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Wednesday, December 28, 2016

Two Degrees of Separation

Pinky, Lulu and Petal at Rainbow Bay

Even though all five Poinker children promised on their mother’s life to be here on the mountain on Christmas day, only one of them managed to turn up. 

(Note to self: change Last Will and Testament).

Lulu, the 20 year old daughter, appeared on Christmas Eve on her way to the Byron Bay Falls Creek music festival and could spare three days out of her demanding schedule to eat the plum pudding and recharge her phone at Poinker Palazzo.

I missed having my boys here but it was lovely to have Princess Lulu in residence. I don’t know how but she ate three kilograms of creamy potato bake, half a chicken, five slices of turkey and eight bowls of icecream then went for a thirty minute run after Christmas lunch without spewing.


She now towers about six centimetres over me and I’m not a short arse. The phrase, ‘Amazonian Warrior’, springs to mind when I take in her statuesque frame.

I made sure to inform her that her excellent physique is probably due to the fact that I breastfed her until she was two years old.

“You’re gross,” she sniffed in disgust. “Why would you even TELL me that?”

She left this morning as I was busy preparing for the arrival of some highly esteemed guests.

“So who’s coming,” Lulu asked as I was busily vanilla spraying the toilet seat.

“It’s a famous blogger from Sydney coming to lunch with her significant other,” I replied as I pinched tiny bits of vegemite out of the margarine tub. “I want to make a good impression.”

“Have you… like… met her before?” Lulu asked, scoffing down a protein shake.

“No,” I shrugged as I tried to scrape old orange flakes from the champagne flutes. “But I’ve known her for three years through blogging. Did I tell you she’s a bit famous?”

“You’re weird,” Lulu said, “Why would you be friends with someone you’ve never met?”
I tried to explain how I am actually very good friends with several other bloggers who I’ve met online and they have been to visit me and I them, several times. In fact, I met her step father (of twelve years) online, but kids these days… they just don’t understand the Internet.

So who was my famous blogging friend? 

None other than the delightful Alana House from House Goes Home, that’s who. 

Scotto, Pinky, Alana and DD

Alana brought her exceptionally handsome and witty, scientist boyfriend, DD, along and we gave them a quick tour of the mountain before Alana confirmed my suspicion that she and I are completely compatible by dismissing my half-hearted suggestion of looking at the shops and opted to go to the pub for a coldie instead.

“Shops make me feel exhausted,” she said.

As I said, I was attempting to impress this ravishing Sydney socialite and I couldn’t decide what to serve for lunch.

I opted for barbequed sausages because… barbequed sausages are yummy. They were fancy sausages though, not just your run of the mill Bunnings snags. They were Italian sausages. I had to eat the vegetarian ones which tasted like corrugated cardboard but I think the carnivores enjoyed the Italian variety.

I also bought a bottle of Procetto which I knew Alana liked because I read it on her blog. She drinks Procetto on the beach with her significant other so I knew it would be a hit. I thought Procetto was a type of dry-cured ham, but there you go.

Alana made me a bit jealous by telling me a story about how she had lunch with the Bondi Vet once. As you know I have a soft spot for the Bondi Vet. I wanted her to stay for the whole night but she had to go to another party. 

The Bondi Vet was probably going, I bet.

Anyway, we had a great afternoon and I lubbed her so it IS possible to be friends with people you meet on the Internet, kids.

P.S: Don’t be friends with people on the Internet if they say they’re a prince in Nigeria or if they say they want to show you something ‘special’ on Skype. Also, apparently the Bondi Vet is just as really, really, really good looking in real life as he is on the telly.

Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Pinky's Pitfalls of Small Community Living.

It's actually 'animal' treatment not 'anal'. (Just in case you were alarmed)

There are roughly 8000 people living on the mountain which is a pretty small community. For instance yesterday, Scotto booked a computer job which turned out to be located at my parents’ next door neighbours' house. 

Meanwhile, I drove up to the shop and was standing at the checkout when I felt someone breathing down my neck. 

It was my father.

“Your old man’s parked in the driveway of the house next door to us,” he said.

“I know,” I replied shrewdly. “I think he’s visiting his mistress.”

As I pulled out of the shopping centre who should I pass but Scotto, waving at me from his car and heading towards his next appointment.

I don’t think Scotto would ever get away with having an affair.

In fact I don’t think either of us could get away with anything up here.

There are eyes everywhere and you can’t help bumping in to people you know.

Since I’ve resided here on the mountain, I’ve patronised the doctor, dentist, physiotherapist, pet shop, IGA, newsagent, hairdresser, library, mechanic, post office, bank, worked at one of the schools and frequented a number of pubs and restaurants.

I think I’ve been pretty damn good for this community’s economy really, especially my contribution to the dentist.

I suspect the dentist has black-listed me as ‘mildly histrionic’ due the Spanish inquisition I give him every time I visit regarding exactly what he will be doing and how much pain I’ll be in. He has ordered me NOT to look up my next procedure on the Internet under ANY circumstances and not to ask him any more silly Wikipedia based questions.

I'm positive my doctor has filed me away on his ‘irrational patient’ list due to my absolute refusal to have blood tests and my outrageous conspiracy theories regarding Big Pharma. 

I annoyed the librarian when I couldn’t work the photocopier and the mechanic was mortified that he had to test drive my canary yellow car with PINKY number plates around the mountain.

The lady at the post office knows me as the woman who asked her if she sold ‘normal’ stamps.

“Yes,” she raised one eyebrow. “We have the abnormal ones too if you’re interested.”

You know what I meant though don’t you? There was no need to make fun of me.

We took Celine, the Mini-Fox Terrier to the mountain vet today in order to replenish her menopausal hormone- replacement therapy and I was determined not to besmirch the Poinker name again.

Of course we had to take Pablo the Chihuahua along as well because the two dogs can’t be separated due to the Chihuahua’s clingy, obsessive infatuation with the Fox Terrier.

The second we pulled up outside the vet, the Mexican rat started up with his incessant, high-pitched Bar-ra-ra-ra-ra-ing. Everyone in the main street was staring.

It was embarrassing. Especially when the vet nurse requested we take him outside.

This is a dog even vet nurses can’t stand.

Celine put on the most melodramatic turn during the nail clipping episode and frankly the experience left me quite shaken. She attempted to bite the vet and struggled like a cat in a sack. It took three adults to hold the 3 kg dog down whilst Pablo growled viciously at the furore from a distance.

As we were leaving, I tremulously turned to the vet and said, “Thank you very much for your generosity.”
Scotto burst out into fit of maniacal giggles (I think he was delirious after what we’d just been through).

I quickly corrected myself with, “I mean, thank you for your ‘gentleness’ not generosity…” But it was too late.

I caught the expression on her face. I bet she writes something on our records about crazy owners and disturbed pets.

After the vet, we took the recalcitrant mutts for a first ever walk around the streets of the mountain where the Chihuahua proceeded to ba-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra at every fudging leaf that fluttered over his round-domed, behemoth of a head.

This is the first time we’ve taken them out on the mountain. I see other dog owners taking their lovely dogs out and sigh wistfully wishing my dogs could be normal.

Why can’t I ever have a normal pet? One that you can take to cafes and fancy bistros and Ye Olde English pubs, those places that have signs saying “Dogs Welcome… Children Not Allowed”? Where dogs sit peaceably at their owner’s feet and wag their tail when you smile at them.

No. I have to have a nervous, highly strung, neurotic, git of a dog and an insufferable, pugnacious, Mexican dictator who despises 99% of people with an intense passion.

Mind you when we arrived back at home they were both emotionally exhausted. 

Celine retired to the ‘good’ couch for a bit of retrospective, alone time and Pablo the Chihuahua snuggled up to his father and wouldn’t budge for hours.

Do you think I should take them to a dog psychotherapist for counselling or do you think it’s just a hereditary thing?

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

My Christmas Miracle

I’ve recently discovered I have a special talent, a gift, some might say.

I’m a chicken whisperer.

Hodor (the paraplegic Pekin chicken who was on death’s door in my last post), is now completely cured of his affliction. 

After his insecticidal bath, canola oil massage and liberal powdering of potent, heavy duty pesticide, he took a mere three days to make a full recovery and has now returned to the coop with his two comrades, Jon Snow and Ygritte. 

Hodor at front trotting around like a healthy little ferret!

He glows fluoro orange in the dark… but that’s alright.

He probably likes the fact we’ve rendered him inedible.

Just think… we were THAT close to euthanising him with a large rock…

It just goes to show. Don’t clout your chickens before they repatch.

Now, clearly if I am indeed a gifted chicken whisperer I should own more chickens, shouldn’t I?

To be honest, the three Pekin chickens we currently own are a bit useless. We were tricked into buying them what with their silly walking style, fluffy cute feet and fat bottoms. They’re merely precious, ornamental, little things that will one day lay eggs the size of marbles, really.

So off to Uncle Tom’s at Nerang I went and forked out on a roomier coop and some larger, smellier, dumb clucks which should start laying decent eggs immediately.

I’ve calculated the dividend I receive in eggs should pay off in about 85 years, give or take.

I’ve never been one to do things by halves; five kids, four dogs… you know what I mean.

Now I own seven chickens.


Joffrey Baratheon

(L-R) Margaery Tyrell, Brienne of Tarth, Theon Greyjoy.

Some people (Scotto) are accusing me of buying chickens as a ruse just so I can give them silly names from my favourite show on the television, Game of Wishbones Thrones.

It’s not true.

As I said, I also bought a new coop so they won’t be staying at Winterfowl with the Starks Pekins. 

I’m thinking of naming my new chickens’ coop, “Casterly Flock”.

Or maybe “The Red Koop”, I haven’t yet decided.

Can you think of something better?

Yours sincerely,

The Mother of Chickens.

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

My Chicken Might Be a Nazi

Most of you won’t be interested in this because let’s face it, most materialistic, two dimensional, shallow people don’t care about chickens. 

What the hell is a chicken? Some of you will ask.

But I know YOU care.

High five, secret handshake, hand hug, you beautiful chicken aficionado.

Hodor, my adorable chicken, is still in medical incarceration in the cat cage.

He is still a paraplegic... although one leg is now twitching. It’s been ten long days of quarantine.

I’ve been doing some research and apparently it may be the dreaded scaly leg mite which is causing his affliction.

Apparently the victims of scaly leg mites begin with symptoms of walking like Prussian soldiers and eventually succumb to paralysis.

I’ve never seen a Prussian soldier marching but I do recall Hodor (in the early stages of his illness) and I remember thinking… this chicken is a fudging Nazi what with the goose-stepping thing. He was definitely walking like some kind of Neo-Nazi weirdo.

Anyway the treatment plan I discovered on the Internet was quite elaborate but today, Scotto and I followed it to the T.

*Wash the chicken in shampoo (prepare chicken).

Chicken being shampooed

*Rinse chicken with clear water and a dash of Apple Cider Vinegar until water runs clear (drizzle chicken with vinegar).

*Pat dry chicken with paper towels and massage oil into it legs up to the knees, NB: not motor oil (baste chicken).

* Spread petroleum jelly all over chicken’s legs and feathers (seal the flesh and allow chicken to absorb juices).

* Powder chicken with anti-parasite talcum to ensure any living bacteria is decimated (season chicken lavishly with spices).

*Make sure chicken is warm and leave for a while (bake chicken at 180 degrees for one and a half hours).

Surprisingly, despite the fact that a warm bath should in fact be soothing, Hodor seemed not a small bit alarmed.

The whole time during the procedure, he was watching me out of one eye.

All this trouble for a twelve dollar chicken, eh.

You can’t buy love, huh?

Sunday, December 4, 2016

Dear Dr Google Egg...

Scotto and Ygritte

Lately, instead of googling ailments on Dr Google pertaining to me, for instance searches such as, ‘what does it mean if you have a scaly tailbone?’, or ‘what is the lump I’ve had for ten years below my collarbone which when I squeeze it, stinky stuff comes out?’ or ‘does feeling weirdly nervy after taking Berocca mean I’m about to have a coronary arrest?', I’ve been searching more accurate and reputable sites about chicken health.

One of our chickens is decidedly under the weather. This time it isn’t because it was attacked by a rapscallion Chihuahua.

We noticed that Hodor was limping and squatting down helplessly a lot last Sunday. I thought (after research) he may be egg-bound. That would mean he had an egg stuck in his bum. But he’s a bit young and since we suspect he’s a him… it was, well unlikely. I don’t even think chickens lay eggs out of their bums but perhaps you can educate me on that.

The next day he couldn’t walk on his right leg at all.

“Could it be a tick?” I asked my father (who really wouldn’t have a clue even though he insists he is a chicken expert).

“No,” he was adamant. "If it was a tick the chicken would already be dead."

The next day the chicken was the same but on day four he was a complete paraplegic. Both legs were splayed and useless.

“We should put him out of his misery,” I wept at Scotto as I eyed the pathetic creature.

“Well, I’m not doing it!” Scotto muttered with a measure of vehemence.

Frankly, I don’t think I could remain married to a man who was capable of cold-heartedly murdering a chicken even if it was euthanasia, so I just nodded solemnly.

In my mind I pictured Scotto slamming the chicken in the head with a brick and it frightened me. I could never trust him again. Who knows what might happen next time I annoyed him with my aggravating snoring? I didn’t want to open any windows to subconscious violence, if you know what I mean.

So, after much discussion, we separated Hodor from the rest of the chickens and now he is in an isolated infirmary where I feed him by hand and nurse him around the clock.

He seems to be slightly improving and is even beginning to complain about the lack of professionalism amongst the nursing staff, the terrible food and the amount of times he has to buzz to get a cup of tea.

Today he seemed to be able to support himself on one leg.

Prayers people.

Hodor in ICU

Saturday, December 3, 2016

We Live in a Simulation

You’ve heard about how our world’s leading scientists are saying that there’s a 99% (it could be 90% or 50% I’m not sure) we are living in a simulation. 

In other words, the world we live in is merely a computer game.

This idea fascinated me. I mean to say, what the hell? Someone else is dressing me every day? It would be like living in SIMS City. Someone else decides what hairstyle I have and what I wear every day. God I wish it was true, so many less choices to make.

So after fixatedly researching quite a lot about it on the Internet and having numerous fights with Scotto because I wouldn’t emerge from my rabbit hole on the Internet to contest him in The Chase at 4:30 every evening, I came to a conclusion.

(Yes, Scotto and I zealously compete when watching The Chase every afternoon but it invariably ends in a fight because he wins and then I argue that he’s answering too quickly with wrong answers denying me the opportunity to get in with the correct answer and … you know the rest.)

My ruminations regarding the theory that we’re living in a simulation gave me an idea. Every time I am on the Internet there’s a glitch. Either my mouse won’t work or the page won’t load or it’s going slow… or something. 

Computers are unreliable.

I think if we are a simulation of the entire universe then there must be glitches, right?

So I looked up to the skies and asked for a glitch. 

I begged, I prayed, “Dear Controller, please show me a glitch!” 

Scotto did too because after listening to me in the car for 30 minutes raving on about living in a simulation I had him convinced (or brainwashed/nagged to death) that we are, indeed, holograms.

The very next day I received a Facebook message. 

That’s not unusual, I know.

But this Facebook message was from a very dear friend who died many years ago.

“That’s a sick joke, Pinky,” I hear you say.

It’s not a joke.

I did.

I know it sounds ridiculous but I really did.

So that was my glitch.

We live in a simulation.

All I can say is, I wish my controller would give me a better hairdo. 

And maybe make me a bit thinner.

P.S. I’m not going nuts or bullshitting. Can someone talk me out of this, please.

Also, have you experienced any glitches?