Pinky's Book Link

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Feed the Man Meat!



Padraic, my nineteen year old boy who recently moved into a bachelor pad with some mates was over on Tuesday with one of his housies. He was wearing the glow in the dark contact lenses he’s planning on wearing to the Full Moon party he’s going to on Friday night.

“You look weird Padraic!” I snapped. “And you’re too skinny!” I added channelling Marie Barone. “Come home tomorrow night for dinner. I’ll cook your favourite…tacos with the works.”

“Can I come too?” asked Brandon, his bulky, professional footy- playing mate.

“Of course you can Brandon,” I replied with a nervous swallow wondering how much this boy would need to fill him up. Several kilograms of mince would be required, surely.

I read somewhere you should try to feed your teenage kids’ friends and it’s the one piece of parental advice I’ve managed to tenuously cling to and follow through with; unlike the one about not yelling and screaming at them like an unrestrained mental patient in the middle of a psychotic episode.

Later on Tuesday night I received a text from the Golden Child.

“Can Ben come for dinner too Mum?”

Ben is another flatmate and I like Ben because he gives me a hug and shakes Scotto’s hand whenever he comes over. It's amazing how teenage boys can totally suck me in by simple things like that.

“Yes he can,” I texted back. Ben is a six foot plus behemoth and probably had the appetite of a starved piranha so I began mentally calculating if I had a large enough pot to cook the chilli in.

It was Wednesday afternoon and there’d been no news to the contrary so I went shopping after work and bought out Coles in mince, tomatoes, kidney beans, cheese, sour cream, lettuce, chilli and taco shells.

“What time do you want us there?” came Padraic’s text at 5:30pm.

Elated they hadn’t cancelled I replied that 6:30pm would be perfect thank you sir.

At 6:30 there was no sign of Padraic’s ute crunching into our driveway. I began to panic. I’d even chopped fudging carrots and that extra touch rarely makes it into the taco menu. If the boys let me down Scotto would be eating tacos for the next six weeks.

But then I received a reassuring text.

“Be there in five Mum!” Happy dance.

I’d cooked enough food to feed the entire fudging Cowboys Under 20 team and I would have been pissed off in the extreme if they’d changed their mind at the last minute.

I was in the kitchen, adeptly ladling out steaming chilli and thirty-six taco shells on to plates when they arrived.

Padraic stood in the kitchen doorway with a quite pleasant-looking but decidedly slight, young lad. In fact if I'd sighed too hard he may have blown away in the breeze.

“This is my other flatmate, Charlie,” said Padraic.

“Hi Charlie!” I shrilled, squinting past them at nothing... no-one, an empty hallway.

“Where are the other boys?” I asked in a frightened voice.

“Oh… they already ate Mum so they’re not coming.”


This really happened.

What would you have done?



Monday, October 27, 2014

Pinky's Baby Shock!!!



Relax, I’m not preggers. I just wanted to see if you’d do what I did when I saw these headlines.

I was standing in the checkout queue at Coles when I spotted these two magazines and out of idle curiosity had to have a peek.



Nicole Kidman

The Bachelor


The Bachelor and his lady aren’t pregnant. They are thinking that one day they may have a baby together. SHOCK!!!

Nicole isn’t pregnant either but merely, according to a ‘source’, thinking about having a baby after the emotional upheaval of her father’s death. SHOCK!!!

Someone should take those magazines to task. It’s cheating. 


I would never do that.

But it started me wondering how I’d feel if at my cobwebbed age I found out I was miraculously ‘with child’.

So… I made a list.

Pros

Maybe, just maybe, this one would love me.

I’d be famous and be interviewed on Sunrise, possibly The Project and have my photo in the Sunday Mail.

Fifty-four year old sex maniac falls pregnant!!

When I ran out of disposable nappies for the baby I could substitute my incontinence pads (now necessary after carrying a foetus on top of my antique bladder for nine months).

I could have my five adult children take turns for babysitting duties.

I’d get maternity leave for two years. Yippee! No work!

I’d qualify for the Family Tax Benefit again.

I’d have something interesting to blog about for a change.

My teeth and the baby's would be falling out at the same time which would save the tooth fairy some petrol.
I’d be forced to give up alcohol which could only be a good thing for my liver.


Cons

Everyone would think I was the kid’s grandma (or possibly grandfather).

I’d have to give the kid a name with weird spelling, like Aenybelll or Ptymothee, so it would fit in with the other kids at Prep.

My bladder would probably fall out or spontaneously disintegrate.

My kids would never speak to me again they’d be so ashamed.

My other baby might get jealous and bite the new baby.

Pablo the Chihuahua


I’d be too tired to blog or do anything really.


I’d be applying for Family Tax Benefits the same time as the Old Age Pension and I’d be investigated by the Tax Department.


I’d have to watch The Wiggles again.


I’d have to give up alcohol.


Lucky it won't happen eh?

Saturday, October 25, 2014

Pinky's Arch Nemesis



I hate the old bat who lives in that house across the road. 

She’s a vicious, bigoted hag. 

I know things about her. Secret things. Things she’d rather not be made public. 

I watch her every morning when she sidles out to the recycling bin with her wine bottles, looking up and down the street to make sure no one is watching. I see her tip the bin ever so slightly so she can slide the bottles in without her neighbours hearing the clashing jangle of glass against glass; evidence of her excessive habits. 

But I see all.

I wait patiently across the road from the house knowing it won’t be long now. Soon she’ll be out the door again on her way to work. 

Idiot Cat


She’ll pour the cat’s food into its bowl on her way to the garage. The stupid cat sticks its head in the bowl before she’s finished dispensing the Friskies and gets biscuits emptied all over its daft head. The biscuits scatter all over the veranda tiles but the old witch is oblivious. Her focus is on getting to work on time. She’s usually running late after wasting time on her laptop and watching Kochie and Sam on the telly instead of putting her war paint on.

As soon as she disappears into the garage I’ll make my move. Sometimes the senile old biddy forgets something and catches me sneaking up as she goes back into the house to retrieve her lunch or sunglasses. She threw a rubber thong at me one day, screaming abuse like a demented harridan. The thong almost clipped me but I was too fast for her, ducking and swerving: my signature moves. I can’t begin to imagine what the man walking his dog past the house thought.

Voodoo!


In the past few months she’s tried to intimidate me with voodoo but I’m street smart now, having left my drought stricken homeland years ago. I've wised up to the punitive urban lifestyle my tribe has been forced to live in. I've assimilated; a
lways alert to danger. 

It’s a dog eat dog world in the city.

Ah. There she goes puttering down the road in her canary yellow Suzuki Swift. 

Garish.

Tasteless old crone. I might have to leave my calling card again this time. I love to sit on the telephone wires and laugh when she swears like a navvy as she hoses it off the veranda.


Now Sylvester, the tables have turned… Tweety wants his breakfast.


Igor the Fudging Ibis

Thursday, October 23, 2014

A Fly on the Wall in Mrs. Poinker's Classroom.




8:30: Mrs. Poinker: Good morning 4B!

8:30.5 Class: Good mombing Ms. Porner.

8:30.7 Mrs Poinker: That was terrible. Let’s try it again! Good morning 4B!

8:30.9 Class: (Really vocal with out of time echoing) GOOD MOMBING MS POMBER! OMBER! BER!

8:30.12 Mrs. Poinker: That was awfu…. Never mind.

8:30. 14 Mrs. Poinker: Open up your maths books for a times table test please and number the page from one to thirty. Darius, can you go back to your seat? Portia please don’t swing on your chair. Prospero! Put those elastic bands in your pencil case! Beezelebub! Do not throw your sharpener at Mercutio!

Beezlebub: But he threw his rubber at me first Mrs. Poinker.

Mrs. Poinker: Okay, both your names are going on the whiteboard as a warning. One more thing and you miss out on play at first break.

Mercutio: That sucks!

Mrs. Poinker: Okay Mercutio, you’re calling out so that’s no play at first break.

Beezlebub laughs.

Mrs. Poinker: That’s you too, Beezlebub.

Beezlebub hangs his head and swears under his breath.

Portia: (The Terry O'Gorman in the classroom)

That’s a bit harsh!

Mrs. Poinker: Well now you can join them at first break too Portia.


Silence.



9:00 The class is working in their Maths books.

Mrs. Poinker notices Darius drawing monster trucks on a scrap of paper.

Mrs. Poinker: Darius! What are you doing?

Darius: (stares vacantly at the teacher then whispers) 
Drawing.

Mrs. Poinker: What should you be doing?

Darius: (languidly gazing over at what the boy beside him is doing) My maths?

Mrs. Poinker: Why aren’t you doing it, Darius?

Darius: Because I’m drawing?

Mrs. Poinker: (through gritted teeth) Do. Your. Maths. Darius.

9:30 Mrs. Poinker: Okay everyone, pass your books to the end of the table.

Darius joyfully throws his book across the room narrowly missing Cressida’s chin.

Mrs. Poinker: Right Darius! That’s enough! Go to the office.

Darius grins at the class and waves goodbye as he meanders out the door enjoying the attention.

Mrs. Poinker: We have rules in this classroom!

11:00: (after first break)

Mrs. Poinker: (noticing Darius back in the classroom chatting merrily to his neighbour walks over discreetly):

What happened in the office Darius? Who did you talk to? (Thinking Principal? Deputy Principal? Assistant to the Principal?)

Darius gawps vacuously: No-one, Mrs. Poinker.

Mrs. Poinker: What do you mean no-one, Darius? Who did you talk to?

Darius (innocently muttering) : You just told me to go to the office Mrs. Poinker, you didn’t tell me to talk to anyone.

Mrs. Poinker: So you just went and sat in the office?

Darius: Yes.


It’s still only eleven o’clock and Mrs. Poinker wishes she had a hip flask already.



Monday, October 20, 2014

New Reality Show! "Empty Nest Syndrome".

Channel 10 would like to announce a BRAND NEW reality show about a 19 year old who moves out of home and into a crappy rental with three mates...

How will he survive using sheets as curtains?

Who will clean the toilet and collect the used toilet rolls?

Who will replenish the refrigerator with left over Spaghetti Bolognese and bananas?

Who will remind him the rap music he's playing might incite the pleasant elderly neighbours to call the cops.

Who'll be there to reassure him his jock rash is a minor affliction and he can buy a cream from the pharmacist to get rid of it?

Who will lovingly lug his full load of washing from the machine when he's left it there for two days straight and hang it out before it grows mildew?

Who will collect the thirty milk-mouldy glasses from his room and wash and dry them?

Who will collect all his Macca's paper bags from the front yard where he dumped them when he 'cleaned out' his car?



Loose bachelor pad.

Second hand party boy couches!


Hatch back city.


How will his mother Pinky cope when she peers out the bedroom window in the morning and realises there are only three hatchbacks living with her now? Where's the ute?


No pants party?

Will the prodigal son spend his time partying with his pants off? Will he expect to come home and be received with open arms and a fatted calf?



Celine and Pablo

Or will he be instantly replaced by hairy interlopers who are much less demanding and welcome Pinky home every day with slobbering submissiveness instead of surly, reproachful scowls?


Greeks Bearing Gifts

Perhaps he will be usurped by others who know how to win her affections with frivolous frivolities?

Thaddeus and Pinky

Or even knocked from his pedestal by another older son who knows how to play his cards right?

Lunching at the Yacht Club

Of perhaps his mother will discover how much fun it is when life begins again and she is free to go out lunching without fear of a call requesting a detailed menu forecast for the night?

Or will Pinky cave in... collapse under the stress of her dwindling control over the litter of cubs she created some years ago?

Stay tuned for the preview of "The Empty Nest Syndrome".

NB: Pinky is actually very proud of her baby son being the first to officially move out. Hoping the others will take the hint.



Wednesday, October 15, 2014

Pinky's Naughty Bits



As well as going to the dentist in the holidays regarding my capricious, rickety tooth, I also went to the doctor for my bi-ennial Smiegal Test. You know the one where they take a smiegal of your cervicella and test it for nasty things?

“I hate going for Smiegal Tests!” I declared to my friend Kaz, at her birthday dinner (I can’t think of a better place to discuss womanly issues). “I have a retroverted cervicella and the doctor can never find it.”

“Is there anything normal about you, Pinky?” asked Kaz, her eyebrow cruelly lifted.

I think she was referring to my extra kidney lobe which I’ve only just found out about and had shared the compelling information at our girl’s lunch a couple of months ago.

“Besides,” she added. “I think you mean a retroverted uterus don’t you?”

“Oh yeah!” I gulped, swallowing my camembert and water cracker. “That’s what I meant. My retroverted utility box.”

Now I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m using such silly names for my bits but the reason is I think names for bits are… well, considerably harsh. They’re not euphonious if you know what I mean. They’re not pleasant sounding to the ear at all.

I’ve always been wary of parents who teach their kids the medical names for their privates. It just seemed so bizarre to hear a four year old come running to his mother at playgroup screaming, “Mum! Hagar Poinker just kicked me in the scrotum.” When I hear the word ‘scrotum’ I always think of turkey necks.

Whereas my boys, (having the coarse mother and all) would have cried, “Mum! That kid just kicked me in the nuts!” which is much more palatable. I mean, who wants to picture a scrotum? Nuts, provided you aren’t allergic to them, are much more savoury.

I don’t think my only daughter Lulu and I had a special word for her you know what. Maybe it was merely, ‘Your… you know what’, I really can’t remember. I certainly wouldn’t have referred to it as a V… v… vadge… oh you know what I mean. 

It’s a dreadful word and I refuse to say it.

When my brother was a toddler he called his bits and pieces, ‘Quack Quack’. He’s forty-something now and probably still calls it that for all I know. The name came around because he had a potty in the shape of a chicken. It was especially designed for boys with a chicken’s head to accommodate his dingle-dangle. 

Scotto won’t tell me what he called his but he’s goes into a paroxysm of embarrassed giggles whenever I mention the name of a certain extinct flightless bird from the island of Mauritius, so I think I can guess it.

We even give our pets’ private bits special names.

'Mum! Celine has something hanging out of her winkle!' or 'Mum, Pablo is dragging his doodle all over the carpet in my bedroom. Come and get him out of here!' or 'Mum! Willy’s out the back humping my football and he’s got a red rocket! You’ll have to buy me a new football now!' were common cries for urgent action in our house when the kids were growing up. 

And yes… I have a dog named Willy.

Pinky's Willy


So where am I going with this?

Well I just found out that after the age of seventy you can stop having Smiegal Tests. I don’t know why. Perhaps my cervicella will just fall out... or shrivel up or something when I hit seventy. But what that means is I only have to endure eight more Smiegal Tests and it got me thinking. 

You know how bloody quickly they come around; you’ve only just thrown the results from the last Smiegal Test in the bin and before you can say Sim's double-bladed posterior vaginal speculum you get a reminder for your next one. 

Before I know it I’ll be seventy and what will I have to show for it?

Nothing.

Just this increasingly, childish blog.


NB: A cervicella is actually a moth if you Google it.

Any amusing names you'd like to share?

Monday, October 13, 2014

Pinky's Baking Post!

You all think this must be a joke huh?

Pinky baking? 

Well I must admit it is a bit of a ruse.
For months I've been linking up on Tuesday with Jess at Essentially Jess and as I've looked around the other blogs I've been consumed with jealousy.

I've barely controlled a deep-seated envy for all those great cooks out there, knowing in my spiteful heart there was nothing I could contribute to the culinary competence.
Of course there was always my signature spaghetti bolognese but I'd bet my last bottle of Wolf Blass Cab Sav you're sick of hearing about it already.

So I did what any self-respecting, double dealing cheat would do and asked someone to write a guest post.

My friend and colleague Sandra swans in every Monday with clever little cupcakes and decorated biscuits and I've often wondered why. Why would you bother when you can nick up the shop for a packet of Tim Tams?

Well it seems she has a very good reason. Something to do with being a good mother I believe... please enjoy.

Sandra has a blog and you can find it at The Book According to Callum.

Gingerbread House


                           TIME WELL SPENT


This is the culprit who started it all! Last year near Christmas, Callum spotted this gingerbread kit in the supermarket. It's a train, enough said. This was the first time I had ever attempted such a thing, but was a beautiful thing for Callum. He dressed up in his Junior Masterchef outfit (complete with chef hat - looks very cute). He stuck on most of the lollies and certainly enjoyed demolishing the train.

Fast forward to this year and little man started Kindy. I set myself the goal of baking some treats for his lunch box. This has begun a lovely ritual for Callum and I each Sunday afternoon. Early in the week we search for cupcake decorating ideas on Google images. Callum selects what he wants and when we go shopping we get the necessary ingredients.



We do cookies or cupcakes (so far). We have done a lot of train cupcakes - some with train chocolate molds, some with licorice trains. I've had a lot of fun figuring out/researching how to do some of the things required (teddies in a blanket, spider webs, teddies at the beach to name a few).








What has been most enjoyable is the growth I've seen in Callum. When we first began baking, he had to leave the room when I switched on the mix master, the noise was too much. Now he actually turns on the mix master himself. He has learned how to crack an egg, measure ingredients, is great with a rolling pin and using cookie cutters. His icing work still needs practice, but hey, he has only just turned 5. (I five now, I'm not four anymore) he has been telling everyone. 

Pinky's Favourite!


This week we had koalas (besides the 3rd batch of train cupcakes I've had to make for our 3rd fifth birthday party (we are celebrating with our Kindy friends. The joy of having child whose birthday is the middle week of the holidays. We did Daycare cupcakes before his birthday, then there was the actual day and now we are doing Kindy.)

Many people have commented that I must have a lot of spare time. I don't, but the development I have seen in my little man over the year makes this time well spent.


Sandra blogs at The Book of Callum.


 Linking up with Jess for #IBOT

Saturday, October 11, 2014

Are You Getting Decrepit?



“I need to have an operation,” I groaned as I slunk into bed in my undies last night.

“Why?” asked Scotto in alarm.

“To have this roll of fat from my stomach removed,” I replied petulantly, clutching a fist of it and wobbling it around in his face.

“Don’t be silly, Pinky,” he said. “I love you for who you are.”

There were a few seconds of nervous silence as I digested this.

‘I love you for who you are???’

He used to say… “Don’t be a fool Pinky. You’re not fat.”

Now he’s saying, I love you for who you are!!!



I want him to love me for my exotically sinuous body not for who I bloody am!


“You love me for who I am,” I reiterated. “What the fudge does that mean?”


He stared at me like a starving cat caught stealing frozen prawns defrosting on the kitchen counter.

“I mean I love you the way you are… because you don’t look any different… you look the same,” he stammered.


“I knew it!” I said in triumph. “I’m fat!”

Blind Freddy could see it really. I shouldn’t need anyone to tell me. But that’s not the only sure sign of old age and its insidious advancement upon my bodylicious.

I also have a loose tooth in my head.

What? I didn’t tell you I have a loose tooth? Oh yeah… I have a loose tooth. And it’s not one of those back teeth that nobody will see when I smile. Oh no. This is a tooth that’ll instantly demote me to Swamp People status if I lose it.



I went to the dentist in a panic during the school holidays. It’s like one of those nightmares where your teeth fall out but this time it really is happening.

She took x-rays and tried to shame me.

“Look Mrs. Pinky,” she said holding them up to the light. “You have no bone left in your upper left jaw.”

I blinked away tears. “But where did it go? Will it grow back?” I asked, bottom lip trembling.


“No,” she said kindly. “Not unless you get a bone graft. You’ll have to go to a periodontist.”

I thought about all the fibs* I’ve told my boss over the years. Fibs about having to take the day off to go to a ‘dental specialist’ who’ll only see me between 9:00 and 3:00 and how now my scheming lies seem to have matured into a self-fulfilled prophecy. It was Karma come to bite me like a bitch.

“How did the dentist go?” Scotto asked me when I arrived home.

“She said my gums are so bad I could floss with a sock!” I screamed at him.


I’d seen her write ‘poor dental hygiene’ on my referral form and I was furious. Judgy McJudger!


The thing is my teeth are perfect. I haven’t had a filling since I was twelve years old so it’s not that I have poor dental hygiene at all.

It’s those five bloody kids I gave birth to within six years. My gums went all spongy for half a decade allowing nasty things to gain access.

I saw this meme on Facebook posted by our handsome Melbourne friend Mark and had to save it. It’s so true.



When I was a kid and stayed at my grandparents I’d listen to them get up in the morning and gleefully marvel at the amount of flatulence I’d hear echoing from the toilet bowl.

That’s me now. It’s like I somehow swallowed a hot air balloon during the night. It’s a wonder the neighbours haven’t rung the police to complain about someone practising a Flugelhorn at six in the morning.

Mind you, Scotto (the Trumpetmaster) is ten years younger than me and he gives the Philharmonic Orchestra a run for its money when he sits on the Iron Throne.

I don’t get it. Why do old people accumulate so much gas overnight?

At least it explains why the youngies call us “Old Farts”.

My colleagues’ opinion of my driving is further proof of my eligibility for membership to the Republic of Old Party.

“I sat beside you at the lights frantically waving and you sat there staring into space and left me hanging!” they accuse.

“Why do you sit so close to the steering wheel Pinky? Don’t you crush your knees?” they needle. “You look like a little old lady on her way to lawn bowls!”

I'm a careful driver, okay??


The final thing I’ve noticed is I’ve begun to talk like a geriatric. For example, I’ve started putting “the” in front of things I shouldn’t, as in "Is it hot in here or is it the menopause?"

“Have you seen that video clip of kangaroos fighting on the Youtube?” I asked my eighteen year old daughter Lulu yesterday. Her scowl of derision almost melted my face with its intensity.

She should remember that getting old is not a crime and one day she’ll turn into her mother… just like I have apparently.

* If my boss is reading this I really did have to go to the dental specialist.






Have you noticed any of these symptoms yet?

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Blood Moon- End of Times?



Scotto ran back and forth trying to get a National Geographic quality snap of the Blood Moon and cook his own dinner at the same time last night. I’ve given up cooking dinner you see; except for spaghetti bol on Sunday night when the hobgoblins come over (and birthdays when a roast with the works is invariably requested by the birthday brat).

I feel, after twenty odd years of cooking for seven people every damn night, it’s about time I weaned them off expecting it. These days the kids are never home anyway. Can you imagine how tedious it’s been over the last two decades? I blame the monotonous, laborious ritual for my excessive drinking. It’s so much less painful to cut up potatoes with a glass of Chardonnay in your hand.

So anyway, Scotto cooked his own dinner whilst Pinky rested on her laurels; feet up on the coffee table watching the telly and leisurely throwing balls for the Fox Terrier.

Scotto kept rushing back in to check on his corn/chips/quiche in the oven. I felt not a shred of guilt.


 'I wonder if he’ll let me use one of his excellent photos on my blog or will he make me use the rubbish photos I take on my inferior Samsung phone?' I mused, sipping leisurely on my white wine.

Good eh? Pulitzer Prize for Photography?


Every now and then I’d hop out to the front lawn dodging bindi eyes to peer at the moon.

“It’s overcast on the Gold Coast so good luck to them!” he gloated in what I thought was a bit of a spiteful, photographically competitive manner.

“I’ve never heard of a blood moon until a few years ago. Is it a new thing?” I asked a non-responsive Scotto. “Surely not. The moon’s been around for at least a hundred years so why am I just now hearing about it?” 


Solar eclipses were the only thing I ever heard about when I was a kid and all I was told was DON’T LOOK AT THE SUN! YOU”LL GO BLIIIIIND! That advice came from my mother when I was eight years of age and it frightened me to death. I was too scared to go outdoors in case I accidentally glanced at the sun.
Scotto continued to ignore me and grumbled under his breath while fiddling with his lens.

“It’s not red, it’s hardly even pink!” I said, squinting at the orb in disappointment and smelling Scotto’s chips burning in the kitchen.

“I think it’s a rip off Scotto! I want my money back!”

I huffed back to my laptop and looked it up just to prove myself right. The term Blood Moon has only been around since last year and even though the moon doesn’t really turn as red as blood the media like to make everything dramatic (who knew?).

Before that it was called a Lunar Tetrad which is much less exotic.

There’s a Christian prophesy (Joel 2:31) which declares a Blood Moon to be the harbinger heralding the end of days but since the year dot there have been sixty-two lunar tetrads and we’re all still here. Someone wrote an entire book about this particular 2013-2014 lunar tetrad arguing it's a sign the world is about to change because the dates coincide with the Jewish Passover in April and the Jewish Feast of Tabernacles in October.

But clearly the world didn’t end last night so I wonder what the ‘change’ might be. Perhaps the Blood Moon signified another more specific revolutionary transformation; possibly the ending of an era. 

Maybe the Blood Moon is a sign from the heavens symbolising the fact Pinky has retired from her cooking duties? 

Thanks to Scotto's Photography

If you would like to see some more of Scotto's photographs of the Blood Moon go to this link!

Should I feel guilty for making Scotto cook his own dinner?


Do you think Pinky may have delusions of grandeur?



Tuesday, October 7, 2014

Stop with the Crap!

The Bachelor


Stop, stop, stop with the crap!

Every time I turn on the television someone is talking about what a cad the “Bachelor” is for dumping the girl he proposed to on a fake television show, using phoney wannabe models in a simulated scenario. Why is this tripe even in the news?

Number one… who cares? It’s fake! To call this a ‘reality’ show is like saying ‘The Office’ is a documentary because the actors look at the cameras. 


Number two… isn’t this vitriolic, relentless attack on Blake the Bachelor akin to the ‘bullying issue’ the media is always more than ready to sweep up and run with on any available front page? I call hypocrisy and it’s gone too far.

For my own reasons I didn’t watch ‘The Bachelor’. They were pretty much the same reasons I don’t and won't watch that banal program where dreary, unattractive people are locked up together in an artificial house for a period of time and proceed to progressively stab each other in the back Brutus style until only one winner remains. Yawn.

I get more entertainment watching my fox terrier chase a fly around the lounge room. Honestly... it's hilaire.

Or that equally fudge-witted show where a select group of ordinary blokes dress up as geeks and are matched up with made-up ‘beauties’ who pretend to be as dumb as dog sh#t and then magically fall in love with the transformed ‘geeks’.

How stupid do the television executives think Australian audiences are? No wonder piracy is rife...

Can we please get rid of this mind-numbing swill and get back to some quality drama or comedy.

Grandma Pinky is retiring for the night with a good book before the pus in her brain crusts over and her head caves in.

Sunday, October 5, 2014

The Friends that Live in My Computer!

Pinky and her Cyber Buddies!



My eldest son Thaddeus, came over for a roast pork dinner last week as it was his twenty fifth birthday. 

I suppose now I have a twenty-five year old son I should probs think about growing up. You know, by avoiding the use of abbreviations like 'probs' instead of saying 'probably'. 

Or saying things are 'Hilaire' instead of hilarious.

Hilaire!

I spotted this at Dan Murphy's liquor outlet the other day and just like a teenager felt compelled to Instagram it, then tweet it to my 'blogging bestie', Lee-Anne

As I said... I should, like totally grow up.

As Thaddeus was trapped on my couch awaiting his celebratory feast I thought it might be a good time to force him to read a couple of my posts. I particularly wanted him to read the post I wrote titled, Muslims and Me which I thought he might like.

I watched him like a hawk as he scanned it. "Yes," he nodded. "Very quaint, mother."

"Quaint?" I shrilled. "I don't think quaint is the correct word, Thaddeus. Don't you mean poignant?"

"Okay, it was very poignant then," he agreed, looking at his watch then squinting towards the kitchen with a ravenous look on his face.

"Anyway, who are all these people commenting on your blog mother?" he asked in a mocking tone. "Do you know any of them?"

"Yes. I do, Thaddeus," I replied defensively. "They're my friends!"

"But you can't call them friends, Mother! Who's Jo Wake then?" he challenged.

"Jo is a lovely English lady who lives in Canada and writes about cooking and ten pin bowling and is married to Matt so there!" I replied.

"Kez?" he continued.

"Kez is a real sweetie who has a toddler son and writes inspirational posts. See! I do know them all!"

"And what about Liz?"

"Liz is a substitute teacher living in southern California who enjoys knitting," I recited.

"Linda?" he tested.

"I adore Linda! She lives on the Gold Coast but is originally from South Africa. She has older kids and hot flushes just like me!"

"Deb?" he sniffed.

"Deb lives in Hervey Bay and writes about lots of stuff, like book reviews and weight issues. She's awesome."

"Who's this Louise Allen?"

"Thaddeus! I'll have you know Louise is a General Practitioner, author and is far too smart to be reading Pinky Poinker's rubbish and even though she does live in Tasmania I don't hold that against her."

"Okay..." he paused, "Lee-Anne? Who's sh... Oh! I know Lee-Anne! She's that hot chick we had drinks with in Sydney and I ate all her dip and cheese.

Kathy? Who's Kathy when she's at home then?"

"Kathy," I replied with a self satisfied grin, "Is a lady of my vintage who has spent the last six months doing a road trip around Australia and owns a Labrador and a really nice camera."

"Rae?" he sighed.

"Rae is from Perth. I've met her and love her even though she tried to pick up Scotto in the bar at Pro Blogger, so there!"

"I bet you don't know this Yin Yang Mother my dear mother!"

"Oh yes I do Thaddeus Smarmy! I've met her too! She is an ex television journalist, has two adorable children and I'm going to be using her excellent meditation videos with my students!"

"Tell me about Denise!" he dared.

"I met Denise at ProBlogger too Thaddeus. Stunning Irish lass who writes about blogging and writing and things."

"I suppose you met Mummy Wife Me there too?"

"I did actually," I replied triumphantly. "And her name's Renee!"


"Yep. That's my friend from Brisbane, Janet."


"I haven't met her yet but we've plotted to get together for a knees up at some stage..." I smirked. "You should read her blog Thaddeus. She's pretty dope."

"Why are you saying 'dope' Mother? Don't you think you're a bit old to be using that jargon?"

"I can see you changing the subject because you're losing the argument Thaddeus," I scowled.

"Can I also add that I also regularly communicate with the hilaire Hugzy from Melbourne, Lydia who writes very thoughtful posts about all sorts of things, Kat who lives in Cairns and is married to a professional soccer player, Rebecca who writes about being a mum AND a plumber, Emily who's a funny New Zealander, Queenslander hybrid, Lisa who is very zen, Ness from Sydney, Brenda from Coogee, who's an excessively amusing and clever nut case, Alison my Scottish freind who used to blog but gave it up to do psychology  and Louisa who writes about middle age and her annoying children... children just like you, Thaddeus."

He gave up after that.

But there were two amazing revelations I gained from our debate.

Firstly,

I really have met some wonderful people since I began this blogging journey. I'd like to thank you all for being so supportive and I hope I give back to you as well. 

Secondly,

The longer you leave a roast pork in the oven the crunchier the crackling.

Who did I stupidly forget? Slap me now!

Friday, October 3, 2014

Where's My Fudging Birthday Present?

Image Credit


I’ve been in a bit of a quandary over the last few weeks. I’ve been in Struggletown.

Struggletown Upon Avon, actually.

Remember back when I wrote a post (here) about the glamorous, signature fragrance enveloping Australia’s most popular blogger, Mrs Woog from Woogsworld?

And how, if I can’t have a blog like hers the least I can do is try to smell like her? 


Well fortunately, Mrs Woog left a comment on that post alerting me to the name of her perfume thus enabling me to persist with my stalking behaviour. 

As I had a birthday approaching I decided to ferret around to determine the availability and pricing of said fragrance.

A few weeks ago I wandered into a shopping mall after work to check if the specialty fragrance store had it in stock.

After a cursory glance at my inelegant ensemble the twenty- something guy sitting behind the counter continued to play on his iPhone and ignored me. 


To be fair, I was wearing my sports teacher get-up incorporating dirty runners and elastic-waisted shorts and everyone knows if you want aristocratic shop assistants in posh shops to pay you any attention you have to look like you have more than a five cent piece and a half eaten packet of Mentos in your purse.


“Excuse me,” I said in the hoity-toity voice I save for these occasions. “Do you happen to have a perfume called Balenciaga?”

He opened a drawer and took out his catalogue of rare and high-class toilet waters.

“Yes we do,” he replied. “It’s $189 for a 100 ml bottle.”

“Okay,” I swallowed, “I have a birthday coming up so I’ll be back.”

Way too extravagant for a peasant teacher, I thought.

He shrugged. “Just so you know we’re closing down in a few weeks.”

“Oh!” I chirped. “So will you be having a closing down sale?”

The indolent sneer was back. “Our fragrances are already heavily reduced,” he sniffed.

But the desire for a bottle of the liquid gold did not stop there.

Every week I would return to the mall and sidle past the fragrance shop peering in to see Lord Snooty hunched over his phone. There were no signs of the shop closing and my birthday came and went.

“You didn’t buy me anything for my birthday,” I accused husband Scotto, in my whimpering voice last night.

“That’s because you haven’t ordered the perfume you want from the chemist, Pinky!” he replied in exasperation. “I told you to do it last week!”

“I know,” I grinned. “Just making sure you haven’t forgotten.”
I’d found out I could order it from the chemist you see, but it was at the same exorbitant price as Malfoy had quoted me and I was digging my parsimonious heels in.

I was waiting for that closing down sale; patiently biding my time like a crouching vulture waiting for the cheetah to leave the wildebeest carcass so it can pick the bones.

I decided today, being the last day of school holidays and my ninth present-less day, I’d go back to the mall for one final scavenge.


Lord Snooty was gone; and so was half the stock. A small blonde girl stood in his place playing with her iPhone.

I rushed in breathlessly.

“Do you have any Balenciaga?” I trembled, sweat beading in my moustache.

She pulled out a gift box with not only a 100ml bottle of the perfume but a complimentary bottle of body lotion. Best of all it had a big red sticker on it delightfully declaring it was on sale at $120!


Fudging FANTASTIC!

You paid WHAT for this???




The moral of the story is… A handful of patience is worth more than a watched pot that never boils because the pot is clearly broken and will never boil.

What's the most frivolously expensive thing you've indulged in?