Did You Have a Good Christmas?

Apart from the fact that my German Shepherd almost bit my brother-in law’s face off and left two distinct fang marks in his forehead and chin with blood streaming everywhere and apart from the fact that most of us were very pissed and there was a bit of a skirmish on the front lawn on the next door neighbour’s driveway... it was a pretty good Christmas.

Don’t ask.

We had fun.

In a sense.

We had so much fun that I almost threw up in the Robina Town Centre Food Court because of the sickly smell of sweet and sour pork when I reluctantly took my darling daughter to indulge in Boxing Day shopping.

I must admit that I had to go and lie down in the car before she finished her spending scourge, but Scotto turned on the air-conditioning in the Tucson and I somehow managed not to throw up in his brand new car.

I kept thinking about dry crackers and deserts (deserts not desserts.)

It seemed to help with the pre-spew dribbling  when thinking about really dry stuff.

Christmas is hectic and although I enjoyed all the Facebook posts displaying everyone around their Christmas table and all the posts about Eggs Benedict and civilised celebrations… my Chrismas wasn’t that picturesque or civilised.

Not at all, really.

Our celebrations were more… boganesque.

That’s alright though.

No one died.

Except Albert, my parents’ dog… on Christmas Eve

My parents were understandably devastated by the event.

Naturally, the following day, whilst analysing the dramatic and drunken events of Christmas Day,  (in the presence of my mother), I boldly stated,

“Well! At least no one DIED!”

Everyone just stared at me in mortification.

“Except Albert,” I corrected myself as my poor mother began weeping in proper grief.

Dear God, help me to keep my big effing mouth closed, I prayed to baby Jesus.

Probs the worst Christmas ever.

When Your World is Literally About to Cave In.

Looks much worse than it appears in photo!

Scotto and I spent the past few days moving our couch closer and closer towards the telly because we were terrified the ceiling was going to collapse on top of us whenever the sub woofer kicked in.

Last week, while we were out cavorting and lunching, a cataclysmic hail storm thrust itself upon our mountain. 

Our backyard

I was worried about the animals as we drove home but they were okay, although the cat was quite pissed off...

Hail-damaged cat

“Go outside and make a snowman immediately!” I excitedly ordered Scotto, when we arrived home. 

He couldn’t do it though, because it was hail, not snow and it lacked the appropriate properties required, such as malleability.

This was reasonably discouraging, but not as discouraging as the three centimetres of water we later discovered behind the couch in our lounge room.

“Oh well,” I commented as we mopped it up. “I haven’t mopped behind here for two years. It probably needed it anyway.”

Later in the week, we both stared up at the lounge room ceiling in subdued dismay.

“Do you think those cracks in the paint and the popped nails in the ceiling have anything to do with the leak?” 

I asked Scotto, despondently.

We’ve since discovered we need to replace the entire ceiling throughout the whole damn house.

This is a nuisance because I have to take down all the pictures/paintings and remove all the ornaments around the place for when they paint.

Not to mention the fact that the house will be infested with strange tradies working in my house from early in the morning, watching me insert my false teeth whilst wearing my flea-bitten pajamas every morning… IN MY SCHOOL HOLIDAYS!

And as if that wasn’t enough, the roof guy came today to check there was no damage… and you guessed it… we need to have our ENTIRE ROOF replaced as well.

I pictured a semi-trailer meandering up the winding mountain road with a ‘wide load’ sign, carrying a large roof and followed by a long trail of extremely pissed off cars, but Scotto reassured me they bring the roof up in pieces.

What a pain in the bum this is all going to be.

I lived in the tropics for 50 years; we survived Cyclone Althea (1971), Cyclone Joy (1990), Cyclone Sid (1998), Cyclone Tessi (2000) and the mother of all cyclones, Yasi (2011).

One little hail storm up here and we have to have our roof and ceiling replaced.

A week before Christmas too.

Bugger.

And speaking of pains in the bum, Pablo the Chihuahua won’t stop licking his bum red raw even though we wormed him and I will probably have to take him to the vet which will most likely cost me a million dollars.

Why can’t we have a vet in the family?

Could Santa please make one of my children marry a vet?

Lulu recently ran into the Bondi Vet at the gym... he'd do...

Or even a ceiling/roof guy would be good...

What sort of son/daughter-in-law would be most convenient to you?

My Husband Loves Screwing Around

Sometime this year, we ousted our above ground pool because we never used it as it only gets hot enough to swim one/two days a year up here in the Gold Coast Highlands and the pool filter was escalating the fees incurred from our electricity bill (fancy way of saying our electricity bill was too fucking high).

The elderly lady who lives in the house below us probably wasn’t that impressed with 58000 litres of water spilling into her yard but we let it out slowly and we didn’t hear a peep from her.

I think her house has sunk a bit on one corner and maybe she drowned. Not really sure.

.

We decided to build decking over the resulting cavernous hole and the area is beginning to look a bit like a helipad.

Scotto estimates he has screwed in over 2000 screws so far. 

We don’t really need a helipad, but I’m positive it will come in handy when random movie stars and celebrity millionaires come to visit.

Now, after spending a fortune on timber to build this monstrosity, I suppose we will be expected to have it filled with expensive outdoor furniture.

FML.

I don’t like spending money. It’s the frugal Scottish ancestry coming out in me.

So, while Scotto has been outside in the harsh sun, building the deck and screwing his head off, I’ve been on school holidays and fruitfully employed binge watching Game of Thrones for the fourth time and attempting to replicate Cersei’s hairdos whilst sipping coffee and trimming my fungus infected toenails.

I’m constantly expecting Scotto to burst through the double dividing glass windows with a gold emblazoned screw driver and puncture my jugular in passionate revenge whilst screaming, “I’m the King of the North, why aren’t you working wench?”

But I don’t really feel guilty about him working laboriously whilst I laze around like a fat pig.

I know that each time Scotto hears the theme song of GOT echoing throughout the hallways of our castle after I’ve clicked on yet another episode, he grasps the importance of my ‘down time’ and comprehends that this is just my method of unwinding from a particularly stressful year.

I lie.

I have wasted my entire first week of my six weeks of school holidays, binge watching a very silly fantasy series which I have already watched three times.

What is wrong with me?

I’m sure I’ll break out of this careless and indolent period of hedonism sooner or later.

Maybe… next week.

Maybe.


What should I be doing instead (and please don’t say helping Scotto because I hate anything to do with screwing)?

When Your Inheritance is at Stake

Now that I’m on holidays I have some free time to visit my parents who live down the road.

I called in to their place yesterday at morning tea time in anticipation of a happy reunion and some of Dad’s home cooking.

I knocked plaintively at the door because the curtains were drawn and there were funeral dirges playing on the stereo; the air was sombre.

Mum greeted me at the door with a deep, tragic sigh and informed me that their beloved cocker spaniel, Albert, was in his  final stage of life and they were about to call in a priest for the extreme unction ceremony and anointing of oils.

Fat Albert was lying in his bed and wagged his tail and leaped up to greet me when I sauntered in to the subdued ambiance of the kitchen .

“He looks all right to me!” I scoffed in an attempt to lighten the melancholy atmosphere.

“No,” my mother exhaled heavily, a tear sliding down her cheek. “He’s gone off his food. We’re taking him to the vet. Not the horrible vet that can’t speak English, but to a proper vet. The poor animal probably won’t see out the end of this week.”

I pitied the poor non English speaking vet for a moment then went about by unprofessional examination.

I felt the spoiled creature’s ribs which still seemed to be adequately encased in a layer of fat (as far as my probing fingers were able to determine anyway). This is a dog who will most probably inherit my inheritance. I secretly wanted to pinch it to tell the truth. I wanted to pinch it hard.

When the cups of tea came out, Dad brought out a plate of shortbread biscuits.

“Here, Albert!” I called. “Come and have a biccy.” I whispered under my breath, “You little fudging faker”.
The dog approached me with bright eyes and wagging tail and snatched the shortbread from my hand, gobbling it up like a dog ready for a good old, rambunctious fox chase across the moors... or like Lassie finally coming home to Timmy... or like Rin Tin Tin alerting the WW1 soldiers about the approach of an enemy tank.

I gave the little fraud another biscuit… and another. Each biscuit was voraciously seized from my hand with a zealous, hungry ferocity which left distinct and painful fang marks in my knuckles.

“Well! He seems to have picked up a bit…” commented my mother.


Hmmm. Inheritance safe for another day.

Why I Haven't Been Blogging

Tuna the Dog

Tomorrow is the last day of school.

But guess who has a job again at the same beautiful, little country school next year?

I KNOOOOOOW! I’m ecstatic.

We had our staff Christmas party last Saturday and it was held up on my mountain so two of my teacher buddies had a sleep over and … well… let’s just say we bonded over eighties music and about eighteen bottles of wine.

On Tuesday night, the grade sixes had their graduation so (to avoid driving home at night) I had a sleep over at my teacher buddy, Catherine Mary’s house.

At first she put me in the bedroom next to hers and then she must have remembered that I kept her awake with my gentle snoring on school camp… so she shunted me right to the back of the house.

“I don’t want you to stay awake all night worrying about snoring,” Catherine Mary insisted magnanimously.

The idea had never entered my head. Why would I worry about that? It’s never worried me before. 

She’s such a thoughtful creature.

The last thing Catherine Mary told me about before we retired, was the fact that massive huntsmen spiders liked to run in and out of the open, unscreened windows in her rambling Old Queenslander. 

Needless to say, I had an exceptionally light sleep that night and consequently didn’t snore at all. 

It was nice of her to warn me though.

We went for a lovely walk in the morning before school and this is a photo that Catherine Mary took of the little town I work in.

Catherine Mary's awesome shot

Gorgeous isn’t it?

This is why I haven’t been blogging lately. I’ve been busy.

Today we took the kids to a place near Brisbane for ten pin bowling and laser skirmish. Because there was no room on the bus, I was allowed to drive and meet them all there. Naturally, I became hopelessly lost. I was still earlier to arrive than they were though because the bus driver got lost too.

I’ve just been busy wrapping Christmas presents for our end of year staff lunch tomorrow and I’ve sent Scotto up to the bottlo because I forgot something. He’s also on a mission to buy some chick starter and sawdust because one of the teachers at work is giving me three newborn chicks tomorrow. 

Scotto and I are already bickering over which Game of Thrones characters we’ll name them after.

Apparently these chicks are a cross between Pekins and Modern Game.

This is a picture of a Modern Game chicken.

Ugly, huh? They look like roadrunners. I don’t care though. 

I like ugly animals, in fact, the uglier the better.

I want a pet that can make me some money. It’s about time one of my pets started paying out.

There’s the famous “Tuna the dog”, and “Grumpy Cat”, and a fairly well-known porcupine but I don’t think there are any famous ugly chickens so perhaps mine shall be the first.

Now that the holidays are upon us, you can expect to hear a lot more from Pinky Poinker, but after today I won’t be posting on my own personal timeline (so as not to alienate my friends who hate Pinky’s guts, and believe me, there are some).

However, if you want to torture yourself you had better like Pinky’s Facebook page or you'll never hear from her again.

CLICK HERE!

Love youse all xxx

Damaged Goods

It was last Sunday morning when I sashayed into the vacuum cleaner selling place bearing a strong resolve NOT to be rude to the salesman. 

I usually find vacuum salesman to be of a highly irritating disposition and considering the fact I was about to purchase one of the most troublesome of household appliances, I knew in my heart that it would take all my strength to keep a civil tongue in my head.

I’d spent Sunday morning violently sneezing and after surmising my aggressive allergic reaction was the result of the twenty million, billion dust mites overrunning every crevice of my house, I’d dragged out my three year old, seventy dollar vacuum cleaner and begun the dreaded task of cleaning.

Naturally, the cheap piece of crap decided to cark it at the crucial moment and I exploded in a violent fury and marched out to Scotto, who was outside building the deck, and emotionally declared that we had to proceed at once to the vacuum cleaner selling place.

“I’m not spending more than two hundred dollars,” I wheezed and snuffled into a tissue on the drive down the mountain. “And I don’t want one with bags or a fudging cord. Don't let them talk me into it!”

How many wasted years of my life I’ve spent untangling cords, tripping over cords and ripping electric sockets out of the wall by cords, I couldn’t tell you.

“I have four dogs,” was my initial petulant reply to Derry (the vacuum cleaner salesman) on Sunday morning when he politely asked if he could ‘help me’.

“I need something cheap but effective,” I ranted. “I want something strong enough to suck a German Shepherd through a straw.”

I emphasised the word ‘cheap’.

I must admit, he was not at all pushy. He informed us that bags were preferable to bagless because of the ‘cleaning of the filter’ issue and that cordless vacuum cleaners only hold their charge for EIGHT MINUTES.

It takes me at least an hour to vacuum my house. Can you imagine the frustration, the utter rage, the bitter hostility which would arise if I was forced to stop proceedings every eight minutes in order to recharge the useless machine.

I walked out of there $500 poorer with a vacuum cleaner that had a very long cord and needed a constant supply of bags.

After I finished cleaning the house, my cautious review of the said appliance was a cool 6/10.

It was acceptable. I won’t say I liked it, but I didn’t hate its guts. I didn’t feel the need to bash it against the wall or fling it down the driveway and that’s quite promising.

“You’re not allowed to use it,” I said to Scotto pointedly, suspecting the last vacuum had died because of his rampant use of it when vacuuming up bits of plaster.

He assumed a downcast expression.

“What about if I just want to vacuum my office?” he enquired pitifully.

“I suppose that will be alright,” I agreed reluctantly, knowing in my heart he NEVER vacuumed his office, “as long as you don’t go vacuuming up all your little screws with it.”

Someone else using my brand new vacuum cleaner would defile it. It would be rendered corrupt, tarnished, sullied.

I just couldn’t bear the thought.

As I drove home on Monday afternoon, I suddenly had a horrible premonition that Scotto had used my new vacuum cleaner while I was at work... but I brushed the menacing vision away. Surely he wouldn’t have dared to use it so soon… surely?

Well… he had used it.

Of course.

Scotto can’t resist using anything new.

And now I feel as though my beautiful, new vacuum cleaner has been besmirched, its virginity has been spoiled, it’s a ruined woman.

I don’t think I like it at all now.

Pinky Goes Outlander Style

Dad on his steed

Scotto and I like to do something novel on weekends, apart from drinking, so lately we’ve been going horse riding.

This silly idea was entirely inspired by watching ‘War Horse’ one night (when we were drinking) and I lavishly pronounced that we should go and ride horses at once.

“That horse is so lovely.” I exclaimed to Scotto whilst observing the handsome and gallant War Horse. “I want to ride a horse just like him and have my hair flying in the wind with the rain on my face.”

Scotto never needs a second hint and before I knew it, we were booked for a two hour trail ride in the Gold Coast hinterland.

It was all right. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I enjoyed it… but it was all right.

Unfortunately, about four weeks later, we (were again drinking) watching Outlander on the telly, where there are quite a lot of very good looking, heroic people riding valiant horses...

 and I once again made the mistake of mentioning to Scotto that I should like a bit of equine activity.

“We should take Dad!” I enthused. “He loves horses.”

Dad is eighty two years of age and even though he is very fit and still has a four pack (which is quite extraordinary for a man his age), his usually dutiful daughter should not encourage him to put himself in treacherous and uncertain circumstances.

I sort of forgot about this whole discussion, but Scotto remembered (most inconveniently) and brought the subject up at our regular Sunday get together with my parents.

My mother was against my father’s engagement in this reckless scheme from the start, but after some earnest assurances to her that the horses were extremely gentle and that we barely get beyond a trot, she eventually acquiesced to the adventure.

I still felt a great deal of guilt however and hovered around my father like a bird over a chick until I saw him (dressed in his drizabone and proper riding boots) hoik himself onto the horse with all the physical fitness of the Man from Snowy River. He rode like the old school horseman he is and suffered no ill effects.

In the meantime, it took me three goes at mounting my flea-bitten nag even though I was standing on a milk crate.

However, apart from my horse scratching its entire body against a tree forcing me to lift my foot out of the stirrup and elevate my leg up in the air, most unbecomingly, in order to prevent its instant pulverisation, I suppose the ride was… all right.


One thing is certain however, Scotto and I really MUST stop watching movies starring horses.

Who Knocked Over the Water Bowl Again?

Last Sunday, Scotto and I strolled through the aisles of the IGA in a leisurely fashion when I abruptly stopped in front of a stand holding a stuffed, rainbow coloured, unicorn.

“I would buy this for Pablo the Chihuahua, however I know the little b#stard would rip it to pieces and then I’d have to pick up fluff for the next week,” I sighed, picturing in my mind the unfortunate “stuffed reindeer” incident last Christmas.

Pablo destroys every stuffed animal we buy for him. Firstly he blinds the creature by gnawing out its eyes, then he lovingly maims it in a slow, torturous manner, one ear/limb at a time. 

Finally the blameless effigy is disembowelled, beheaded and at last quartered, just as William Wallace was so violently executed by King Edward’s loyal soldiers.

“We should buy this for Celine,” Scotto announced, picking up a quite large rubber ball.

Celine eschews baby toys of the stuffed variety but adores anything bouncy.

I felt a bit guilty arriving home with only one present for one dog, but that’s what happens when you are a brutal, homicidal slayer of innocent, stuffed toys; you miss out.

To mention that Celine has been taking pleasure from her gift would be a gross understatement. I'm beginning to think the unicorn might have been a better option.


This is what we have had to put up with each and every evening…

Why Jumping Castles should be Banned from Existence

An event took place at school yesterday and I spent my Saturday afternoon and evening on crowd control duty in a rather small room, with 200 buoyant children who were in more than avid attendance. 

After it all finished, I endured a long drive, swerving around indiscriminate marsupials, who appeared to be on a suicidal mission, in the dark and ominous dampness. I recalled Wolf Creek and its antagonist many times during the journey. 

 I arrived home at 10 pm in a quite exhausted state. 

All I wished to do today was to relax… sans over-excited, screaming children. I’d had enough of under elevens.

After much passionate dialogue, Scotto and I eventually resolved we’d give Mel Gibson’s pub another go for lunch because the view is so attractive and we thus set off.

It was pleasing to see that the establishment had removed the offensive smoked chicken from the menu and I hoped my passive protest had not a small influence on that decision and looked forward to a decent meal.

What was not so pleasing, however, was largely influenced by this malevolent, foreboding structure set up in the middle of the fucking beer garden.

Fucking Jumping Castle

Nothing, and I mean NOTHING sets off exuberant shrieks, anguished laments resulting from two toddlers inopportunely smashing their heads together, or outraged tantrums with kids running off bawling in ear-piercing howls that communicate threats such as, ‘I’m telling on you to my mother, Corey!!!’ than a jumping castle.

A jumping castle in a beer garden is an abomination of the highest of highest orders.

Nevertheless, we had a table and we were settled.

Meanwhile, settled at the table beside us, were two mothers and three children who were thoroughly enjoying their plates of chicken nuggets and chips.

The three children, stimulated by the unnatural additives in their soft drinks, began to chant in raucous voices, “Yum, yum, eat my bum!”

I have no answer as to why they began this chant but suspect they liked the sound of the word ‘bum’ as well as the fact that ‘bum’ is rhymed with ‘yum’.

This was at first amusing I suppose but it went on for a quite some time, relentlessly actually, until one of the mothers finally intervened. “That is enough of the ‘bum’ word," she entreated the group gently. "Stop."

Silence ensued for about ten seconds until one of the more creative little boys began to chant, “Yum, yum, eat my doodle!”

Naturally, this threw me into a fit of immature, hysterical laughter. Scotto was dissolved in an infantile paroxysm of giggles. The mother, however, who was understandably mortified, began to scold the small boy who then began to inconsolably bawl his heart out while I was attempting to eat my bruschetta with some semblance of placidity.


I do love children but I also hope my own grown up children are practising safe sex for the time being.

The Mulberries

My father gave me a large bowl of home grown mulberries last week and I took a handful to school as a snack.

I was thrilled as I haven’t eaten mulberries since I was ten years of age and I love to receive free, organic produce.

I nibbled on them as I strolled around the playground whilst on duty.

“Mrs Poinker, your teeth are pink,” a well-meaning little grade one student, hanging upside down on the monkey bars, stoically informed me.

“Your teeth are blue,” I countered, observing the stain from a blue icy pole encircling the cheeky inverted mouth.

“But your teeth look scary,” the small creature replied, dropping to the soft fall and moving in for a closer inspection.

A collection of inquisitive, tiny children gathered around me, staring at my teeth in horrified fascination.

As soon as the bell went I raced into the bathroom to inspect the damage. All my teeth were indeed heavily stained but one particular tooth, my fake front tooth, looked as if it had been soaking in concentrated, heavy duty Red Dye 40 for at least a few decades.

I was terrified. What if the material the fake tooth was made of had absorbed the juice and I was destined to live the rest of my life with one bright magenta-coloured front tooth.

I swished water in a passionate and relentless manner for the rest of the day and by the time I arrived home it had faded to a rose pink.

By evening it had diminished to a romantic pastel.

Only a vestige of pink tinge remained in the morning.

That is the last time I ever eat mulberries.

But what else can I do with them? Tie dye t-shirts? Batik Printing?

P.S. Of late I have become utterly obsessed with Jane Austen. I have begun a separate blog site called Jane Aussie Austen where I intend to write Austenesque posts about my every day life. Dear Reader, I would never inflict this on you without your permission, however if you would like to follow it here is the link...

Jane Aussie Austen