Hey! Geronimo! Hey! Geronimo!

Remember how I used to complain about my teenagers relentlessly nagging me in an excruciatingly annoying, high whining voice simulating a Boeing 747 about to take off?

 "When will dinner be ready?" they'd whinge.  And how my stock answer was always, "Twenty minutes love!"

And how they'd come back an hour later and ask the same question and I'd reply, "Oh... about twenty minutes, sweetpea." 

And how they'd always accept it without question.

They'd just sigh and walk away mumbling about how I loved my blog more than I loved them blah, blah-de-bloody-blah.

Well those teenagers aren't around anymore. Now they're 'independently financial' and have their own wheels, they're off in 'fast food land' with all their mates. 

It's like living with the Phantom. I see a flash of a fluorescent tradie shirt as the front door is slammed, shaking the house to its core, or sometimes a spectre of grubby gym bag flashing past me in the hall, or I sense a whiff of Brittany Spears' perfume as I meander past the bathroom...but other than that, it's as if they don't exist.

But before you imagine my life is blissfully peaceful take a look at this.


This is what I have to contend with at 6:00pm every night and believe me... these guys can tell the time!

O- is for One Day I Sniffed Cheese!

A to Z April Challenge

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

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

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

Suddenly it hit me… Cheezels!


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

“Hello?” I called out nervously.

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


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

Didn’t sound like a very tough thief.

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

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

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

So it was them! I should have known.

What had they done this time? 

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

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

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


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

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

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

                                  Pablo the Connoisseur 

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

Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace

G is for Getting Pinky to Stay Awake

 Pablo the Chihuahua and his older sister Celine the Mini-Foxy, hate it when Pinky has a Nana Nap in the school holidays.

It interferes with their interaction time.

     Oh no! Pinky's not getting ready for another nap is                 she? What? Is it every bloody day then?

I'm telling you Pinky! Too many naps aren't good for your health. It's just a blood sugar drop after lunch that's making you tired. Stop being an old woman Pinky.

   Come on Pinky! You need to go out and get some fresh air                         and sunshine! I'm begging you.

    How about you throw my dinosaur toy for me? That's fun!

Excuse me Pablo but I think that's MY dinosaur toy thank you                                         very much.

Look! Here's your bag Pinky. Why don't you go for a drive to                       the shops? You could buy something nice!

Or you could read some magazines! Look! It's the Women's                                  Weekly... your favourite!

   It's no good Pablo... she's got that sleepy look about her.                                           We're in for a session.

        Might as well just lay down and wait it out. Sooo boooring!


                                                             

         You're right Celine. I think Pinky's starting to snore.

                         She's out like a light. Silly old bat.

I'll just lay on her stomach so if she wakes up I'll be the first to                                            know.

              Think I might catch a few Zs myself actually.

                                    Zzzzzzzzzzzz.......

What Defines a Bully?

                                We do put sunscreen on his nose every day.

Our lovely man had just arrived to clean up the jungle in our back yard and I asked him if he’d like me to put Borat, our woolly mammoth of a German Shepherd, in the pool area to allow him easy access through the side gate so he could lug various palm fronds out to his trailer without disturbance.

Willy the terrier, an aficionado of escapism antics, was also in the forefront of my mind so I decided he would have to be locked away for his own safety as well. 

As I let the big boys onto the back patio an uncompromising Chihuahua by the name of Pablo Escobark tore out of the house with misplaced vengeance and aggressively fronted all up in Borat’s grill, barking violently in the shepherd’s snout,

“You theenk you’re so tough Holmes? What you goieeng to dooo?? Huh? Huh? Come on... fight me you seeesy!"

The gigantic shepherd turned away like the defendant who’s been well tutored by his lawyer. But onward the belligerent Mexican midget relentlessly harangued,

“Just because you the beegest doesn’t mean you da boss! I will cut you Esay! I will cut you beeg time!”

Suddenly the Shepherd, tired of the taunts, snapped and cornered the nasty little Latino against the water feature.

Pinky stood in frozen horror as her two fur babies recreated a scene from a terrifying Stephen King movie.

Little Pablo was trapped, screaming in distress and agony, but his screams were drowned out by a performance a la Pinky which would make Sarah Michelle Geller cringe in shame. 

Hearing Pinky's hysterical shrieks,the gardener came running and he witnessed her desperately attempting to wrestle the tiny parcel of South American Chilli Dog from the giant Beowulf's salivating jaws.

Eventually the Shepherd let go and Pablo hobbled whimpering and damaged into the house. Pinky locked the huge, murderous hound in the pool area and went to seek out the injured victim, frightened at what she’d find.

A bloody pulp of Chihuahua necessitating an urgent trip to the emergency weekend vet, perhaps? The thought was sickening.

Astoundingly, Pablo was intact. Not one single abrasion. Not a hair out of place, in fact.

My first instinct was the Shepherd must go. We’d find a nice home for him. We couldn’t possibly have such an aggressive animal in situ at Chez Poinker. What if children came to visit and the same thing happened to a child… but worse?

Then I thought about it more closely. Borat could have easily snapped Pablo’s neck if he’d chosen. One assertive bite from his jaws would have been a decisive finale to the Chihuahua’s short but hostile existence.

Instead, my beautiful German Shepherd decided to give the little b#stard a bit of a fright, teach him a lesson about respect and let the little sh#t live.

I know who the true bully was.

                                    Pablo Escobark

I love my German Shepherd.

Will My Chihuahua Lose his Swag?

                                                       

Five minutes beforehand, he’d been strutting around the kitchen like a cocky football jock whilst intermittently sniffing his sister, Celine’s bottom, blissfully unaware of what the day had in store for him.

Now, he was a trembling pup, cradled in his daddy’s arms as Scotto backed out of the driveway. I’d say he must have been suspicious something was up by the pleading expression in his mournful, brown eyes.

“You’re going to have to drop Pablo at the vet tomorrow morning,” I announced to hubby Scotto yesterday. “It'll be too hard for me to leave him there. I’d get halfway to the vet and turn the car around and bring him home.”

“It’s not going to be easy for me either!” Scotto reproached me.

We didn’t exactly have a big row about it, but there were a few sulky, manipulative exchanges as to who was going to play the bad guy and do the dirty work.

I won.

Our vet, Chris, is the father of one of Lulu’s best friends and she happened to be staying at their place last night.

“Tell Chris to have an early night because he’s operating on our dog tomorrow morning,” I texted Lulu.

“He said he’s going to drink some extra wine tonight!” she messaged back.

I don’t think he should have been joking about it.

Scotto left at 8:30 this morning to drop my baby off to his ill-fated appointment and I tearily waved him farewell then retreated to my bedroom to sob into my pillow.

After restlessly waiting with bated breath and jangled nerves, the phone finally rang at 9:30 am.

He was alive and well… sans testicles of course… but he survived! The nurse informed me the operation went brilliantly and the tiny patient was now resting quietly.

He’s going to have to avoid strenuous exercise (especially bike riding) for a couple of weeks but apart from rest, aspirin and dressing changes he should be back to himself in no time.

Off I went to buy some ice packs, balloons and flowers for Pablo's homecoming.

 Has he lost his swag now he's been de-nutted? I hear you ask.

Well...  he's now sporting a tattoo and swaggering like a bow-legged sailor as he tenderly winces down the hall so not really.

                              Tattoo on left ear.

I’d better buy some wine and chocolates for Chris the brilliant surgeon as well. 

That guy should be Australian of the Year.

Don’t forget about your Best Friend in the Sizzling Australian Heat

While the United States is suffering deadly snowstorms,

Australia is in the midst of a heatwave.

“It’s bloody hot!” are the parrot like words emanating from Pinky’s perspiration-ringed lips every five minutes. Scotto has grounds to commit mariticide, I'm sure.

(It's like I have a form of Tourette's, but no swearing... just constant whinging.)

Scotto and I have spent 80% of our time floating around the pool in order to ward off heat stroke and I can’t imagine what it would be like without air-conditioning when the temperature drops down to a muggy 27 degrees overnight.

As you know, Pinky’s dogs (Borat, Willy, Celine and Pablo) are her substitute babies. They're the loves of my life and I’ve been watching them closely for heat stress.

Watching them lolling around, conserving their energy and panting a lot and I must admit I feel really sorry for the poor mutts.

This is what I’ve been doing to make sure they don’t suffer from the heat.

# Allowing them to come inside the house and chill out under the fan… or at least make sure they have plenty of shade.

                      Me could get used to this!

# Putting ice cubes in their drinking water and frequently checking it’s at an adequate level.

# Hosing them down because dogs can’t sweat

 (Willy runs away and hides behind a pot plant but we still manage to catch him).

                         Rack off mother... I'd rather be hot!

# Taking the smaller ones for a little swim against their wishes.

                              This is animal abuse!

# Feeding them after dark when it’s cooler so their food doesn’t sit in the sun for hours.

We can’t take them to the movies or into air-conditioned shopping centres but at least we’re doing something to make them a little more comfortable.

Hope you’re looking after your best friend.

Thirteen Reasons Pinky Knows it's the Silly Season

Artwork by Pinky Poinker

                                                         

1. People are proudly sporting really garish, flashing earrings and necklaces in the shopping centre.

2. I keep finding dozens of tiny pieces of Christmas tree tinsel stuck to the bottom of my feet.

3. The queue is unusually and annoyingly long at Dan Murphy’s.

4. At the shopping centre you see a lot of abnormally dressed up, combed down kids on their way to have a photo taken with Santa.

5. Ads are reappearing on the telly reminding everyone to place their Turducken orders (much to the bitter disappointment and paranoia of Turduckens everywhere).

6. The air conditioner breaks down, the pool filter blows up and some other random but expensive household appliance self-immolates causing unwanted financial loss.

7. The dog has to be taken to the vet because we suspect it ate part of the nativity scene (not baby Jesus). He didn’t but we decide to have his ‘bojangles’ removed as a Christmas present since we’re at the vet anyway.

8. It’s compulsory for every shop assistant to wear red, green or white shirts, mandatory antlers and ask you how your Christmas shopping is going in a blank uninterested monotone.

9. There are at least twelve towels hanging on the pool fence; the toilet seat is always wet when I perch my derriere on it (delivering an unexpected, slithery surprise) and the internal stairs are saturated with chlorinated water providing a sure-fire death trap for Pinky as she carries the laundry up.

10. You can’t turn on the car radio without hearing at least one Michael Buble or Human Nature song.

11. The milk goes off every twenty-four hours due to copious openings and closings of the fridge as teenagers go on rum ball and chocolate reconnaissance missions .

12. I walk in and discover Scotto watching the Mr Bean Christmas Special. AGAIN.

13. If we call out to the dog after we’ve had a few drinks, it runs away and hides cos it knows what’s coming.

P#ss off!

    
 How do you know it's the silly season?

Have you ever been unfriended on Facebook?

“You know I only friended you on Facebook so I could stay in contact when I was away because you never check Viber on your phone Mother?” was one of the first things 17 year old daughter Lulu, blurted out when she arrived home after her U.K. trip on Monday.

“Please, please don’t unfriend me,” I pleaded. "I told all my friends!"

“Just don’t do anything stupid to embarrass her!” my friend Emmsie had warned when I boasted on my timeline that I was now joyously ‘friends’ with said daughter.

“Mother,” continued Lulu, “You put a up a stupid Facebook post about me and then you put a photo of me as a baby on your timeline AND tagged me. 

Three strikes and you’re out, sunshine. That’s my policy.”

So I’ve been VERY careful for the last two days and so far so good.

The “three strikes” comment rang a bell with me this afternoon when I called in to the Vet on my way home to pick up Celine (the Fox Terrier’s) menopause medication.

(We’d noticed she’d been having mood swings, suffered mild incontinence and was flinging off the bed sheets at night begging for us to turn the air conditioner up and wondered what was wrong with her for months.)

I’ve often considered popping one of her tablets myself just to see what might happen but as my pal Kyles says, it would probably just enable me with the ability to scratch the back of my ear with my right foot and stimulate a penchant for dried pig’s ears.
But... I dogress.

Our vet, Dr P., is a brilliant, medical professional who possesses a genuine tender love for all creatures great and small… but he scares me a bit; I think it’s his authoritative South African accent.

“So Pinky,” he nabbed me as I was standing at the counter, “I see you cancelled Pablo’s de-sexing operation a second time.”

It was true. I’d made a second appointment during the September school holidays and consequently cancelled it because of my mother.

“You do know some dogs die under anaesthetic?” commented Mum over the phone, adding bleakly, “As long as you’re prepared for the worst.”

It took me about five seconds to decide I just couldn’t take the risk of losing my baby Chihuahua and chickened out on the deknackering once again.

“These little dogs develop prostate cancer at about five or six years old if you don’t get them fixed up. Do you want to risk that?” niggled Dr P.

Now… even though I’m MENSA material (Mildly Effective at Narrating Stupid Anecdotes) I accept the fact that someone else may know better than me... especially someone with a doctorate in science and about thirty years of experience; so I guess I’ll have to book Pablo in for a third and final time in the Christmas holidays.That way I can be home to cosset him with chicken soup, aspirin and ice packs for his misplaced goolies.

                 Mrs Menopause and her future eunuch.

Pinky and the Dog Whisperer

Today I met a Dog Whisperer… for real.

Now that the temperatures are soaring beyond 30 degrees every day I thought it was time to do something about ‘Borat the Shaggy Wolf’ and ‘Willy the Bathroom Mat’ whose winter coats have commenced the shedding process.

“I found a dog groomer in the yellow pages and she’s coming to wash and clip the boys today.” I informed Scotto this morning.

“Good luck with that!” laughed Scotto knowingly.

Willy and Borat have… how shall I put it nicely… a Bert and Ernie relationship (if the rumours about Bert and Ernie are to be believed ).

Willy stubbornly refuses to go for walks because he’s a fat, lazy little toilet brush and Borat won’t let Willy out of his sight, so consequently most of the family have given up trying to drag them out by their leads. They will simply NOT be separated.

I knew, beyond doubt, they’d have to be bathed together like a couple of old poofs.

Enter- Roz… Dog Whisperer Extraordinaire!

If I met Borat for the first time I’d be terrified. He’s a gigantic, intimidating, woolly German Shepherd with a full head of fangs and I doubt you’d ever set foot in our yard if you peeked through the fence and spotted him patrolling the perimeter.

Willy, on the other hand, is a sour snappy little terrier who hates water with a vengeance and hides like a cockroach behind the air-conditioning condenser every time he spies the hose.

Roz, however, took control of the situation immediately, eyeballing Alpha dog Willy and clearly letting him know who was boss. 

                         Aren't you going to DO anything mother??

“You might be stubborn but I’m more stubborn than you!” she cautioned Willy when he dared to snarl in disapproval. “I think I’ll wash Willy before I clip him,” Roz wisely decided after noting his filthy matted hair and congealed Borat slobber.

“I’m just cleaning his anal gland now so he might yelp.” She warned.

I waited for the outraged squeal but Willy took it like a man which is quite remarkable considering he won’t even let me trim his fringe with nail clippers.

In fact I think he may have enjoyed it.

Next it was Borat’s turn to be lifted on to the bench and Roz bent over, picking up the 40kg Beowulf like he was a pup and plonked him down on it. “She’s a bloody superwoman…” thought Pinky reverently.

                   

There were several moments when Borat was being shorn and Roz went a bit too close to his ‘ding dong mcdork’ causing Mr Wolfie to spin around and lunge growling at her.

Did the fearless Roz flinch? Not one bloody bit. Pinky’s head hit the roof of the van in frightened alarm but Roz didn’t bat an eyelash. “I can tell straight away if a dog’s something to worry about,” assured Roz, whilst I looked on in stupefied admiration.

                        Please! Whatever I did... I'll never do it again.

Over the two hours Roz worked to perfect her creative pooch coiffures and we had a great chat. Roz is looking for a job in the mines and has a H.R. Truck licence, a forklift licence and a licence to carry dangerous materials. I’m telling you… this lady is like Wonder Woman.

                       I'll be good, but please don't put me in that sling.

                          I am sooo p#ssed off right now.

                         AND these photos better not be going on your stupid blog, Mother!

The end result was amazing. Both Borat and Willy look at least ten years younger and I bet they feel it too.

Maybe I should get a haircut.

If you'd like Roz's number I have plenty of business cards.

Pinky's Adventures in Pussy World

You may think the title of this post is a cheap rort to gain increased pageview stats on my website from the gentlefolk searching Google for “Pinky the Pornstar”.

You may be correct.

In actual fact, this post is Part Two in my attempts to mingle with the general community in non-alcohol infused activities.

Today, a semi-reluctant Scotto and I, attended a Cat Show.

Yes… you heard me right… A. Cat. Show!

Who should we see manning the entry to such an esteemed event but my dear colleague, Jake... owner and breeder of many cats (and keen to rid himself of some of them apparently).

                                    Jakey Baby!

(When I was a kid, Dad was the president of the Kennel Club and my mother on the committee of the local cat club, so I've been to my fair share of these shows, but not for at least 35 years so I was looking forward to it.)

Even though I'm definitely a dog person, I do have an affection for moggies ...

Cats haven't been domesticated for as long as dogs and sometimes it shows...

See how many movies you recognise!

“I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries. Now go away, or I shall taunt you a second time."


        I like to make sexy time!

I wake up in the morning and I piss excellence!

One, two, Freddy's coming for you. Three, Four, better lock your door. Five, Six, grab your crucifix. Seven, Eight, Gonna stay up late. Nine, Ten never sleep again.

"I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti"... sucking noise...

"That's right, I killed your master. And now I'm going to kill you, with your own sword, no less, which, in the very immediate future, will become my sword."

“God gave men brains larger than dogs so they wouldn't hump women's legs at cocktail parties.”

                                                         I hear the train a comin'
                                                       It's rolling round the bend

                                      And I ain't seen the sunshine since I don't know when,
                                      I'm stuck in Folsom prison, and time keeps draggin' on
                                         But that train keeps a rollin' on down to San Antone..

Guys, I'd love to look at the camera and smile for you... but I'm not going to.

                               Back off!

I said... back the F#ck OFF!

All of you are beneath me! I am a god, you dull creature, and I shall not be bullied.

It was a great show! And of course we couldn't call it a day until we'd checked out the t-shirt stand!

(Answers to the movies in tomorrow's post!)