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Sunday, April 30, 2017

Are You Smarter Than Scotto?



I bought a mini whiteboard and stuck it up beside the pantry a short while ago. It was for urgent family communications.

Scotto and I can be like ships in the night since I started leaving home at 6:30 am and don’t get home until 5:45 pm. Sometimes he’s out on a job when my little yellow car pulls into the driveway and I don’t know if he’s fed the dogs or not.

The dogs are pathological liars and carry on as though they’re starving to death if they think they can dupe us and get fed twice.

Luckily, I’m smarter than a dog.

But I came home to this note on Friday and panicked.




Had Scotto gone mad? Why the hell had he fed the dogs champagne in the fridge?

Dogs don’t drink champagne do they? And it’s bloody cold at the moment up here on the mountain so why did he put the dogs in the fridge? And how did he squeeze the German Shepherd in? I anxiously hoped there wasn’t hair all over the yoghurt and margarine.


I shrugged to myself thinking what a weirdo I’d married and fed the poor, hungry things some proper dog food.



Sometimes I use the mini whiteboard to set tricky challenges or leave words of wisdom. I have a lot of wise sayings if you want to read them. My Wise Sayings

Last week I wrote this up as a little contest for Scotto and Hagar (my 24 year old son).


If you can solve what 

this word represents, 

I will give you $2.

"Ghreati"




I kept finding scraps of paper everywhere with hundreds of random jottings where one or the other genius had attempted to puzzle it out.

Hagar gave up trying out of boredom but Scotto was slowly going mental and kept pestering me for hints.

“One of my Grade 4 students solved it without a hint!” I sniffed. “You can do it. Surely you’re smarter than a ten year old. Even the Chihuahua could solve it if he could read!”

But sadly, he could not puzzle it out so I still have that $2 in my wallet.

If you can solve it I promise I will send you the $2.



Go on. Give it a go.

Thursday, April 27, 2017

What Not to Use Instead of Face Cream

What my face looks like...


Last Saturday night, I ran out of my cheap, very economically-pleasing night cream (the night cream for my face... so get your mind out of the gutter).

My other ‘night cream’ is very special and I would NEVER let it run out. If you are wondering what I’m talking about then ask a 50 plus woman what she regards is ‘night cream’ and she will surprise and delight/disgust you all at the same time.

So anyway, I thought I could survive by using my ‘day cream’ in my never-ending struggle against the relentless skirmish between gravity and my face. I can't really go shopping during the week what with my two and a half hour commute to the bush every day.

My super cheap ‘day cream’ has a sunblock in it which probably contains zinc so naturally after two nights of application, I awoke with two pimples the size of my nose on my dial.

In fact I could hardly tell which of the lumps WAS my nose.

There are no pharmacies that sell my extra cheap night cream within a 70 km radius so I was flummoxed as to what to do.

Then I had the amazing recollection, almost a religious revelation, that I had economically-mindedly scraped a free sample of face cream from an ancient Women’s Weekly my mother had passed over to me, in a second-hand, frugal but recycling-type fashion, a few months ago.

I scoured through my handbag like Harold Steptoe sorting through the trash pile and within ten minutes had unearthed my secret treasure.

I must admit after I had snipped the plastic sachet open and scooped out the contents, I was suspicious that it might be a bit off… perhaps it had even ‘separated’ like rancid milk.

It seemed a bit oily, but I persevered and rubbed it into my face with the gusto only a dried out, desperate, stingy crone is able.

After ten minutes of the cream not being absorbed by my dehydrated pores, I thought it might be a good idea to check what I was actually massaging into my face.

I squinted at the sachet through my glasses and discovered that I’d been smothering my face in Moroccan hair oil.

I shall keep you posted as to whether or not I wake up with a glossy, detangled and fuller bodied face.



Surely it can’t look worse than it was.

What would you have used?

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

How To Buy One Thousand Turkish Men on a Tight Budget



When the alarm goes off at 5:20 am, I shuffle out of the bedroom closing the door behind me so I don’t disturb the still slumbering Scotto. 

The two small dogs follow me out, I let the big dogs out of their cosy beddings in the laundry and we all perform our morning ablutions in a musical unison. 

Then I make a coffee and sit and watch the sunrise over the Gold Coast. I then immediately make another two cups of coffee, give all the dogs their treats and return to the bedroom to deliver Little Lord Fauntleroy his morning cup of coffee.

This morning, as I re-entered the bedroom I was bowled over with the stench of a thousand Turkish men who had seemingly simultaneously farted in an asphixiating steam bath located in my bedroom.

I plonked Scotto’s coffee down and exclaimed quite loudly for the time of morning, “What the hell? It smells like a thousand Turkish men farted in here!”

(I don’t know why I picked on Turkish men)*

Scotto merely reached blindly for his coffee and ignored my exclamation with a grunt.

I have drawn a few conclusions to solve the enigma of the mother of all methane bombs.

1. All four of us: the two dogs, Scotto and I, spend all night passing wind during the night creating an abominable cloud of sulphur/methane fumes which could be a deadly and injurious fire hazard if one of us smoked cigarettes.

2. The septic toilet in the ensuite is emitting fumes during the night generating an apocalyptic death gas.

3. Scotto farts his head off when I leave the bedroom to have my morning coffee because he thinks I won’t notice.

I thought about it all day at work and queried Scotto again tonight in order to investigate the source of this vile entity.

“Do you just fart your head off when I leave the bedroom in the morning because you think I won't hear you?” I asked gently.

He looked very sheepish but denied any guilt in regards to my subtle accusations.

But I’m highly suspicious. I’m putting Gladwrap over the toilet bowl to cancel out the possibility of the septic tank stinking.

Tomorrow night, I will Gladwrap the dogs’ bums.



After that… who knows.

*Seriously, no offence to Turkish men. I'm sure I'd love them.

Friday, April 14, 2017

Stations of the Cross Lady



Only one more day and Lent is over so I can start irritating people on my personal Facebook page again instead of just reading my notifications and getting twitchy fingers.

Because it really wasn’t much of a sacrifice only half giving up Facebook for Lent, I arose slightly earlier than usual this morning to get ready to suffer penance a bit in church.

When Scotto saw me getting ready, he decided to come too. He probably suspected I was up to something nefarious as me going to church, especially in the morning, is quite abnormal behaviour. The last time was about three years ago actually.

The beauty of this Stations of the Cross service was that it was at 10 o’clock which meant I still got to sleep in and not suffer too much.

When we arrived and sat in the pew, a man handing out response sheets ran out of them just before he got to us. Typical.

The nice, very pious-looking lady sitting a few seats away, moved next to us so we could read from her sheet. She was absolutely teeming with knowledge. “We’ll have to get up and follow the priest around the church as he goes through the Stations,” she coached me.

I didn’t fancy this idea because I prefer to sit… but what the hell... I mean heck. I listened closely to all her instructions and tried to impress her with my saintly and angelic demeanour.

Then the nice lady said she’d seen me around the church before but not for a VERY long time. I explained that I’d been a few times the previous year because I’d worked at the school but now I taught at a different school and went to the church there. She smiled at me sweetly, recognising a fellow companion in religious devoutness.

“There aren’t many people here! It’s a disgrace!” she sniffed in disgust as she perused the congregation.

“Maybe more people will come on Easter Sunday,” I offered meekly.

“This is a more important service,” she scoffed.

I nodded sagely. After all, I was there wasn’t I? Where were all the other heathens?

The priest began the service. “Why aren’t the fools getting up and following the priest,” she hissed in my ear with a sense of what I could only describe as brutal outrage. She went to push me and Scotto forward but then thankfully she noticed NO ONE was moving and the priest didn’t seem the least bit perturbed.

The service was quite long, fourteen stations long, with A LOT of praying in between. 

Scotto had trouble kneeling what with his gammy knee, and not being a Catholic he had to pretend to know the right responses by mouthing random words and making a dull, humming noise.

Finally at the end, I turned to the nice lady to say Happy Easter (even though I felt it might be irreverent to say the word ‘happy’ because of the whole crucifixion thing). Before I could get the words out she leaned past me and poked Scotto in the ribs.

“Excuse me, but you were chewing gum throughout the entire service. You know you shouldn’t chew gum in church!” she looked at him scathingly.

With a bit of tongue dexterity I managed to manoeuvre my own chewing gum to the inside of my cheek so she wouldn’t notice I had a chewy in my gob as well.

“No!” I agreed, nodding, frowning at Scotto and holding the gum clenched tight. “You shouldn’t chew in church, it’s very disrespectful.”


“How can you take Holy Communion while you’re chewing?” she continued to rail.


“Yes Scotto,” I concurred. “You can’t have Jesus AND chewing gum in your mouth at the same time!”


Scotto broke into nervous giggles.

“It’s no laughing matter,” the nice lady chipped.

“No. It’s not.” I gave him a stern look. “Not funny at all.”

Then the nice lady hugged me and told me to have a happy Easter but she didn’t hug Scotto.

I was secretly thrilled because most people ALWAYS prefer Scotto to me.


She probably thought he was beyond the reach of redemption. Lol.

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

The Ultimate Secret Of True Love



I was sitting on the toilet in our ensuite tonight, staring into the mirror. 

Not my most flattering angle but we’ve all done it when we’re a bit bored. You know... let’s see how much I can look like a creature from the depths of hell while I’m sitting on the dunny?

What? You haven’t ever stared at your face when you’re sitting on the loo and pulled a horrible, devilish face?

Bloody liar.

Anyway, I decided to pull the completely, and most utterly, ugliest expression I could manifest, in the mirror… as most people do from time to time.

What? You haven’t ever done that?

Weirdo.

So it just so happens, at the exact time of my having this impulsive impulse to pull my silliest and most spew inspiring expression in the mirror, my front tooth denture was missing and I looked a bit like an Ork with periodontal disease.

Not only that, but I pulled my chin down so it looked as if I had eight chins and I then I went the extra length and super bulged my eyes, all the while staring into the mirror in gleeful evilness. 

I rejoiced in my hideousness.

Because the universe is so serendipitous, it was at this exact moment my husband happened to casually saunter past the bathroom door and witnessed me pulling my most unappealing possible face, ever.

He paused for a millisecond and I naturally expected he would recoil in disgust and sink into the foetal position in fear. I thought he would form the cross with his fingers and start shrieking a Hail Mary and start spraying garlic everywhere.

But he just burst into laughter and tried to pull an even uglier face.

He failed... nothing could surpass my repugnance, but at least he tried.

That's true love.




That’s true love.

Sunday, April 9, 2017

How I Improved My Bikies Pinky Mother In One Easy Lesson

My dear old Dad surrounded by bikies.


It started off as a sedate Saturday lunch with the oldies and my visiting sister, brother-in-law and nephew. 

I was elected to choose the venue and I suggested an authentic and charming pub down the bottom of the mountain. We’d never eaten there before but Scotto and I had been a few times to have a Sunday arvo drink and listen to the band.

As we disembarked from our cars in the parking lot, our eardrums were assaulted with the sound of a zillion motor bikes flooding down the hotel driveway. We were stuck in the middle of the road with big, black sinister bikes milling around us.

It was like a scene from Mad Max. They were huge and scary looking bikies with skull masks, chains, tattoos and black leather. They had mohawks and pierced bits everywhere.



I spun around to check on my elderly mother and was alarmed to see her trotting way ahead of us in a somewhat hurried fashion. Great, I thought. I’ve brought my senior citizen, fragile parents to a bikie pub and have probably scared them into apoplexy.

“Quickly!” Mum shouted at us as we struggled to keep up behind her. “We need to order before all these bloody bikies get to the counter. I’m hungry and I want to get in first.”

She had a point. There were at least two hundred of them. The bar staff must have panicked.

We found out, via my brother-in-law, Pedro, (who went for a cigarette and got chatting with one of them) that they were on a memorial ride for a member who had died the previous year.

“Probably died in a violent motorbike crash,” commented Mum, always one for a bit of drama. I scanned the beer garden and wondered if it was more likely a death via a cholesterol related issue. They were all rather big boys and they were wolfing down the deep fried chips with a vengeance.

“She’s going to regret all those tattoos when she’s an old lady,” my mother remarked in a scathing tone and with far too much volume for my liking as she stared at a bikie chick over my shoulder.

“It’s her choice, Mum!” I hissed under my breath. “Don’t talk so loud.”

“Look at her! She’s got writing and pictures all over her body,” Mum continued, not adjusting her bellowing by even a degree.

I deliberately did NOT look at anyone and just put my head down and stared at my palms which had begun to sweat and shake. Sometimes I think my mother has a death wish.

Fortunately, they turned out to be very nice bikies and after a couple of glasses of Dutch courage I quelled my reservations and asked two of them for a photo.


Pinky: A woman of the people.


They were very well-spoken and polite I must say.

They even said I could put their photos on my blog, Pinky Poinker.

They were super keen actually.

I always ask for permission before putting pictures of people on my blog.

Especially bikies.

You never know who they might be hiding from and I’d hate to be the one to expose them.

That’s a joke. I suspect that many of them were accountants, lawyers and school teachers.

In fact, the grade two teacher at the school I work at is a bikie which is funny when you think about it.

There are two different types of bikies you see. Sweet natured, respectful ones and the ones that....

Never mind. Best not dig myself any further in my grave.

Know any bikies?

The Family


# Yes, I'm still typing my key words into the title generator. I love it.

Monday, April 3, 2017

Everything You Wanted to Know About Snake Bites and Were Afraid To Ask



I’m officially on two weeks school holidays so naturally now the tables have turned and instead of ME getting up at five am, shivering on the couch whilst clutching my first coffee in the lounge room watching the sun rise and then taking his Lordship a fresh coffee at 6:00 am, now Scotto has to bring me my morning coffee.

Ha!

But I’ve noticed a vague resentment when Scotto heavily plonks my coffee down on my bedside table. He would deny it but I can tell he is condemning me with his disparaging manner.

It’s the expression on his face, the forced smile and the weightiness of the aggressive kiss he lumps on my forehead as he delivers my cup down beside my Nicorettes.

When he leaves for work, he critically observes me reclining on the bed in my PJs at ten o’clock in the morning and I can see the disapproving glint in his eyes.

Fudge you, I whisper to myself. Fudge you, judgmental man.

But this morning I felt a bit sorry for him because his car, the Batmobile, which is still under warranty and just had the engine replaced, was towed away a mere 36 hours after he picked it up from the workshop (after FIVE WEEKS in the garage).

When he left in the pathetically incapable courtesy car (his third one) to go on a job, I was sitting on the couch on my laptop reading about how a chicken failed to recognise its owner because of a new haircut (thanks Rae Hilhorst) and I suddenly thought, my husband thinks I’m an Internet layabout.

Naturally, I had to correct this silly opinion he seemed to have formed in his head.

So after I’d finished watching the very captivating chicken video, (and then another hypnotising video about how you can use a piece of string to peel onions)  I went out with my gardening gloves and weeded the front garden which has been allowed to go stupid for at least 6 months. It was so bad even our neighbours had been making jokes about it.

It took a while to weed (about an hour and a half) and when I came in puffing and wheezing, I suddenly noticed two fang marks on my wrist and naturally assumed I’d been bitten by an Eastern Brown snake. 

Sorry about the age spots


I googled how long it takes for symptoms to manifest and what the symptoms are. It can take up to an hour for death to strike.

I hadn’t actually seen a snake but plenty of people get bitten and don’t realise it. I felt my heartbeat escalate and my mouth went dryish. I may have dribbled in fear despite the dry mouth.

I had a coffee and then a wine and waited for an hour and nothing happened so I think I’m okay. I did get a mild headache but it passed.

But if you never hear from me again you know I died from a venomous snake bite, so thanks for reading my blog all this time.

If I’m dead tomorrow you know whose fault it is, K?



Does your other half get jealous when you have holidays and they don’t?