? Only students who display self-control and team skills will be allowed to be in the play!”

Little Billy sat nodding in complicity, crossing her fingers and toes she’d be able to control her over-exuberant spontaneity until the casting call, this week.

She made it… just.

It’s a silly play (reflecting Pinky’s idiotic sense of humour) about a little tomboy who accidentally ends up in a land dominated by bananas and munchkins and we had our first rehearsal today.

The tiny but vocally enthusiastic Billy, was everything I knew she’d be. Confidence oozed from her pores; strident (for once in her life in a positive way), energetic and authentic, she nailed it completely.

Naturally, she’s landed the starring role.

I’m really hoping this year changes Billy's life.



Monday, July 28, 2014

Can someone adopt me and take me to Europe?



One of my more… ‘buoyant’ students, 10 year old Darius, returned from a six week sojourn in Europe the other day. 


A chipper postcard from Paris preceded his re-entry into the classroom by a mere day. And there was I imagining I still had a few more days reprieve. 

C’est la vie, as they say in Frenchy land.

He brought his iPad to school today in order to accessorise his enthralling anecdotes at Show and Tell time with photographs.

“Can you see Big Ben in this picture, Mrs Poinker?” he shouted at me whilst standing in front of the class holding up his iPad.



“Yes, Darius,” I muttered, not suspecting the cunning trick up his sleeve. “It’s there!” I continued, pointing at the celebrated clock.

“Nup!” he chortled in glee. “That’s not Big Ben, Mrs Poinker. The bell inside the clock is Big Ben.”

Gazumped by the wily Darius. Bad start to the day.

“You know why they called it Big Ben, Mrs Poinker?” he resumed his attempts to lampoon his teacher.

“No, I don’t Darius. Why is it called Big Ben?”
Might as well play along, I thought.

“Well…” he paused a beat, comedic timing as sharp as one of the lead pencils on my desk. “The man who built it was called Big Richard. But they couldn’t exactly call it Big Richard could they?”

He burst into maniacal laughter and so did the rest of the class.

I know they didn’t get it. 

Hell, it took me a few seconds. 

I was sitting at my desk so I Googled it immediately.

Nup. No mention of Big Richard.

“Who told you it was named after Big Richard?” I challenged Darius. “Was it the funny tour guide?”

“How did you know that Mrs Poinker?” his eyes like saucers.

“Just a hunch.”

Next he showed a picture of a sign post.

“Oh! A sign pointing to Buckingham Palace where the Queen lives,” I enthused.



“Nah, Mrs Poinker,” Darius protested. “It says Public Toilets!”

The class erupted into hysterical mirth once again.

“And here are two horse bums!” he shrieked, causing a relentless crescendo of hilarity in the room.



It was imperative I regain control of my class.

“So, what was the best thing you did on your holiday, Darius?” I asked in a loud tone and a brittle attempt to bring order to the kangaroo court.

“Well, Phantom of the Opera was pretty good,” he mused.

I felt a tinge of envy. I’ve never seen bloody Phantom of the Opera in Her Majesty’s Theatre, London.

“I think the ice cream was the best part,” he added thoughtfully. “I had chocolate.”

Darius’ parents should have taken me on their holiday with them instead of him. It was wasted on him and besides, I could do with the break.

What do you think about adopting me?

Linking up at Essentially Jess for IBOT

Friday, July 25, 2014

Dishing the Dirt on School Lunches!



This is for those conchy mums who pack their kid's lunchboxes with meticulous meticulosity; those dedicated mums who get up before the rest of the family and wrap a nutritious, loved up tribute every week day.

Don’t bother.

Why would you go to the effort of packing an enticing roast chicken/cheese/salad with mayo roll, a humble piece of fruit, and a modest water bottle when your child is either going to (a) chuck it in the bin 


(b) trade it with their friend for a ‘fruit’ rollup or 

(c) the teacher on duty is going to snatch it from their unsuspecting hand and lope off into a shady corner to scoff it like a rapacious Tasmanian Devil?



Don’t bother is what I’m saying.

Just chuck a couple of packets of two minute noodles in their lunch box. They’re super cheap! They make a huge mess for the school cleaner with the ubiquitous crumbles invading every crevice in the pavement. The excessive salt and chemicals bestow upon the midget diners a superfluous amount of ill-timed exuberance in the after lunch ‘learning’ session, ensuring their lazy teachers earn their more than adequate salary.



And while we’re on the subject of slothful teachers, to ensure you keep those lazy buggers on their toes, include one of those yogurt tubes which the kids find impossible to open. Imagine the hilarity when the teacher is approached, endeavours in frustrated rage to tear the plastic death-trap open, and is spectacularly splattered with strawberry yogurt… doomed to wear the sour remnants on her shirt for the remaining four hours of the school day. 

The only souls who will venture near her for the rest of the day will be her dogs, who will sniff her curiously for a few minutes when she arrives home then curl up in a corner and avoid her for what’s left of the afternoon.



Water is for sooks. Go for the high calorie, sugar laden fruit poppers which the kids can use to squirt all over their dining companions then scare the bejesus out of the teacher by stomping on them instigating a loud explosion which the teacher mistakes as a gun firing. Not an ideal circumstance straight after reports have been sent out I can assure you.



If you really want to cause trouble, don’t order tuckshop. Just toss a twenty dollar note at your kid in the morning and tell him/her to buy whatever he/she wants. He/she will be Justin Bieber at school that day as he/she shouts everyone in the vicinity a red ice block and salt and vinegar chips. 

Special note:
Apples only ever have one bite taken out of them, if that… or are used as ammunition by the boys at the girls (only the ones they like).

Bananas go directly in the bin… go to jail, go directly to jail.

If someone has a birthday and brings in a cake, nobody eats their lunch, full stop.



This has been a community service announcement to all mothers from one who knows.

Any horror stories about school lunches?

Linking up with Sonia at Sonia Styling for Weekend Rewind!

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

How Stephen King gets me out of bed.



It was about six weeks ago I began an intensive drive to reduce the hefty roll of fat enveloping my midriff. After starving myself for the previous six weeks I’d come to the definitive conclusion the only way to burn it off was with rigorous (but reviled) exercise.

Every morning I’ve slithered from under my snug doona at sparrow’s fart and lumbered for an hour, eyes half shut in sleepy repose but legs pumping like a whacked-out hamster on a treadmill. 


Like a puffy-faced, cranky hamster on my own pricey, state of the art, pristine-after-three-years treadmill.

Then, after arriving home from a brutal day at the front line of rug rat warfare, I’d don my cheesy joggers once more and trot around the river for yet another hour (wearing stylish ankle weights for that extra resistance and result).

It was with deep foreboding I stood on the bathroom scales at the weekend. I didn’t want to be disappointed after six weeks of self-torture and could only peek at the scales for a few seconds.

I’m overjoyed to release my numbers. Pinky has managed to lose in that long, long period of extreme suffering and sacrifice a victorious… one kilogram.

Yes… you heard right. One. Uno. Ichi. Ein.

Just one miserable, heartrending, contemptible, infuriating kilogram of lardy blubber.

I could put it all back on in five minutes by scoffing a few Tim Tams dipped in a tidy Tia Maria.

I realise the fat took about a year to infest itself, lay down roots and decide to spend an extended vacation and I can’t expect to liquefy five kilograms of adipose insulation in a matter of weeks… but, fair suck of the sav (Sav Blanc that is, I’m a pescetarian remember)! 

I was hoping for better than this. I needed to get my mojo back or I could fall back into the wagon with the soft pillows and the lazy 6:30 alarm instead of 5:00am, the hiding my belly with a couch cushion in self-denial trick and the wearing of elastic-waisted pants. 

But... I believe I may have found the key to motivation.

Stephen King.

I’ve been reading a book of his, recommended by my sister-in-law Maz , titled '11:22:63'.

I fell out of love with Stephen King’s books about ten years ago. They seemed to have become a bit weird and convoluted; cross referencing backwards and forwards between other books and so forth. I decided to break up our long standing relationship and check out if there were any other fish in the sea; of which there were plenty.

But 11.22.63 is by far the most riveting novel I’ve read in years. I find myself daydreaming about it during the day. I’m hooked on it. Obsessed.

So in a Pinky mastermind of genius I resolved to only allow myself to read it whilst pounding my feet at 5k an hour on an uphill slant on the treadmill. When the alarm blasts at 5:00am I can’t wait to shuffle down the hallway, haul myself on the hamster wheel and spend my morning engrossed in the thrilling prose of a man other than my husband… the electrifying Stephen, who’s managing to get my spine tingling again after our lengthy and protracted break up.



A note to my dear blogging bestie, Lee-Anne from Is It Just Me?: I did not use a single adverb in this post in honour of our adverb-hating friend Stephen King.




Read any riveting books lately?


Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace





Monday, July 21, 2014

Bush Pig...


                                          
The Urban dictionary defines a "Bush Pig" as this...


But I think Pinky can do better than that with a lovely acrostic poem...

BUSH PIG

Barrels down the aisle at Dan Murphy’s like a sweaty Jabba the Hut; whiskers poking out her wobbling chin, so she can get to the counter with her three cartons of VB before the transparent old pensioner couple painstakingly deliberating on their Zimmer frames do.



Uses a fake, incongruous name like Bella-Marie… when her real name is a far more compatible name like Beryl.



Supports the gun lobby because the work away from home (more than actually necessary) husband takes the dogs out shooting roos on the weekend and it saves her buying pet food for the mongrels.



Hates ninety-nine per cent of other women because they’re all ‘up themselves bitches’. She knows they’re all looking down on her because of the way they smile at her and say hello.



Pregnancies come easily (with gross injustice to women who would actually make good mothers). The kids are all... not quite right in the head, but she keeps popping them out anyway because it provides her with someone to send up the shops for her smokes and grants her a larger family tax allowance every year and an excuse not to go to work.



Instigates brawls at her kid’s footy matches by screaming foul abuse at the little rugby league-ers when they don’t pass the ball to her repellent son and gives the coach a sadistic dressing down for not paying attention. 

Swears at the teenage referee when he makes the wrong call and vociferously labels the young opposing team members, “Bullying little c##$!”.


Hurls unbridled, violent abuse at her kids when she gets home because their X box is interrupting her 'f#&*ing nap' and if they don’t 'shut the f#&* up' she’ll smack them over the head with a 'f#&*ing cricket bat'.



Goes to Legal Aid with crocodile tears when kids are arrested for petty burglary and assault and claims they were bullied into it by their dodgy mates and the police have been persecuting the family ever since they left school.



Bush Pig...



Do you know any bush pigs?

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Pinky's Tips for Giving a Speech at a 21st.



It was Meggles’ (Hagar’s girlfriend) twenty-first birthday shindig last night. 


Scotto (hubby) and I, were cordially invited to the party as was my daughter Lulu, because she happens to be besties with Meggles’ sister Rosie, and has always been an adoring fan of Meggles anyway.

                     (l-r) Pinky's thumb, Jen, Hagar and a harangued Lulu.


Lulu was given a grim lecture by her brother Hagar, about not drinking any alcohol as she’s still just shy of her eighteenth birthday. 

                     Lulu: I wonder if she'll give me her fake ID now? 
                                 
                             Meggles: 21 and hot! Buy me a shot!


I spent the night pulling Lulu’s Kleenex tissue dress down over her bottom every time I walked passed her and I think between us we managed to ruin any nefarious plans she had for the night. Poor lamb.


                        Meggles' Mum, Jo-Jo and her friend Willard.
                         21 is when you finally grant your parents their freedom!

When it came to the celebratory time of night for the birthday speeches, we heard amusing anecdotes and tributes from Meggles’ Mum, the gracious Jojo. 

Then her father and brothers entertained us with charming tales of when she was a tiny dot… but suddenly there was a hushed shock wave through the crowd. 

The rambunctious Pinky was to be alarmingly observed shoving her way to the front of the room; a dogged and determined expression on her face.

“Is that the ‘mother-in-law’?” I heard someone murmur in astonishment at the audacity of the pushy woman.

Of course this morning I awoke with a start and instantly regretted my actions.

I should never have done it. I really had NO right… but it seemed like such a good idea at the time. 

I did learn some home truths about the art of public speaking which I’d like to share with you though. 

After all… it’s better to learn from OTHER people’s mistakes isn’t it?


1. Always rehearse your speech. Don’t get up there in front of the audience and then stare like a petrified deer in the glaring headlights of a Chevy Pick-up truck carrying a dozen of its dead, cervine buddies in the back, with absolutely no idea of what you’re going to say.

2. Do some relaxation breathing or exercises beforehand. This therapy should not be comprised of three glasses of Chardonnay and a large rum and coke. Alcohol merely provides you with unwarranted self-confidence and gives you undeserved notions of grandiosity. In the same way the evil liquor leads you to think you can sing and dance it also instills a belief you can pull off an improvised stand-up comedy routine.

3. Lead in to your speech with an anecdote. But… please make the story about the birthday girl, not a (self-proclaimed) hilarious story about yourself. It’s not always about YOU. Okay?

4. Use body language to work the room. This, however, does not include majestic, sweeping gestures with your arm which take out the bevy of drinks on the table behind you. No one likes a grand-stander… especially the bar staff.



5. Above all, keep your speech short and simple. Everyone is busting a gut for you to shut the hell up and get off the podium so they can eat the cake.



Happy birthday darling Meggles!




Do you get nervous giving speeches or are you the confident type?

Linking up with Emily from Have a Laugh on Me at Laugh Linkup!

Friday, July 18, 2014

Pinky Visits the Supreme Court



The Supreme Court is the highest court in Queensland and includes the trial division (which hears the most serious criminal cases including murder, manslaughter and serious drug offences) and the Court of Appeal. 


I’d never been before today.

As I was subpoenaed to appear at this intimidating venue at 10:00 am sharp this morning I wondered what I should wear.

“No thongs!” was the only advice my legal counsel (son Jonah), had provided. That’s how highly my legal counsel regards my dress sense.

As if I’d turn up to the Supreme Court in a pair of rubber flip flops.

I arose in plenty of time to exercise, shower and dress in an unhurried manner. It was a special day. My son, Jonah, was to be officially admitted to the legal profession

His lifelong friend Newman, was also being admitted on this auspicious day. The same Newman who’d wandered in to our brand new house at four years of age and inveigled his way into our lives. (Link)

The same Newman who’d (by association) almost decapitated the pianist in our youth theatre group. (Link)

The same Newman who’d played guitar with Jonah in the boys’ band. (Link)

As I said… it was an exceptional day indeed.

Even though I’d left the house with ample time to spare I hadn't counted on Queensland Railway sending one of its most sluggish trains to intercept my journey. I hadn't counted on catching every bloody red light and I certainly hadn't counted on having no idea where the Supreme Court actually was.

Leaving the house with a nebulous notion of its precise location didn’t pan out with the happy ending I’d envisaged.

I’d mistakenly parked outside the City Council building, then realising my error, hysterically circled the block a few times searching for a building remotely approaching a court house. By this time the clock on my dashboard displayed a mere five minute window to park the car and bolt full pelt up the stairs, into a lift and through security.

It wasn't the composed, regal, mother-of-a-lawyer entrance I’d imagined but at least they hadn't locked the door on me.

Jonah and Newman were seated at a desk surrounded by wig wearing legal eagles.

Sporting a wind-swept, dishevelled hair style, I approached the boys with a wild expression, animatedly wielding my phone in the air.

But my efforts were instantly thwarted by Jonah’s father who waved me back in stern admonishment. 

I’d arrived too late to hear the dire cautions delivered by the Bailiff a minute beforehand regarding the use of cameras in the Supreme Court; a crime punishable by death, apparently.

Everyone stared at the ignorant and ill-bred Pinky as she did the walk of shame back into a dingy corner where there was standing room only.

“There are to be NO photographs taken in the court room!” the Bailiff repeated, eyeballing a crushed and shrinking, Pinky. “And if you are wearing sunglasses on the top of your head please remove them!” he added officiously.

‘Oh… now he’s just bloody PICKING on me!’ I thought, snatching the Oakleys off my noggin and shoving them in my bag.

“Please rise for the honourable judge,” the Bailiff sang.

Suddenly the most extraordinary looking man sashayed into the room wearing a long grey wig and a Santa suit. I’m not joking. It was a fair dinkum Santa suit, with fur and everything.

                                 

I was overpowered with a violent urge to giggle maniacally.

But Jonah would have been very unimpressed with me and I might have been cuffed by the security guards so I stifled it by thinking about the sweat stains on the collar of the man standing in front of me and pinching myself very hard.

It was a long ceremony made longer by the fact I had to stand for its entirety.

I was very proud of the boys at the end of it all though. 

And we went off for a lovely lunch together afterwards.

But I sometimes wonder if I’m fit to be the mother of a lawyer, especially with my breaking the law and all by possessing a photograph of the inside of the ‘you know what’.

I’m sure Jonah wonders the same thing.

          (L-R) Newman's Mum, Newman, Newman's Dad, Jonah's Dad, Jonah.  (Front) Pinky!

Have you ever been in a court room?

Linking up with Sonia Styling for Weekend Rewind.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

How to Effectively Organise an Eighteenth Birthday Party

                                       



My four sons, Thaddeus 24, Jonah 23, Hagar 21 and Padraic 19, never wanted an eighteenth birthday party and after the exploits of Corey Worthington back in the day, I happily agreed that we’d just have a family affair in the backyard instead. 

Even the 21st birthday celebrations of the eldest three passed without any application in terms of a huge shindig.

I must have raised a bunch of introverts.

Not so however, my youngest baby, Lulu, whose eighteenth birthday is rapidly approaching. 

Oh no! Princess Lulu wants the whole shebang. Naturally, mirroring her mother, she’s left the planning until the eleventh hour.

It was meant to be held at her father’s house with the million dollar views and huge verandas... but he stipulated an invitation list of thirty pax max and no-one was to be allowed access to anywhere except the front lawn.



As expected, Lulu was appalled at these antediluvian guidelines.

Now, I may be a primordial crone myself, but even I know that thirty guests at an eighteenth is pretty piss weak, tragic and a tad feeble-esk.

Consequently, we’ve (Lulu, Scotto and moi) frantically been attempting to unearth a venue which may accommodate a moderately numbered but fun filled crowd of seventy-ish.

It was with not a small measure of dismay we discovered the cheapest but least boganesque site for said revelry was going to cost us at least $500, plus another $500 for a few platters of greasy, lukewarm doughy nuggets, and no drinks included.

Ouch!

“What if we send the dogs to the kennels, open up the entire yard and have it here?” I pleaded with Scotto. “I could whack some Coles brand sausage rolls and spring rolls in the oven, push the dining room table across the hall so they don’t have access to the house and warn the neighbours via a considerate note in their letterboxes.”

Scotto dubiously ummed and aahed. “It’s too risky, Pinky. Things will get broken… Seventy kids? They’ll get out of control!”

I was suddenly struck with the essential answer to our teenage quandary.

“NO!” I defiantly challenged Grandad Poinker. “I know what we can do! We can invite all our friends. We could have an adult sarong party in the lounge room at the same time. We could play eighties music and all get up and dance to Nut Bush City Limits! None of them will dare to venture in the house if we do that.”

Scotto squinted intensely into a distant corner of the room.

I could see him, picturing in his mind’s eye, the sight of ten paunchy grown-ups doing the Bus Stop in our lounge-room.

And so it was agreed… seventy guests for Princess Lulu and ten guests for us. 

We’ll register it with the police and have it shut down at eleven by an ‘anonymous’ complaint to the coppers.

Snap!

What suggestions to be off-putting, daggy grown-ups can you make?


Linking up for FYBF with Grace at With Some Grace





Sunday, July 13, 2014

The End of School Holidays


The two weeks of school holidays sped by faster than one of those French planes with the pointy noses that can go over 2000 kilometres per hour*. One minute I was bounding out the school gates clicking my heels in the air, and the next minute I’m packing my can of tuna and crackers and bruised banana for my work lunch tomorrow.

I spent a considerable amount of time today attempting to come up with tactics in order to afford myself a few extra days/weeks of holiday.

“If I lay down in the driveway would you run over my legs with the car once or twice?” I begged husband, Scotto.

“I couldn’t stand the sound of crunching,” he replied, not bothering to look up from his game of Terminator 2.

“What about if I put my little finger on the vegetable chopping board and you got a knife and…”

“No,” he interrupted tersely before I could finish my proposition. "We never cut meat on the vegetable board, remember?"

I could always ring my Deputy Principal tomorrow morning and pretend to be sick.

Pinky: Hello? Mrs G.? It’s Pinky… heart-breaking cough… I’m really sick and won’t be in for work today… sorry… cough.
Mrs G.: PauseYou’re not really sick are you?
Pinky: Anguished cry… But, but… how did you know?

Mrs G. : I didn’t. But I do now. See you at 8:00am.

The trouble is, Deputy Principals can sense a lie with an almost supernatural proficiency having listened to so many kids telling porky- pies for all those years.

I could get Scotto to ring in sick for me. But then she’d probably hear my hysterical, muffled laughter in the background and the game would be up.

I could (taking a leaf out of the students’ book of excuses) ring to say my Chihuahua has swallowed my car keys and I’d be at the vet all day.

But my Chihuahua couldn’t force a paper clip down his throat let alone a set of keys.

I could just not turn up tomorrow and when the Deputy Principal rang me say, “Oh! Is school on today? I thought we had three weeks holiday, not two! Sorry but I’ve already made plans for the day!”

But she’d just reply with, “Pinky, I read your mindless blog last night and I know very well you were aware school commenced today so hurry up and get in here.”

It’s fruitless exercise isn’t it? Looks like I’ll just have to bloody go.

Oh well… at least there’s always the toasted cheese and tomato sandwiches at the tuckshop to look forward to.

Unless of course you can think of an excuse for me?



Friday, July 11, 2014

Pinkerella and the Ball!



Once there lived a blithe and bonny young lass named, Pinkerella.

Pinkerella lived with a handsome prince (who was reasonably nice as long as he’d had enough sleep) and five horrid dwarves who treated her quite badly, drank a lot of Red Bull, never washed their dishes and left all the lights on.

One sunny day, one of Pinkerella’s friends Shazza, asked her if she and the handsome prince and a handful of Pinkerella’s snugly schlepp-sisters, would like to make up the numbers for a table at a forthcoming gala ball.

Pinkerella was beside herself with excitement and arrangements were immediately made with the schlepp-sisters to visit a fancy frock store (which happened to be having a half-price sale) the very next morn.

The schlepp-sisters, Lee-lee, Kyles and Shazza, were waiting outside the shop engaged in petty squabbling when Pinkerella breathlessly arrived (Kaz was at home nursing a sore head from the previous night's festivities).

“You have to wear a floor length gown not a cocktail dress,” insisted Shazza, with an air of pretension. “It’s a proper ball! Not like those dodgy Christmas parties we have every year. People will be very dressed up.”

Pinkerella went weak at the knees when she espied the heavily discounted rack burgeoning with taffeta and beaded netting.

“That one looks cheap nice!” she gushed. “I’ll try it on at once!”

The schlepp-sisters watched resentfully as Pinkerella snatched her size from the rack and waltzed smugly to the dressing room leaving them in a pink cloud of powdered sequins.

“It fits!” she twirled in front of the mirror, florid, plummy fabric eddying around her feet.

“That’d be right!” snarled Kyles. “Pinkerella walks in and buys the first thing she picks off the rack.”

“It’s how I roll, girls,” sang Pinkerella gaily as bluebirds twittered joyfully about her head and sparkling rainbows magically appeared.

But, being the kind-hearted, sweet natured, delightful girl she is, Pinkerella hung around to assist the pernickety schlepp-sisters in finding an equally beguiling gown to wear to the ball. 


Which they did.

                              Lee-lee and Kyles

Pinkerella might be going to the ball looking like a certain garish, infamous, people-eating monster, but at least she only had to fork out ninety-nine dollars. 

Bargain!

Have you found any good bargains recently?

Linking up with Sonia Styling for Weekend Rewind!

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

What to Feed a Fussy Guest!


We have a guest staying at the Poinker menagerie. It’s a human for a change.

Scotto’s sister, my sister-in-law Maz; a prolific political blogger, a published poet, a fiction/nonfiction writer and a freelance editor who has worked on entire books! Like… a WHOLE book! A real book published on PAPER!

Can you imagine how exciting that is for Pinky? Finally, an educated, qualified mind to pick and irritate with incessant, vapid questions like, “What if I can’t think of a good ending to my book? Can it end by the protagonist waking up and it was all a dream?”

“Would you like to read the first chapter of the novel I’m writing?” I coyly asked my literary pinup girl, a mere sixty seconds after she walked in the door after an uncomfortable three and a half week flight up from Melbourne.

Naturally, I was hoping for an ecstatic review and overwhelming praise.

I watched like a hawk as she read it and sat with my toes curling up in my Ugg boots. They squirmed like nervous, knobbly worms and I salivated in anticipation; twitching like a headless chook anxiously awaiting her reaction to my carefully crafted baloney.

“Ah! That was a surprise,” she coolly commented when she arrived at the theatrically spectacular denouement of my Magnum Opus. 


I stared in muted veneration.

“You might like to delete some of those adverbs though.” Maz augmented her literary critique with the final crushing blow.

“But… but… I love adverbs,” I bleated. “They’re my main thing.”

“Kill your adverbs with malice of forethought,” she murmured commandingly (and with what I thought was a bit of unnecessary malice of her own… speaking from a personal viewpoint, just sayin’).

“I do use too many adverbs…” I acknowledged gloomily, dejectedly and forlornly… and a bit sorrowfully, if I’m being perfectly honest.

But the advantageous aspect is…I think having Maz here will improve two things; my writing and my cooking. Constructive criticism has never killed anyone, has it?

You see… Maz doesn’t like mince. And mince forms the unimaginative, featureless flagship of all my recipes.

So now I have to investigate other forms of meat. Like baby lambs and beef and pigs and other cute furry animals.

I do prefer to cook with mince because as we all know mince doesn’t come from animals. And it’s cheap.

Mind you… my kids complain about the lack of variety at dinner time as well so it’s probably about time I shook things up.

But at least I know, when the chips are down, someone likes my Spaghetti Bolognese.


                                     Ermahgerd!!!!

Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace



Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Pinky and the Townsville V8 Supercars.


I’m not sure what I was expecting from the V8 Supercars when I optimistically suggested to Scotto we might buy a couple of one day passes, but I will say I was unpleasantly surprised at the outcome.

There was a free shuttle bus leaving from the sporting complex down the road. The problem with it though, was that the complex is massive and covers about eight blocks. We had no idea where the bus was going to stop and a significant amount of bickering took place until we finally spied the bus trundling towards us in the distance and stalked its progress around the cricket field.




We walked beside the track after first arriving and I felt the adrenalin rushing through my body as the cars whizzed by at up to 250 kilometres an hour. Thrilled by the noise and action, I took a photo.


Good photo huh?

I need to time it better, I thought.

So I took another.



This went on for quite some time until discouraged; I gave up my photographic pursuits and hopes of a possible article in Muscle Car or a guest spot on Top Gear

Perhaps when I splurge on a proper camera instead of using my Nokia phone, I mused.

After a good hour of walking around the crowd of 55 000 diehard fans we finally found a piece of turf… on a mound… in the hot sun. 

Ah… lovely, I thought. It’s just what I need to nurture that Basal Cell Carcinoma on my left ankle.

                      Naturally we had brought neither a seat nor umbrella.

Not a shade sail in sight and there we were lolling under the midday sun in the world’s melanoma capital.

I found myself uncontrollably gawking at a kid of about four years old with a mullet reaching down his back and the Ford logo shaved into the side of his head. His parents looked normal and I wondered what might compel a sane adult to inflict that on a defenceless child.

After the Top Ten Shootout I began to feel faint so we went for a walk around “The Paddock” (the back area of pit lane), where Scotto was able to lurk around the Red Bull racing garage in the hopes of catching a glimpse of his V8 poster boys. Or the Grid Girls… I’m not entirely sure.


Still feeling lightheaded, I suggested we purchase some plastic cheese, wood-fired pizza from one of the dodgy stands which of course we had to eat standing up brushing away flies and kicking up dust like a pair of old, weary horses.

We’d been there for two hours and I was already more than willing to forfeit my seventy-five dollar ticket and go home and watch it on the telly… which we did.

It was much more comfy and the drinks way cheaper.

I told you I wasn't the sporting type.

Have you ever prematurely left an event you've paid a considerable amount of money to see?

Monday, July 7, 2014

Pinky's Versatile Bloggers Awards!



It occurred to me some time ago you’re all sick and tired of hearing about Pinky and her trifling insecurities and humdrum recreational activities, so it was with a mixed sense of exultation and trepidation when my blogging friend Louise, from Louise Allan. Life from the attic., nominated me for a Versatile Blogger award yesterday. 




As the recipient of said nomination it is my duty to relate “Seven Things You Might Not Know About Me” and then nominate fifteen other bloggers (which is the easy part) for the award and set task.

I’m fairly certain you would all much rather read, “Seven Things Leading to Pinky’s Decision to Cease Writing her Blog” but I’m afraid this is my mandate and I must obey.

Firstly, thank you Louise for your kind-hearted nomination. Louise is a mother, doctor and writer (and self-confessed Pepsi Max addict). She is completing her first novel, “Ida’s Children” which grew out of a short story she wrote in 2010. I thoroughly enjoy Louise’s insightful book reviews and am greatly looking forward to reading her book.

As Louise is a real-life, ridgy didge medico, I’ve decided to work my seven revelations around the theme of 
‘Pinky’s Medical Peculiarities’ which I’m positive she will be riveted by and has been dying to hear all about.


1. I have an extra ‘lobe’ on my right kidney. At first the specialist thought something was blocking my apparently dilated organ but subsequent scans revealed it was just an extra bit chucked on by Mother Nature. 

While this is all well and good, I would much rather have preferred an extra ‘lobe’ on my liver to assist in processing my excess Chardonnay consumption. Scotto, mentioned in passing, an extra ‘lobe’ on my brain might not have gone amiss. “It’s quite normal,” insisted my Uro-gynecologist. “Just like having an extra finger!”

I don’t know how you feel, but having an extra finger isn’t really all that normal is it? I have a deep seated fear that perhaps I ate my twin in utero. If they find a tooth in that extra ‘lobe’ I’ll be pretty upset.

2. I have Arcus Senilis, which is a milky ring around the iris and you’re only supposed to get it when you’re in your eighties or thereabouts. 

I’ve had it since I was thirty seven. 

It can be a sign of high cholesterol which I don’t have. I’m convinced it’s insidiously linked to the Chardonnay.

3. I had all four wisdom teeth removed when I was eighteen. At the time, I was working as a dental nurse for a partnership of dentists. 

One of the partners disliked me intensely and I thought if I entrusted him to pull out my wisdom teeth he might start to like me a bit. My plan worked and I retained my job. 

As reckless and foolish as this story sounds, it’s very true. It also probably explains a lot.

4. I’ve never broken a bone due to the over-protective instincts of my mother, who didn't allow me to play contact sport or have a bike. I used to go to my friend Lindy’s place to dangerously and precariously ride her sister’s bike all over the city in heavy traffic, unbeknownst to my mother.

5. My large bunion (aptly named ‘Paul’) which I wrote about last year, is becoming a bit of a celebrity. Foot fetish devotees all over the world are using search terms like “I like bunions” and are flocking to my post in considerable numbers. I know you hope I jest, but sadly I do not.

6. I get asthma from eating pickled onions. When I was a kid I’d knowingly eat them from the jar in large quantities then approach my mother, wheezing in a death-rattle-esque manner and say, “Listen to my breathing, MUM!” 

She would tell me to go away and to stop being silly. It was years before I clicked as to what was happening. I also get asthma from Bundy Rum, Kahlua, certain brands of orange juice and from laughing too much.

7. I am very light boned and have a tiny head which means I can’t weigh as much as what normal people my height do ( I’m 165cm tall) or I look like a pin head. 

Everything on my body is small leading to minor annoyances such as never being able to find a hat that fits. Small ear canals, skinny fingers, fine hair, skinny legs… let your imagination run wild. Everything is small except my nose and stomach. And apparently my right kidney.

Now… enough of my dribble.

My fifteen nominees are as follows- (This is optional girls and you may have already done it.)

Lee-Anne from Is it just me?

Susan from Susan Lattwein

Kathy from 50 Shades of Age

Mumabs at Mumabulous

Kimberley at Melbourne Mum

Kat from Mammas Vida

Emily from Have a Laugh on Me

Liz from Laws of Gravity

Sarah from Surely Sarah

Louisa from My Midlife Mayhem

Alana from House Goes Home

Robomum from Robomum

Denise from Denise Mooney

Deb from DebbishDotCom

Mark from Full Half Glass

Rebecca from The Plumbette

Please send me your link in the comments if you would like me to add you :)

Linking up with Emily at Laugh Linkup

What medical peculiarities do you have?




Saturday, July 5, 2014

Pinky the Accidental Art Critic


My son Thaddeus and I padded around the Art Gallery of New South Wales in Sydney, soaking up the familiar works of Tom Roberts, Sidney Nolan, Fred McCubbin, Arthur Streeton, William Dobell, Russell Drysdale and the like, attempting to ignore the disdainful glares from the security guards. 

There were paintings I’d only ever seen in my grade twelve art text book and my father’s coffee table books.

                         "The Golden Fleece" by Tom Roberts

And then I came upon this.


At first I thought the painting was hiding behind a black screen... so it was with not a small measure of dismay I realised that no… this was the painting. 

At least I think so. 

Someone please correct me if I’m wrong.

Have you ever read the ‘Emperor’s New Clothes’

Feeling like the lone little boy who shouted out to the naked Emperor that he was, indeed, walking around in the nuddy, I dragged Thaddeus over and directed his gaze to the abstract piece.
“Are they ‘aving a lend of us?” I challenged Thaddeus. “This is where Australian taxpayer’s money is going? Can somebody really justify this as a piece of art?”

It made me recall a play I read one time. It was about a gallery janitor who accidentally left his apple core on an empty pedestal. The next day the art appreciators arrived and on seeing the ‘new sculpture’, milled around it; analysing the line and features and praising the innate symbolism. 

Even now, as I write this, I’m still not positive the painting wasn't just hidden behind a screen...

At Thaddeus’ request, he and I had spent the morning ploughing up and down King St in Newtown. The natives were a different genre to that in the heart of Sydney. There were no suits and blonde bobs, but more vintage cardigans, chunky black boots and hipster apparel. 


The tempo was slower as well, unlike for example, the congested pedestrian traffic necessitating moving around as if you’re in a game of Frogger every time you cross the road.


“I feel like I’m in the middle of a Whitlams’ song,” commented Thaddeus as we walked up the trendy inner city suburb’s road.

There was a mother and teenage son standing in front of us at the lights. Mum was clearly coming down from something or other as she stood slapping the cross walk button hard and sharp for the full five minutes the lights took to turn green, shouting, “F#$k, f#$k, f#$k, f#$k, f#$k!!!!” the entire time. Her son looked bemused but a bit embarrassed at the same time.

“See!” I shoved Thaddeus in the ribs. “You could have done worse than Pinky as a Mum.”

“Can we go to check out King’s Cross?” he asked. 
I agreed since it was the middle of the day and it was unlikely either of us might be unfortunate enough to cop a ‘coward punch’. 

Not that there’s all that much to see in the Cross except a lot of exceptionally weird and wonderful characters, an iconic fountain, a soft drink sign,


 and a few select folk walking around with obvious symptoms of delirium tremens.

Thaddeus stood on a corner checking out Google on his phone trying to source the name of the nightclub which hosted Todd Carney’s recent shenanigans. 

I think he wanted a photograph of the signage to post on Facebook. I stood beside him on the corner as a couple of cops pulled up at the lights. “Look!” I undiplomatically pointed at the cops. “They’ll probably think I’m a hooker and you’re my pimp!”
Thaddeus turned around to look and the cops stared back with a glimmer of interest…  then drove on ignoring us.

‘I’m probably too old to be mistaken as a hooker anyway,’ I thought in minor disenchantment.

We saw a girl in a Marilyn Monroe wig, a white bejewelled ball gown and twelve inch heels walking up and down the street. There was another older lady in a fluorescent spray jacket screaming her head off and doing a slow striptease across the road. It was quite a show for a couple of country hicks such as us.


We’d been out until midnight the previous night watching Strictly Ballroom at the Lyric Theatre.  As we’d been walking around all day it was nice to sit quietly sipping a Shiraz, people-watching from a bar in the middle of King’s Cross and discussing which movie we’d go to see that night.

Then it suddenly occurred to me how bloody lucky I am to have a twenty-four year old son who is such damn good company. He’s worldly and amenable, flexible and considerate and an all-round delightful travelling companion.

I must have done something right in my parenting after all.


Don’t feel sad about your kids growing up. It’s just as nice if not better when they do.