Pinky's Book Link

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

The Little Brown Turducken

Byron Bay

It feels really weird but I'm actually sending this post from the Byron Bay beachfront because we can't get the Internet from where we are in Tweed Heads. Does this make me a blogger with an addiction? Do I need to go to BlogHab?

We arrived in Tweed Heads at about 5 o'clock on  Sunday and  a storm was coming in but the view from our view at Tail Waggers Retreat was stunning. 

(I'm not sure if "Tail Waggers Retreat" needs an apostrophe but at least I have more of a comprehension of apostrophes than the makers of this sign spotted at Burleigh....)

They're Taco, Nacho and Burger's beers OKAY????

We spent our first day checking out the pet friendly options at Burleigh on the Gold Coast. There were frickin mutts everywhere. Every cafe had a bull terrier or poodle tied up to a table so we felt quite at home until Pablo the Chihuahua decided to strut down the street like John Travolta listening to an imaginary soundtrack of Saturday Night Fever and proceed to malevolently attack every unsuspecting dog we passed.

"My God!" I squealed as we hurriedly stuffed our toasted sandwiches down our throats before we were asked to leave. "He even barked at that guide dog."

"That's ironic," guffawed Scotto.

I paused mid chomp. 

"What's ironic about that, Scotto?" 

"Well... you know, the dog can't even see him."

"The owner is visually challenged not the DOG!" I grumped.
"Anyway Scotto, we need to get a muzzle for this little brown shit. He's very anti-social."

Meanwhile, Celine the fox terrier simpered up to everyone we passed, sucking up the attention from passing children and rolling over to have her belly rubbed as her brother, Pablo, sat on the edge growling aggressively with a surly expression on his snarling snout.

We stopped at a pet shop and I ran in leaving the others in the air conditioned car.

"I need a muzzle for a savage dog," I bleated at the girl in the store.

She directed me to the muzzle display.

"I'm not sure these will fit?" I said. "He's just outside. Shall I bring him in?"

"Okaaaay," she replied nervously.

I went back out to the car and retrieved the Hound of the Baskerville from his harness and carried him in.

The owner of the shop had come to the counter and I swear it was the Dog Whisperer, Caesar. He even had the accent.

"Zis is za dog?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes," I answered, as Pablo bunged on the terrified, tiny dog act and started clawing my shoulders and quivering like a frickin mouse.

"Eeee iz too small for muzzle," said the Dog Whisperer with a small measure of disgust in his voice and staring sorrowfully at the tiny Pablo.

I scurried back out with Pablo gleefully perched on my shoulder like a self-satisfied parrot.

"Apparently eee is too small for a muzzle," I whimpered to Scotto.

Anyway, we thought we'd pay a visit to my parents who are dog lovers and carry the genes I seem to have inherited.

Mum had set up her veranda so it was dog friendly and as we sat drinking wine and chatting, Pablo sat on my lap growling viciously every time Dad leaned forward to top up my Cab Sav.

"He’s a very sour looking dog isn't he?" commented my mother.

"Yes," I said. "He's a little brown turd."

Burleigh Beach

Saturday, December 27, 2014

How to Get Along with your Step Daughter

“So I hope you realise how much I’ve sacrificed having a good time on my holiday because of you,” I groused, as I sat in the car waiting for Scotto to pick up the key to our room from motel reception this afternoon.

“We can’t go out anywhere nice, can’t leave you in the motel room alone, can’t have any fun at all really! All because of you. You!”

“Yes, I do know and I appreciate it, Pinky,” came a polite little voice from the back seat.

I spun around in my seat, horrified.

“I was talking to the DOG, Petal. The Dog! Surely you didn’t think I meant you?”

We left on our road trip yesterday morning with Scotto’s thirteen year old daughter, Petal and Celine the Fox Terrier and Pablo the Chihuahua tethered in the back seat. The plan was to drop Petal back to her Mum in the New England area on our way through after she’d spent Christmas with us.

“I wasn’t sure,” answered Petal.

“You don’t think I’m an evil stepmother do you? I would never say that! The dogs’ve spoiled my holiday, not you!”

“I know,” she replied quietly.

I’ve tried to be a good stepmother over the last ten years, I really have.

So anyway, after driving for nine hours we’d arrived at the Ambassador (pet friendly) Motel in Rockhampton. 

Bloody Rockhampton. Just as stinkin’ hot as North Queensland but incorporating a massive bull with huge testicles hanging between its legs planted in the main street into the mix.

The Ambassador motel owners are true blue; dinky di, the nicest people… ever. They are just as mental about dogs as their beatendownbycaninesobsessive clientele. It was a decent, tiled room and we were allowed to feed and keep the spoiled Beverley Hills mongrels in the room with us. The only stipulation is that you’re not allowed to leave the dogs in the room alone, BUT the motel has an excellent room service menu AND sells booze at the counter at a reasonable price. 

Let’s face it… there ain’t a hell of a lot to do in downtown Rocky on a mid-holiday season night anyways.

We left home at 5:00 this morning when the sun was just rising; reminiscent of family holidays when I was a kid when Mum would make us eat Weetbix at 4:00am before a road trip and my sister Sam would invariably spew all over the back car seat (whilst inconveniently positioned beside you know who).
Scotto and I decided we’d stop for breakfast at ‘Bowenwood’. It used to be called ‘Bowen’ until they made the movie ‘Australia’ there and the flamboyant mayor decided to label it fudging, Bowenwood.
I seriously hate Bowen. There’s NOTHING I like about Bowen except Horseshoe Bay where we sat and ate our bacon and egg Mc Styrofoam. 

Horseshoe Bay, Bowen.

It’s a pretty bay, I’ll give it that… but with an underlying secret loathing for all things Bowen; the depressing salt pans, the stupidly wide streets and the absence of human life. I swear we did not see one living soul apart from the young girl who served us at Maccas who had NEVER HEARD of Horseshoe Bay and couldn’t even give us directions.

R.I.P. Bowen.

So now, as the weary travellers rest on our bed in downtown Rockhampton on our way to the luxurious 5 star resort, “Tail Waggers”, Scotto lies fast asleep and the dogs are cringing beside me like a pair of miniature dire wolves ready to pounce on and savage anyone who happens to walk past our door to ask reception for extra milk.

“At least someone loves me,” I gestured at the dogs and joked to Petal who was watching a terrible movie starring ‘The Rock’ on the telly.

I love you, Pinky,” she whispered.

"I love you too, Petal," I replied after a moment's stunned silence.

Gold I tell you. It was pure gold.

I ask you my friends… would you sacrifice your holiday for your pets?

Friday, December 26, 2014

Boxing Day Miracle

If I had to choose which actor I’d want to play me in a movie, I think I’d have to go for Benny Hill. Even though he’s no longer with us in the ‘living’ world, I’d at least have the soundtrack to his show going on in the background. I don't chase buxom women around park benches or anything but he really did set the bar for silliness, didn’t he?

My five hobbits and I have one ‘set in stone’ tradition. Every Boxing Day we go to the movies to see the latest new release and if there’s anything Peter Jackson directed on the big screen… we’re there.

We’ve been to all the Lord of the Rings movies since 2001 and have loyally attended the last two instalments of The Hobbit, so it was a given as to where we’d be this Boxing Day.

At about 11 o’clock this morning I sent a flurry of text messages checking my own hobbits were all coming to the 2:30 pm showing of The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies. Trying to track them all down was harder than shooting an arrow directly into Smaug’s soft spot but I managed it somehow and the Poinker hobbits (bar Hagar, who was channelling Bear Grylls and pulling in crocodile crab pots in some remote estuary) were locked in.

“Two thirty show’s booked out Pinky!” announced Scotto.

“Fudge- knuckle, Scotto!” I hissed.

Back I went, texting like a crazy lady and a 4:00pm show was finally agreed upon. Lulu’s friend and Tolkien aficionado, Sanri, wanted to come too so I booked six tickets. Sanri was to arrive at 3:30pm and drive Lulu, myself and Padraic whilst Jonah and Thaddeus would meet us there.

“Surely you're not going like that?” I said to nineteen year old Padraic, when he arrived and jumped in the back of Sanri’s car, shirtless and shoeless.

He held up a crumpled t-shirt as if to say, ‘Never fear,I have my tuxedo in hand, mother.’

“But what about shoes for God’s sake, Padraic?” I chided. “They won’t let you in without bloody shoes! Even Reading’s Cinema have a minimum dress standard!”

He was out of the car and back in a flash with a pair of rubber thongs he’d found on the veranda.

“I think I might have grabbed someone else’s thongs,” Padraic said, as we all tumbled out of the car after arriving at the cinema.

‘Mmmm,’ I thought. ‘My nine year old nephew Heinrich’s fudging thongs.’ Padraic's feet were hanging over the ends by a good 15 centimetres.

Padraic in Heinrich's Thongs

‘What the fudge,’ I thought. ‘More shame him.’

I’m used to walking about ten paces behind my kids in case anyone suspects they belong to me anyway.

Our online tickets were printed at the counter and I sent the girls and Padraic inside to save seats while I waited for Jonah and Thaddeus in the foyer.

Three minutes later Lulu was out to buy popcorn. “There’re no seats together, mother. It’s fully booked and packed inside.”

‘Great,’ I thought. ‘I’ll be stuck down the bloody front again with my neck snapped back in an unnatural, root canal therapy position.'

Thaddeus arrived and I gave him his ticket and sent him in to fight the wolves.

But where the fudge was Jonah? He was always on time! Mr Punc-tu-fudging-ality.

Before too long I spied his jaunty frame heading towards me, pausing at the snack counter to stare at the popcorn.

“Here, take your ticket, I’ll meet you inside,” I said and went towards the usher.

“Um… this isn’t a ticket,” she frowned at me. “This is just the receipt.”

“But…” I stammered. “I bought six tickets online. The other four people are inside and there’s just me and… him.” I gestured towards Jonah, salivating at the snack stand.

“Sorry,” she shrugged.

I sat on the leather seat in the foyer and sniffing away tears, sifted through my bag for a non-existent ticket, even though I knew it was a fruitless task. The fudge-wit at the ticket counter had clearly made a mistake.

“You go in love…” I bleated to Jonah. “I’ll just sit outside for the three hours. No matter.”

“Okay,” he shrugged, munching on his buttered popcorn and balancing his icy coke cheerfully.

I pictured myself lying on the foyer floor tracing the swirls on the carpet and counting bits of fluff and crumbs for the next few hours until security came and escorted me from the premises.

Then a miracle occurred… a fudging Boxing Day miracle.

“Ma’am?” said the usher, approaching me as I sat despondently on the couch in the foyer. “You can go in. It’s okay. I believe you. It says six tickets on the receipt and there are only four inside plus him, right?” she said gesturing towards Jonah.

“Yes!” I squealed, unable to believe someone was ready to cut the red fudging tape and break with protocol.

“I’ll bring them all out and introduce them to you afterwards!” I beamed at her.

“Not necessary ma’am. Enjoy the movie.”

Naturally, Jonah and I had to sit in the second row and I had a neck stiffer than a scotch on the rocks by the end of it, but we could see Thaddeus and wave to him because he was sitting in a seat for the disabled right behind us.

God knows where the other three were, but we got to see the movie together, sort of.

And whoever that beautiful usher girl at Reading’s cinema was… thank you and God bless.

Who would you choose to play you in a movie?

P.S. Drawing of Mortein prize pack still pending.

Monday, December 22, 2014

A Letter to Santa from a Middle-aged Woman.

Pinky and Santa c.1964 (Crying)

Dear Santa,

I know you’re quite busy at this time of year and I’m sorry this letter is arriving so late.

There is one thing I’m hoping to find in my stocking on Christmas morning as on the whole I think I've been a fairly good and honest girl this year apart from the time I dropped a sausage on the kitchen floor whilst cooking Scotto’s dinner but put it back on his plate anyway. It was the five second rule you see and I managed to get it out of the (recently wormed) Chihuahua’s mouth before he left any visible teeth marks.

I realise the floor hadn't been mopped for at least two weeks but that’s because I like to vacuum before I mop and I hadn't been able to vacuum for at least two weeks because the vacuum cleaner has been broken ever since I threw it against the wall in a fit of temper after it kept getting trapped on the skirting boards.
I know it was a relatively new vacuum cleaner and I have a violent history with that particular type of household appliance but the effort of vacuuming brings on the hot flushes which in turn bring on intense feelings of rage which leads to profuse bouts of swearing and a low tolerance towards aggravating domestic machinery causing one to hurl said items at the wall.
I know I really should have informed Scotto the sausage had spent a small amount of time on the floor in close proximity to the Chihuahua’s mouth but I made certain to offer him the pepper grinder so that if he happened upon any crunchy bits he’d not be overly suspicious. Besides, I've read that ingesting germs is good for the immune system and I’m not sure how many germs Scotto ingests each day but surely more can only be better.
The other point in my defence is that I’d been standing cooking the snags over a hot stove which is another effective way to provoke a hormonal surge inflaming one’s face with a burning uncomfortable flushing sensation, stimulating murderous emotions and hateful, internal self-questioning as to why in God’s name one is cooking sausages on a hot summer evening for one’s husband when one is in fact, a pescatarian and one’s husband is not a blind cripple.
When Scotto asked me if I’d remembered to buy his favourite smoky barbecue sauce I smiled pleasantly and confessed I’d forgotten again. I can assure you it was a smile not a spiteful smirk into my wine glass as it may have appeared to be on the surface. 

Although I sometimes find his peculiar obsession with needing every possible type of condiment available to mankind to be grating, I would NEVER deliberately forget the smoky barbecue sauce and think to myself we still had two bottles of the normal barbecue sauce and he could just deal with it or have nothing… because that wouldn't be very wifely or nice… would it? 

Scotto's Condiments

Similarly, when he asked me to fetch egg nog at the supermarket I would never lie to him and say they’d sold out because I’d noticed it was $4.80 a litre which is a ridiculous price to pay for glorified flavoured milk and because walking around the supermarket instigates hot flushes, anxiety attacks and bitter resentment as to how some people can drink egg nog until it’s coming out of their eyeballs and not get fat whilst others just look at it and gain another spare tyre. 

Scotto's Egg Nog

 That would be plain mean and not in the Christmas spirit at all.

Anyway dear Santa… the thing is, I have been very good this year and I was wondering if I could please have some estrogen in my stocking this year because it seems I may be running out of the silly hormone. 

Just the regular type will be fine and don’t worry about gift wrapping it… I’ll take it to go.

Love Pinky x

Pinky c. 1964

Tell me... what's on your wish list?

Linking up with Jess at Essentially Jess for #IBOT

Friday, December 19, 2014

Australian Horror Story

I heard girlish screams coming from the lounge room last night. I dropped the spoon on the kitchen bench and ran in to see what was going on.

Scotto stood in the middle of the room manically flailing a TV guide around in the air.

“What is it, Scotto?” I yelled in panic. “What’s the matter?”

“A cockroach just flew in the window,” he shrieked Nathan Lane style, swatting the air with Rove McManus.

“Is that all?” I sighed and turned to go back to my cooking. “You don’t need to worry about the cockroaches that fly! They’re just German Cockroaches. They don’t hurt you.”

“That sounds like bollocks to me,” he replied, staring around the room nervously, waiting for the Red Baron to appear out of nowhere and engage in mortal aerial combat. “What’s the difference between German cockroaches and ordinary cockroaches? It looked exactly the same as all the others to me. That cockroach didn’t look particularly German to me.”

“Well Scotto,” I pontificated. “My Grandma used to tell me the ones that fly are hygienic German cockroaches so… ,” I began to falter when I looked more closely at the oily, brown insect crawling up the lounge room wall. It did look EXACTLY like a normal cockroach; it wasn’t even performing the Sieg Heil and goosestepping around the skirting boards or anything.

Maybe it was just pretending to be a German cockroach?

Maybe my dear old Grandma had been telling me porkies?

Like the time she told me that Toe-biters don’t really bite your toes and then I was bitten on the toe by one during an episode of Matlock Police and screamed her house down until ice was applied.

My Grandma had no flyscreens on her old fibro house and on nights she babysat us a multitude of insects would scurry in and out while we watched Cop Shop or Homicide on the telly.

Not to mention the swarms of mosquitoes flying in, attracted by the lights and ignoring the pongy mosquito coils on saucers which would inevitably be tripped over by one of us kids. It’s all fun and games until someone acquires a second degree burn on an ankle.

No one really talked about Dengue Fever or Ross River Fever back then, even though we all lived on the actual ‘Ross Fudging River’. I can throw a stone from my bedroom window and it will land in Ross River we’re that close to it.

Well it would if I didn’t throw like a girl (Scotto’s words not mine).

I don’t think those particular fevers had been invented back in the sixties. A mosquito bite was just a mosquito bite then not a debilitating disease. Either that or the rheumatic inflammation was dismissed as ‘growing pains’… who knows.

Anyway, I was concerned about my Grandma’s possible deception (and post war racism) so I looked it up on Google. Apparently there ARE German cockroaches (in Germany they're called Russian cockroaches which is funny) and also Asian cockroaches in Australian households.

German cockroaches don’t fly and the Asian ones do.

NB: Have you ever seen an Australian freakin cockroach? I saw one as we were leaving a fete late one night.

“Has someone lost their little dog?” asked a plaintive ten year old Jonah pointing at what at first appeared to be a Yorkshire Terrier. I glanced over and almost fainted at the sight of the behemoth. Thank God they don’t infiltrate houses and just stick to leaf litter is all I’m sayin’.

Although why a cockroach is cleaner if it can fly has now begun to raise a few questions, Grandma.

Surely a flying cockroach is capable of traversing much more immoral and offensive areas (such as sewers, mortuaries and teenager’s rubbish bins containing maggoty leftover quarter pounders) than a non-flying cockroach (which is relegated to lowly kitchen cupboards and toothbrushes on the bathroom sink) and indeed, should be even more alarming.

Lulu, my 18 year old daughter, was asked to do the washing up the other night. Imagine my jaded disappointment when I walked downstairs to find the sink still overloaded with greasy dishes the next morning.

“I couldn’t do it, mother!” she exclaimed in disgust. “I came down here late at night and there was a huge cockroach sitting on the kitchen counter staring at me. Why don’t you get the pest exterminators in? This place is filthy!”

“Well that’s because he smelled all the leftovers on the plates you were supposed to clean up before we went to bed!” I said. “And besides, I like to deal with things on a more personal level. I don’t like exterminators.”

I’ve never liked the idea of a guy dressed like he’s reading radio-active levels at Chernobyl, spraying stuff around the house while I’m inside mask less, drinking my tea.

That's why I like to use spray and baits. I put the dog’s dishes away and spritz my pest control products around the areas I know the Sergeant Schultz, and Hong Kong Phooey cockies are likely to congregate in: the corners, the skirting boards, the doorways and my rubbish bin under the kitchen sink.

As for the mozzies; well, there’s nothing like the scent of mosquito repellent in the air to make it feel like it really is Summer.

This is a sponsored post and I am delighted to offer you the chance to win a package of Mortein products to keep cockroaches and mosquitoes (of any nationality) away from your home.

All you need to do is leave a comment in the comments section on the blog and I'll put your name in a draw!

The winner will be announced on Christmas Day!

Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace for #FYBF

Wednesday, December 17, 2014

I Needed to Wash My Willy!

It’s been so hot, almost 40 degrees 'apparent' temperature. That’s the temperature it feels like when you add in the freakin hideous humidity factor. 

I felt so sorry for my German Shepherd, Borat with his long woolly coat I thought I’d better give him a haircut.

I spent hours today, back bent, brushing out his moulting hair and filled three shopping bags with it. 

At some stage I looked over to spy an extremely grubby silky terrier, Willy lurking behind the pot plant. He watched me with his shifty eyes wary of the fact he might be next in line. 


He sported more dreadlocks than a Rastafarian and if I’d put a little red, green and gold knitted cap on him he could have busked on the street reggae style to Buffalo Soldier and made a small fortune.

The thing is, you can’t let on to Willy he’s about to have a bath or he runs away and hides somewhere impossible to reach. Like when he squeezes himself between the wall and the air-conditioner and if you try to pull him out he bites like a little fricken mofo.

So I had to come up with a plan. I had to beat this dog at his own devious game and decided to trick him with a sausage left over from last night’s dinner.

I snuck up silently; whisking him up in one fell swoop as he unsuspectingly inhaled the sausage. Then I carried him as he viciously struggled and screamed out, “Me is well conscious of what you is doin’ to I! Dis is fockin bullshit mun! Kiss mi backside fassyhole!”

But somehow I managed to plunge him snout deep in the cool, soapy water in the laundry tub before he could sink his menacing, bitey, little teeth into my arm.

You would not believe the stuff that came floating out of that mucky, little terrier. I think it's entirely possible there were other lifeforms enjoying a symbiotic relationship within his dreads which I unintentionally drowned and washed down the sink during that bath: a species of lichen, barnacles, some coral, a hermit crab… and maybe a couple of clownfish.

I gave Willy a haircut (the Wednesday Wacky Style special) and released him back into the yard so he could go and roll in something disgusting again.

Rotting bones and poo-poo probably.

Washed your dog or cat lately? Did they enjoy it?

"If yuh sleep wid dawg, yuh ketch im flea"
Bob Marley (or possibly not).

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

I Killed Christmas

Lulu (18 year old daughter), Thaddeus (25 year old son) and the ‘Son Who Can’t Be Named’ (SWCBN) were over last night enjoying the regular Monday night Spag Bol for dinner. 

The Chihuahua and Fox Terrier sat jealously slavering on the sidelines hoping for them to drop something.

After receiving useless, but highly competitively selected Christmas presents from the five kids over the years (I know it’s the thought that counts isn’t it? But I did go through 45 months of vicious morning sickness, an unnatural aversion to coffee and forced Chardonnay abstinence for them. Not to mention five horrible labours and lots of boring parent teacher interviews), I’d decided to take a stance.

“I'd really like you all to put in twenty dollars each for a restaurant voucher for my Chrissy present please,” I politely requested.

“I’m putting you in charge, SWCBN,” I added, because he seemed like the most obvious being the bossiest and most domineering and all.

“How am I supposed to collect all the money from everyone?” SWCBN responded gruffly.

“I don’t know… that’s your bloody job, my dear!” I huffed.

“But you can’t expect me to drive all the way to Hagar’s place to collect twenty bucks from him?” he complained.

“Internet. Fudging. Banking?” I pipped.

“Can’t you just ask Hagar for the money and give it to me?” he bleated piteously.

“Isn’t that defeating the purpose of me getting a moderately priced but pseudo-surprise Christmas present?” I retorted. "Like...if I have to collect all the money?"

“But you’ll already know what you’re going to get mother,” he responded.

“You know we’re all working now so we’ll all be buying you something extra anyway, Mother,” Lulu interjected.

“NOOOO! That’s want I want to avoid! Because if you spend all your cash on my present then I’ll have to pay for your lunch every day the following week, or for your tyre re-treads the next week or your motor vehicle insurance. Just twenty fudging bucks each. That’s all I fudging ask. Together. That’s all. We’ll get a lovely romantic lunch or dinner for that,” I pleaded.

“Where do you want the voucher to be for?” asked an attentive but brooding Thaddeus.

“Michel’s! That lovely French restaurant! I’d love that! We’d get a top of the range meal for one hundred bucks there!” I replied excitedly.

“What if they don’t do vouchers?” someone asked.

“Why wouldn’t they do vouchers for cripe’s sake?” I asked, suddenly beginning to suspect this task was being relegated to the too fudging hard basket.

“Maybe they don’t. What’s an alternative mother?”

“Fudging McDonald’s then!” I yelled. “Buy me a damn Maccas voucher! Is it too much to ask for something I’d really actually like that won't inevitably cost me a fortune because you’ll all be fudging broke after Christmas?”

There was silence after that.

Everyone picked at their Spaghetti Bolognese and the dogs sat slinking unctuously in the corner licking their butts.

I think I killed Christmas a little bit.

My prayers and thoughts to the victims and families of the Martin Place siege 16.12.14.

Linking up with Jess at Essentially Jess for #IBOT

Monday, December 15, 2014

Why you shouldn’t fight with your husband without proper preparation.

Evil Sangria

Yesterday began fairly normally. We slept in then prepared to go to lunch at my friend Dolly’s place.

Going to Dolly’s place is always an experience and a half. The lady knows how to do lunch. In fact you’re lucky to get out alive after a lunch at Dolly’s.

I blame the intolerable 40 degree heat and the Sangria for a lot of what went down.

Dolly, Julie, Val and Patrice.

The first two glasses slipped down my dehydrated throat just a little too quickly. I’d eaten zilch for breakfast and had done five kilometres on the treadmill so it must have been the massive sugar hit that rocked my socks off.

Italian sausages

The retro prawn cocktails and Italian sausages with couscous salad were washed down with crisp Chardonnay then followed up with delectable tiramisu and an unidentified dessert wine.

Delicious tiramisu made by Julie

Dolly brought out the playing cards gifted to her by her daughter Mads. “Oh look, Pinky!” she said. “You have a royal flush!” 

Royal Flush!

And she wasn't referring to my rosy, broken capillaries either.
We played a few games including one where head gear was a necessary fashion accessory.

Flattering huh?

It wasn’t long before Dolly was struck by the urgent impulse to don her Stevie Nicks wig and hat.

Dolly channeling Stevie.

 Then she brought out the fake drinking boobs also gifted to her by the wicked Mads.

Novel boobs!

At some stage Scotto resolved that he too would make an excellent Stevie Nicks doppelganger and it was around that point I deemed he was having too good a time and sent him a hostile text from another room where I’d begun my steady descent into seedy belligerence.

Steven Nicks.

We took a taxi home and for some inexplicable reason I felt it imperative to pick a fight.

“I’m sleeping in the spare room,” I exploded when we arrived home. “Don’t bring me coffee in the morning because I shall not be speaking to you until Christmas Day.”
Now this is where I made my biggest mistake.

The spare room has a television in it but I don’t know how to turn it on and I certainly couldn’t trot back down the hall and ask Scotto how to turn it on because I’d just informed him I wasn’t speaking to him until Christmas Day.

I’ll just read my Kindle, then, I thought.

The trouble was I’d left my reading glasses in the bedroom as well.

The dogs had followed me into the spare room with tails between their legs. They knew Mummy and Daddy were fighting. Pablo began frantically scratching at the door to go back to his father so whilst swearing and cursing, I let him out. Five minutes later he was back scratching at the spare room door. This went on a few times before I roused on him and he crept under the covers, deeply traumatised by his alcoholic, pugnacious mother.

I found some inadequate reading glasses in my handbag (which was the ONLY thing I’d remembered to bring with me).

But I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

About an hour later I awoke, mouth as dry as a dead dingo’s donger and groped around for my bedside glass of water.

There was no water. Where the fudge am I? I thought in confusion. Oh that’s right, fighting with Scotto. I’ll show the b#stard.

What did he do again? I can’t remember… but it must have been something pretty bad. Gawd… I need to go to the toilet but it’s all the way down the hall and if I go I’ll disturb the dogs and they’ll start their infernal scratching again. And I’m so thirsty. Why the hell am I in the spare room on a single bed squashed between two dogs and Scotto’s sprawled out on the King size bed with the ensuite and a nice glass of water beside him. Why didn’t I insist he go to the spare room? Why is my head hurting? Who invented Sangria?”

I drifted off after a few hours of wondering how I was going to manage to keep up my promise of not talking to Scotto for the next ten days when I needed to ask him how to download that new Marion Keyes book onto my Kindle. Did this mean I wouldn’t be able to watch Carols in the Domain on Christmas Eve because I can’t turn on the telly? Also, how would I be able to tell Scotto what I want for Christmas? And should I tell him to cancel our holiday after Christmas? I don’t think we’ll get our deposit back. Maybe we could still go on the holiday and we just wouldn’t communicate for the entire holiday. I can be a stubborn little b#tch when I want. I’m sure I could do it.

It was about 8:00 am when I was awoken by Pablo and Celine licking my nose with their legs tightly crossed so I let them out to do their business.

Where's my morning coffee? I can’t move without my morning coffee. I thought morosely.

Why did I tell Scotto not to bother with bringing me coffee? Was I possessed by the spirit of some truculent martyr last night or something?
He’d already gone to work by the time I dragged my bloated bladder up to finally empty it and then gulped down three glasses of water.

Now I’m back in my bedroom watching the telly and witnessing the horrifying siege at Martin Place unfold and wondering how I’d feel if Scotto was one of the hostages in the Lindt café and I hadn’t apologised to him for being such a little shrew last night and how worried the parents, friends and families must be for their loved ones trapped inside.

So… I’ll say it now.

I’m sorry Scotto.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Pauline's Pronation Party!

Now I’m on school holidays it’s time to get all those revolting medical appointments over and done with.

I had an appointment with the podiatrist this arvo and at least I didn’t have to spend the entire day dreading it.

I mean… at least they weren't going to perform horrifically painful, invasive procedures in my mouth (like the dentist) or rudely poke my vagina (like the doctor). 

The issue was only concerning my feet and surely they wouldn’t need to see my vagina for that?


I was going to see about my bunion, the infamous Paul/Pauline Bunyan

Ironically my booked podiatrist was named Paul and I couldn’t wait to tell him about his namesake.

I’d been to Athlete's Foot to buy a pair of runners yesterday and Melanie, the shop assistant, had almost fainted when she first spied Paul/Pauline.

“We may have a problem here,” Melanie smiled wanly as she measured my feet. “One of your feet is about 2 centimetres longer than the other because of your (nervous cough)… that big ‘thing’ on your toe.”
“I’m going to the orthodontist about it tomorrow!” I exclaimed defensively.

“You mean the podiatrist,” she smiled.

“Oh yeah, I meant a podiatrist. I was just thinking about orthotics in shoes and got mixed up,” I replied sheepishly.
Mind you, Paul/Pauline is getting so big he/she almost needs braces.

The previous week I was strolling around the shopping centre when the strap on my sandal broke. Paul/Pauline had burst through it in all his/her glory. Paul/Pauline was finally demanding medical attention in the only way he/she knew how.

Anyway, I arrived at the podiatrist this afternoon after carefully showering, shaving and lavishly spraying my feet with Balenciaga Flora Botanica and cutting my toenails beforehand.

I have a similar preparation ritual when I know the doctor is going to be looking at my pink bits (except the cutting toenails bit). 

I’m just like that, okay?

Podiatrist Paul was lovely. He made me do all sorts of things like walk up and down the hallway and stand on my toes while he watched intently.

“You have Pronation,” he declared triumphantly. “Some people say Pronation is bad but it’s not always bad.”

I squinted at him thinking he was referring to Pauline Hanson for some reason.

‘Pronation is always bad!’ I thought to myself quietly.

Then he went on to describe how Pronation is a fancy way to describe the way your foot rolls inward when you walk and because I have loose ligaments mine rolls in excessively.

The long and short of it is; I have a large bunion.

Who knew?

I need orthotics which will cost me over $1000.

It won’t annihilate Paul/Pauline but it may stop it from growing to the point where it needs be enrolled in Prep School.

Then, Paul the podiatrist proceeded to shave bits of dead skin from under my toes. I watched the flaky slivers of my yellowed corns drop onto his perfectly ironed pants and wondered who did his washing.

If Scotto was a podiatrist I wouldn’t let him into the house without a Silkwood style wash down, I’m here to tell you.

I never summoned the guts to tell Paul the podiatrist my bony protrusion/extra toe/alien baby shared the same name as him. It would have been awkward.

Especially when he had his tiny little grinder out and it tickled my feet so much I started giggling like a three year old.

Have you ever been to a podiatrist?

Thursday, December 4, 2014

Secret Santa Secrets

Secret Santa Sucks!

Five people asked me why I was at work so early today… five. What? Don’t they have a life? They have to check whether or not Pinky’s Golden Boy is parked in her OCD parking spot every morning?

“It’s just that you usually arrive about three minutes before the bell goes,” Shazza sang out rudely across the staff room.

That’s completely untrue you know. I punctually arrive thirteen minutes before the bell goes. There’s still plenty of time to switch my sunnies to reading glasses, put my lunch in the fridge and harass a few people as I perform my dramatic sweep through the early bird conchies, drinking their cups of tea and staring into Zombieville. 

 It’s not like they’re actually doing any work anyway.

The reason I arrived an unprecendented twenty-four minutes before the bell today was so I could sneak my Secret Santa’s present into her pigeon hole before she arrived. Unfortunately she sprung me hovering around the office ladies annoying them for sticky tape so the entire effort was wasted. 

That sucked.

The environmentally friendly brown paper bag her present was ensconced in was too easily identifiable and the game was up. I hope she liked it.

I don’t think I’ll join in on Secret Santa anymore. It’s way too stressful. I hear everyone else on staff whinging about what they get and I end up being way too extravagant to ensure my S.S. isn’t disappointed.

Then, when I open my S.S, I usually have to do the fake smiley, over exuberant platitude thing in case my S.S. is watching and I’m a terrible actress. I used to be a mediocre actress but the light inexplicably went out on that talent years ago.

Probably the Botox.

Even though S.S. is supposed to cover all festive magnanimity , my dear friend and colleague, O’Reilly, decided we should exchange gifts within our grade four cohort. This means I have to buy three extra presents which really shites me off, bah humbug.

I shouldn’t be mean about O’Reilly because he added a truly awesome card with his gift which he clearly put a great deal of thought into.

Awesome card!

I’m obsessed with saying Ermahgerd! and Bananas!

Shazza, another grade four colleague, gave me a bottle of Chardonnay. 

Not so much thought, methinks.

“Do you mind if I just give you a bottle of Sav Blanc back?” I asked her this arvo.

“Nup,” she replied.

“Can I use the same bag you gave me?” I asked.

“Yep,” she answered brusquely.

“Can I use the same card and just switch our names?” I ventured.

“Whatever, Pinky,” she sighed.

So I did.

Cheapskate present.

What do you think about gift swapping at work?

PS: I did love my S.S. present this year just in case you're reading.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Don't buy girls pink this Christmas!

I was inspired to write this after watching Mrs Woog's (Woogsworld) hilarious vlog today.

Greens Senator Larissa Waters would have been infuriated with me this afternoon. In fact she may have even smacked me in the face with the pointy end of a Barbie doll and anyone who’s ever experienced a Barbie bit piercing the sole of your foot on the way to midnight ablutions knows how much that would hurt.

It’s the last three days of school for the year and to prove to my students I’m not a wizened, spiteful harridan all the time, I thought we’d play some games in the classroom.

I had the desks lined up and the kids were taking turns blowing a crumpled piece of paper with a straw to see who could get it to the end first.

We called it “The 4B Paper Blowing Olympics!”

See… I can be quite whimsical when I choose.

I must say I regretted any fanciful notions I could be a fun teacher when the cheering started up. I began nervously staring at the phone waiting for the Deputy to call and ask if she needed to turn on the lockdown siren because surely someone must be being murdered down my end of the school with the hysterical racket she could hear from her office.

But my politically incorrect gaff occurred when I handed out the straws; pink for the girls and blue for the boys.

According to Ms Waters I was gender stereotyping; I’m promoting domestic violence and the gender pay gap with my thoughtless labelling.

Little Darius was quite affronted by my heinous actions and insisted I give him a pink straw… which I did.

This No Gender December thing upsets me in the same way putting prisoners in pink uniforms to shame them upsets me. What the hell is wrong with pink?

If giving girls pink clothing and toys places them in a particular pigeonhole, then shouldn’t the same thing happen to boys who are dressed in pink?

By the time I had my fourth son I was so sick of dressing babies in blue and yellow I began buying pink clothes for all of the boys. They had Cabbage Patch Dolls too, girl ones. 

I have a photo somewhere of little Jonah running around in a jaunty pink and yellow Lycra swim shirt. Padraic had a pink Hawaiian shirt which complimented the long, golden curls I couldn’t bring myself to cut off. They were Power Ranger crazy back in the day and one of the boys must have been the pink one, on reflection.


My predilection for pink didn’t affect their career aspirations at all. Two of my boys are tradies and two are lawyers so despite whatever the fanatical screamers are saying I did to my sons’ gender identity clearly doesn’t seem to have influenced them one way or the other.

Personally, I think Ms Waters is merely another pinkist.

I mean why don’t we just ban the colour altogether if we’re going to hand the reins over to the fudgewits of the world who want to scream about every little thing in life.

Perhaps Ms Waters would like the colour pink to be replaced with green?

Olive (formerly known as Pink)

Lime Cadillac

"An Asparagus Diamond" or "An Asparagus Elephant".

Or even "Asparagus Eye".

"Artichoke Floyd"

"Olive lemonade"
"The Forest Green Panther"

"My Avocado Bits" (No photo available soz).

"Greeny finger" (on second thoughts probably not).

What do you think? Buy gender neutral toys only or not?