Pinky's Book Link

Monday, January 30, 2017

Pinky's Default Post!

Sometimes I feel like I need to write a post so that the last post I wrote is less visible.

I feel like that all the time, really.

I worry about who is reading this blog and what they’re thinking about me as a person. I’d hate to be taken out of context.

Occasionally I feel I might come across as a bit of a twit to a brand new reader. I’m sure you’re shaking your head right now thinking I’m exaggerating and I’m being over dramatic again. “Who would think you’re a twit, you silly, adorable thing?” I hear you laugh.


Anyway, here’s my default post in case prospective employers search for what I get up to on social media.

Hello Pinky Punksters!

Today I awoke from my slightly dishevelled but sanitary cotton-sheeted bed and liked everyone’s posts on Facebook except for the rude ones and the ones where people swear. Swearing is only for the Devil’s spawn. It’s a disgrace what people say these days.

I avoided reading the Reddit conspiracy site I’m addicted to because I realise it’s just a waste of my precious time and I read about really inspiring educational themed stuff instead. Stuff about how to conduct guided reading sessions and literacy sessions and stuff about how to write with a plum.

I didn’t think one awful thought about what was on the morning telly and tweet about it in an arrogant fashion and instead I researched how apparently some people drink too much alcohol.

It’s shocking. Where is their self-control? People like that should seek help. There are countless places one might seek support. Private message me and I’ll share some links. No one is judging you.(Personally, I never touch the stuff except for a sip at a wedding or christening occasionally.)

Then I cleaned my soap dish in the shower with an environmentally friendly bread knife and then air dried my hair whilst reading more stuff about education and differentiation.

I didn’t look at Twitter at all.Twitter is evil.

I did some more research on how to spell differentiation and it turns out that the way I spelled it is correct. Hooray for me. But I’m humble so don’t praise me for that. I just have a bit of a gift for spelling.

I didn’t scream at my husband all day (except maybe once but he deserved it) and I certainly didn’t have any dead chickens in residence as of 6:45 pm.

I hope you all had a fun and wholesome day like I did.

If you like I will send you a recipe for chocolate basil and oregano infused brownies.

Thanks for calling by.

Love Pinky. Xxx

P.S. I will message you privately with future posts.

Saturday, January 28, 2017

Stick That in Your Lunchbox Australia

26 January 2017 (Australia Day)

12:30pm: Scotto and Pinky share a civilised Australia Day lunch on pool deck with friends. Alcohol is sipped sparingly as refined friends don’t drink much.

10:00pm: Scotto and Pinky sing loudly to Australian rock anthems (focussing on Midnight Oil, Daryl Braithwaite, Wolfmother and Kids in the Kitchen). 

Dear friends had left our company six hours previously and any restrained moderation regarding sobriety went pear-shaped soon after.

10:30pm: Pinky sends out a lot of very silly tweets and Facebook statuses. Gets unfollowed by many.

11:00pm: Pinky and Scotto sing every Crowded House song to be found on Youtube and unanimously decide that New Zealand is merely just another Australian state so Neil Finn (et al.) is still within the general theme of the national day of celebration.

11:59pm: Pinky notices it’s almost midnight and screams at Scotto for not warning her it was getting so late. Scotto comments that as it’s the first week of the school year she is unlikely to be called in to work as a relief teacher tomorrow.

27 January 2017

8:55am: Phone rings and Pinky is called in to work at a nearby school as some other teacher has possibly enjoyed a far too joyous, raucous Australia Day as well.

9:00am: Pinky staggers around kitchen throwing together two wads of stale bread and cheese whilst simultaneously cleaning teeth, slurping coffee and dabbing the previous day’s eye makeup and armpits with a Nivea wipe.

9:30am: A sweaty Pinky arrives at small country school and is directed to the only non-airconditioned classroom in the establishment. Feels a bit hungry and queasy as missed out on breakfast.

10:50am: Pinky enviously observes students during morning break eating their lunch whilst she nibbles on hastily prepared musty bread and mouldy cheese sandwich. 

Notices one eight year old boy brought half a watermelon, three times the size of his head, for morning tea.

“Do you have a spoon for that?” Pinky asked cautiously. For all she knew they just eat it like a corn cob in the country.

“Oh yeah!” boy suddenly remembers and runs back to his bag for a spoon. Pinky thinks about asking him if he has a second spoon and if he'd consider sharing.

I0:55am: Pinky spies another boy eating an avocado as if he were eating an apple, skin and all. And yet another kid devouring a juicy mango like an expert and merely tearing the skin back with bare hands as he slurps on it. Another boy has ripped into a Dragon Fruit and has purple gunk all over his pants and shirt.

11:00am: Pinky ponders on the over-processed, sliced up delicacies arranged in designer lunch boxes which she usually sees kids bring to school; the fancy stainless steel sectioned lunchboxes containing sushi, cubed honeydew, diced vegetables and hummus, deconstructed organic lettuce and endangered species, hard-boiled quail eggs.

11:05am: Pinky decides more mothers should be sending kids to school with leftover sausages, a lump of bread and an entire rock melon which they have to use a sharp stone to break open.

Country kids seem a lot less precious. I suspect they pick their food from trees on their way to school.

Pinky loves country kids.

Friday, January 20, 2017

Why you should listen to Mother (or you’ll end up smearing Vaseline on a chicken’s vagina).

My mother came over the other day and complained that I was feeding my chickens too much bread and I rolled my eyes behind her back. Mum is always telling me stuff I'm doing wrong.

But now I suspect she was right.

“You’re killing them with kindness, Pinky!” she admonished.

I ignored her and continued overfeeding the diminutive feathered fiends, but now my most precious chicken is dead.

We buried her this morning. Ygritte. My little ginger Pekin is gone.

Deep grieving sigh.

I don’t know if she was egg-bound (which is why I smeared Vaseline on her vagina) or if the excessive bread I kept dishing out stuck in her craw… but she is dead and I am enveloped in guilt.

I am so enveloped in guilt I am now being extra nice to all the rest of the menagerie in recompense.

Normally, when the Dire Wolf, Borat, the German Shepherd, gets all sooky because there’s a thunderstorm we rouse on him and banish him to the garage... but tonight we brought him in to the lounge and let the hairy brute snuggle on the couch.

His gossamer hair floated all around the place settling in every crevice, but mainly coming to rest in my wine glass.

But I took it all with a stoic, fatalistic, deterministic acceptance.

What’s a bit of hair between friends, eh?

We are all here for such a short time… surely we can put up with a bit of stray hair on the bookcase.

This is my new philosophy on life.

“Don't be afraid to live life with a bit of hair between your teeth”.

Celine, Scotto and Borat the hairy Dire Wolf

Sunday, January 15, 2017

Understanding and Dealing with Bitchy Women

Our new chicken Lyanna is the black hen this side of the fence, Margery is at the far back, eating a newspaper.

We didn’t have enough chickens so we bought another one. This one is called Lyanna Mormont and she entered the big hen house two days ago.

Margery Tyrell, the redhead, acts like a complete bitch towards her and Lyanna is banished to the upper perch of the coop for fear of being pecked to death by Margery and also by the sharp-beaked queen of the coop, Brienne of Tarth. 

Brienne of Tarth digging for worms

The spiteful hens won’t let her near the food or water and she is snubbed and vilified just for being there.

Whenever we let the hens out for a run of the backyard, poor, slandered Lyanna is forced to hang out with the two dumb cluck, uncool chickens, Joffrey and Theon. They’re quite daft but very sweet and accepting of her. They’re already on the bottom rung you see and have no agenda.

Lyanna, hanging with the Silkies

It’s a bit like the “loser” group in high school really.

It’s interesting that the pecking order of chickens resembles real life scenarios so closely.

There’s often one bitch in a group of women that lords it over all the rest.

One venomous and malicious power monger who calls the shots; one old boiler that uses her power to influence who is, and is not, accepted into the flock.

It’s fortunate that when we are faced with the reality of bullying and meanness we can always turn towards the meek and mild in the lower echelon. Or we can just fly the coop.

Occasionally, one of the leading hens is taken down (resigns/gets the sack/is transferred) and then there is a new opening for another hen to move into a higher position and sure enough, someone is always waiting in the wings.

But sometimes I think it’s better to just hang around with the meek and mild, unpopular group.

They might seem plain and a bit boring at first but they’re a lot nicer. They tend not to gossip and support each other instead of taking others down.

Apparently if you introduce a rooster into the flock the bitchiness stops immediately because when too many female chooks are working together without a male, the stronger females compete to be the leader.


It’s a pity we aren’t allowed to keep a rooster.

There’s an old saying that goes, ‘A hen who acts like a rooster is often invited for dinner.’

It’s worth thinking about.

Have you ever been ostracised by a group of bitchy women?

Thursday, January 12, 2017

What Facebook Communities Do You Belong To?

An ant bit me yesterday but it’s hurting way worse today. Just like the sting of a barbed comment from my mother about how I’m getting a bit fat, it won’t let me forget the savage stabbing prick of the unexpected jab from a seemingly innocent assassin.

We have a few bitey things around here on the mountain. It’s very rural. In fact, something bit me on the back the other day when I was weeding and a short time afterwards I felt severely nauseated for a few hours. I had to lie down and everything.

No matter.

It was probs just a funnel web spider.

No biggey.

We mountain women are tough.

There’s a Facebook community up here and all they ever post is pictures of humungous snakes which have unceremoniously settled in for a nap on the essential oil collection in the lavatory and they’re all like, “Do you think I should leave this exquisite creature here on my bathroom cabinet or have him relocated? He’s so pretty. Lol.”

Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “Take to the evil, slithery asshole with a fudging pickaxe!” but all the replies on Facebook say, “It’s a harmless tree snake, leave it alone and let it digest the poultry” or “How gorgeous is that cute little man? Let him go when he’s ready to move on, he will. How lucky we are to have these gorgeous creatures living amongst us.”
The snake in question, is usually identified as a King Brown or a Red Bellied Black by some self-appointed expert but I suppose some people find venomous, slimy, satanic worms to be appealing.

It’s not that I’m not an animal lover. I currently own thirteen hungry animals which I dote on and which frankly, do nothing to compensate me for my troubles. The only restitution I get is a few measly eggs and a bit of dribbling snuggling.

Scotto and I have become a bit more environmentally friendly though. I now shop at Aldi which means I recycle my plastic shopping bags. We have our own eggs from the chickens that poop which goes into the mulch for our home-grown herbs and beans and strawberries and tomatoes. Our shower and sink water provides H20 for the grass which feeds the chickens and we collect all our water in rainwater tanks. 

Our chickens tuck into the dog poop with relish and our dogs lap up the chicken poop like it's caviar and truffles. It’s all recyclable here.

We heard a sound coming from our garden the other night and Scotto and I thought that either the pool filter was going mental, a UFO was landing in the street or there was a major glitch in the matrix and a wormhole had just opened up in our backyard leading to another dimension inhabited by noisy, heavy metal guitar playing people.

It was cicadas.

Or frogs. We still aren’t sure.

I stood on the back porch in my pyjamas, yelling at Scotto as he was hurtling and stumbling around the yard, panicked, in the dark, attempting to discover the cause of the hideous and frightening noise.

I still can’t believe the source of the cacophony was something from nature.

I still have a bit to learn about living in the country I suppose.

Any stories about FB communities?

Wednesday, January 4, 2017

When will Dentistry Crawl out of the Dark Ages?

I tossed and turned in a hot lather of sweat on Monday night in anticipation of my ten am appointment at the dentist the next morning. 

I’d already postponed the appointment for two months in a row so there was no chance of piking AGAIN with my pitiful excuses.

The appointment was a biggy; it was a bone graft which the dentist had assured me was simple and routine and he’d ordered me not to look the procedure up on the Internet… so for once in my paranoid life, I didn’t.

Later, when I arrived home after my appointment, Scotto was finishing a computer job in his office, so I slithered into the bedroom quietly to avoid detection.

A short time later, he finished his job and came in to check on me.

“How did it go?” he asked with deep concern on his face.

“Great!” I enthused. “The dentist just manipulated a little tube which magically injected fake bone into my gum line and now it’s all over.”

I grinned widely to prove my well-being.

“Really?” Scotto sighed in relief. “That’s fantastic, Pinky. I bet that’s a weight off your mind.”

Crickets chirruped…

“I chickened out,” I whispered desperately. “I didn’t have it done.”

One hour earlier...

When I’d sat my trembling and shuddering body in the chair, the dentist had begun to explain what he was going to do in my mouth.

Firstly, he was going to inject ten or so needles into my teeth ridge, hard palate and in that bit under my top lip (where it feels as though the needle is piercing the sinus cavity and then further into the deep recesses of the brain).

Then he was going to slice all the gum and fold it back before placing the substance (possibly comprised of cadaver and plutonium) directly into my bone.

After that he was going to put ‘lots’ of stitches all around my front, three teeth.

The stitches would stay there for two/three weeks and naturally there would be significant swelling and pain.

After he’d finished his barbaric expose, there was a soundless moment as I considered this rather downbeat development in my expectations and, regarding the dentist with determined but frightened eyes, I shakily informed him I’d changed my fudging, goddamned mind thank you very much sir.

“But it’s a routine procedure, Pinky,” he reiterated in a disappointed tone.

“Nope,” I stood my ground. “I know I’ve booked an hour and a half appointment with you but I’ll happily pay for it and walk out of here a free woman. 

What will it be? A thousand dollars? I don’t care I’ll pay it.”

He let me off the hook but not without taking some impressions of my teeth. This involved ramming metal trays the size of hub caps in my mouth. The trays are filled with blue goo which breaks off and floats down the back of the victim’s throat causing reflexive and insistent gagging. 
You have to hold the tray in your mouth for two, hideously long minutes as the goo sets.

The first impression didn’t work out which was a shame. A real fudging shame as I’d only gagged three times and thought I’d executed a satisfactory demonstration of tolerance and normalcy.

I could see the dentist inspecting the failed attempt thoughtfully with his mini scraping thing.

“Please, for the love of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, don’t tell me you have to do it again?” I pleaded.

He examined the fudging thing for an agonising ten minutes as I lay there, my eyeballs bulging at the ceiling in terror.

The second time was not such a fine accomplishment of self-control on my behalf.

Within the two minutes I think I gagged thirty times.

There were tears streaming down my cheeks and I gripped on to the dentist’s hands struggling against the urge to raise my legs up and savagely shove him off me with two braced knees to his chest.

Thankfully, when I walked out to the waiting room afterwards, it was empty and there were no saucer-eyed children staring in fixated horror after hearing all that ferocious retching from the inner bowels of the echoing surgery.

“Sorry about all those horrible noises you had to listen to,” I apologised to the receptionist.

“That’s okay!” She purred. “Did you vomit?”

I shook my head in the negative.

“That’s good,” she carried on as she typed out my bill. “If you vomit you have to keep it all in your mouth until the impression has set.”

Thank the fudge for small mercies, I thought.

Now I know this is a scandalous thought, but are you wondering about the necessity for that second impression as well?

Monday, January 2, 2017


“What does TL,DR mean?” I asked Scotto the other day as I scrolled through a Reddit thread about my latest favourite conspiracy theory.

“Too long, didn’t read,” he replied.

“Hmmmpf,” I snorted, thinking to myself that only an idiot would write that on someone’s post.

Who would openly admit they lacked the concentration to finish reading a post?

A rude dumbhead that’s who.

“What does NSFW mean?” I asked Scotto.

“Not Safe For Work,” he mumbled.

This was a revelation for me because I always thought it was something to do with the New South Wales Football Association and I’d been wondering why the New South Wales Football Association wrote so much questionable material on the Internet.

Now that I’ve titled this post, NSFW, I expect that no one will read it because, why would any sane person read my posts in their free time? Unless I get a lot of readers who think this post is about the New South Wales Football Association of course.

I can assure you there is nothing ‘not safe for work’ or about the New South Wales Football Association in this post so if that’s what you came for you’ll be disappointed.

And yes I know this post is rapidly becoming TL,DR.

My title stands for “Neighbours who you Suspect may Feasibly be a bit Weird”.

Mrs Bunny, of the bizarre and unbelievable Easter decorations incident, came over for lunch yesterday with some other neighbours and friends to celebrate the first day of 2017.

I took a photo of the crowd at the table and called out (as I always do), “This will be going on the Internet unless anyone objects and plans on suing me.”

“It’s going on your bloody blog isn’t it?” called out Mrs Bunny from the end of the table. “I’ve read Pinky Poinker! I know you called me a nutcase!”

Naturally, I was very keen to show my mother and my friend Sue (from Making the Mundane Merry ) Mrs. Bunny’s Christmas decorations (which eclipsed her Easter display by about seventeen degrees of cray cray) because, well... words are just not adequate.

We all traipsed across the road in order to collect the jelly cheesecake Mrs Bunny had made for dessert and I couldn’t wait to see the expression on my mother and Sue’s faces when they witnessed the extraordinary exhibit with their own eyes.

Sue and Santa

Mrs Bunny has added to her collection by travelling to the United States a lot and has also provided complete financial backing to at least three bubble-wrap factories in South-East Asia.

Mrs Bunny is not only the kindest and most welcoming person who makes killer cheesecakes; she also supports third world countries.

Mrs Bunny not only keeps the Christmas spirit alive in our street, she is the Christmas spirit.

Mrs Bunny told us she is going to start packing everything away today and should be finished just before Easter.

The thought of it exhausts me.

Pablo and his cuddly toy

Happy New Year guys!