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Saturday, May 27, 2017

Happy Birthday Scotto Poinker!

It’s Scotto’s birthday tomorrow. We bought his presents together, last weekend.

“Do you want me to wrap your presents?” I asked today, hoping he’d note the distinct lack of enthusiasm in my voice.

“No that’s okay,” he said.

“Do you care if I don’t get you a card? I hate those Hallmark shysters. Besides, cards are bad for the environment.”
“No,” he said quietly. “That’s okay.”

“I’ll send you a Facebook message,” I offered.

“Okay,” he sighed.

Scotto always wraps my presents in pink tissue paper, pink ribbon and an accompanying card with a lovely message inside. Even when I asked for a laminator for my birthday, the wrapping made it look as though he’d bought at Tiffany’s in Paris.

He’s very romantic and I’m not really.

But I love him for that. God, my ex-husband used to give me a Christmas card with “Thanks for all your help during the year” written on it.

Do you know that long before I met Scotto I used to read about him in a magazine?

His Dad was a big fish in the publishing world and wrote a funny article every week in a national magazine. It was all about his family and he used to affectionately make fun of his son, Scotto, who had the pseudonym, “Brick for Brains”.
I used to read the article every week, never knowing I would one day be married to Brick for Brains.

He’s a good sport my Scotto. Now he’s married to a blogger who makes him her straight man/foil in her ravings. 

Ironic huh?

So, happy birthday Scotto, my darling husband.

Thank you for getting me coffee in the morning on weekends, even though I get it for you five times a week so I shouldn’t have to say thanks because I actually do it more times than you.

Thank you for letting me have all my animals and especially thank you for not throttling the rooster which I know annoys you quite a lot with his crowing.

Thank you for being a softy and almost letting me buy that puppy at Cararra Markets even though we already have four ungrateful dogs.

Thank you for not judging me when I sit watching the telly with a hair curler in my fringe and no front tooth.

Thank you for always believing in me and sticking up for me even when my side of the story is a bit dodgy.

Thank you for indulging me in my conspiracy theories and agreeing that thumb print recognition on my iPhone is yet another devious form of government data collection.

Thank you for cleaning up dog vomit because you know I can’t stomach it and let me clean up the poo which you can’t stomach.

And above all, thank you for not making me fork out on a crappy birthday card.

Love you.


Saturday, May 20, 2017

Dodgy Stuff

We walked into a restaurant for lunch today and I insisted (as I always do) on sitting so that I faced the entrance.

“I have to sit facing the door,” I declared to Scotto, “because, if some drug crazed, ice addict maniac comes through the door wielding a fudging knife, I want to be able to escape quickly.”

“You would give me a heads up he was coming though?” Scotto asked, glancing behind him and looking a bit nervous.

“You’d notice me jumping off the balcony,” I replied, sipping my champagne with a sense of airy nonchalance.

It’s not that we frequent restaurants in dodgy areas with rampant ice addicts much.

I said the same thing in the school staff room last week.
My colleagues just nodded in agreement and continued eating their ham salads. They get me.

“You’re an overly superstitious person, Pinky,” Scotto scoffed, and knocked the salt shaker over whilst dramatically gesturing to make his point. 

Salt went everywhere.

“Which shoulder am I supposed to throw this over again?” he queried anxiously.

“Throw it over your left shoulder,” I whispered in a sinister fashion. “The devil is hiding behind your left shoulder.”

“I don’t believe your rubbish,” he said as he tossed the salt, “But there's no harm in playing it safe.”

“What do you believe then?” I challenged.

“Well I do believe that if you’re driving and there’s a crow in the middle of the road and it doesn’t get out of your way, then you have to turn around and go the other way.”

“What if you don’t hit it because you swerve?” I asked.

His brow furrowed, “I think that would be okay.”

Personally, if I ever ran over a crow I’d pull over immediately and call a priest. I’m terrified of bloody crows.

But the point of this post, my friends, is dodgy restaurants. 

We went to lunch at a quite posh winery a few weeks ago.

I should have known it was a bit strange when the butter came out in those little foil packets and the bread rolls were enveloped in cling wrap. That's bloody weird.

As we were leaving, Scotto had to use the toilet so I walked through the foyer and stood out the front, twiddling my thumbs and scrutinising the sizeable bill.

I suddenly had the urge to turn around and who should I spy through a random window but Scotto looking very studious whilst performing his ablutions?

Not sure what he was grinning about.

Interesting concept for a water feature, I thought to myself.

“Hello sailor!” I said to his face, framed adorably in the window.

He looked up and grinned sheepishly…

What a lovely greeting for all those tourists arriving on the bus that pulls up out the front…
some random bloke taking a whizz.

Well that’s my blog for the week.
Hope you’re all well and love you all!


Sunday, May 14, 2017

Gratitudes on Mother's Day

As you are aware, today is Mother’s Day and this morning there was a knock on the door and a young delivery man presented me with a bunch of flowers from my four kids who live up north. This was thrilling as last year all I got was dog shampoo.

But when I transferred the flowers into a vase, I spilled water all over the floor.

“Be careful of the water on the kitchen floor,” I warned Scotto after I’d mopped most of it up.

Literally two minutes later, I barrelled back into the kitchen, completely forgetting about the wet floor, and fell down landing on my right elbow with my head ricocheting violently against the kitchen cupboards.

Scotto came out of the bedroom after hearing the crash and my subsequent moaning.

My elbow had split open and there was a lot of blood on the floor which the Chihuahua and Mini Fox Terrier immediately began to lick up with relish.

Please note, this all occurred before midday and I had not been drinking.

I know what you all think about me and drinking.

Naturally, all three doctor surgeries were closed as well as the ambulance station. We caught the chemist ten minutes before closing time.

“You need stitches,” the pharmacist commented on viewing the cut.

“Can you see the bone?” I asked cautiously.

“No…” she said, avoiding eye contact.

I’m pretty sure she saw bone.

It hurts like a mofo.

We put some butterfly sticky things on it and I’ll get it looked at tomorrow. Maybe I will if the Chihuahua hasn’t developed a blood lust and devoured me in the night, anyway.

The mini-foxie won’t be able to eat me because she had six teeth pulled out on Friday. Thank God for small mercies.

We went to lunch with my mother, father and my son, Hagar. It was quite nice but I kept worrying about brain haemorrhages and septicaemia which spoiled my barramundi and chips a bit. Plus the agonising aching of the elbow and vague headache took a modicum of pleasure away.

Hagar gave me a nice cream jacket as a present but I couldn’t try it on what with the blood pouring out of my elbow.

I sent my daughter, Lulu, a photo of the flowers to say thank you and she exploded in rage when she saw them.

My flowers

I tried to explain to her that they just haven’t opened up yet.

I wasn’t complaining... but she was furious. Apparently the photo of what she thought she was buying looked nothing like the flowers I received.

Anyway, I really hope you all had better day and didn’t fall over or get the wrong flowers, like I did.

We must all be grateful for what we have, mustn’t we.

If life gives you lemons take them back to the shop and ask for a refund.

Whatever doesn’t kill you probably will next time.

Good things come to those who wipe down their kitchen floors properly.
There’s no "I" in team, but there’s an "OW" in elbow.
Okay. I’ll stop now.

Happy Mother’s Day you lucky, lucky people.

Saturday, May 6, 2017

What Would Your DNA Reveal?

This morning I stood gagging at the bathroom sink, desperately attempting to summon up a quarter of a teaspoon of spit.

You’ve no idea how hard it is to produce spit on demand.

If I’m talking to someone important and I don’t want to spit… well it just comes flying out, doesn’t it? All over their shirt usually, or on their arm where it sits sparkling in the sunshine and we both pretend it’s not there. But if I’m deliberately trying to produce saliva, my mouth goes as dry as the Sahara.

The sight and thought of spit makes me gag.

Even my own spit.

It’s quite a revolting bodily emission.

I was contributing a sample of my DNA, you see.

Not for a criminal investigation silly… but for an analysis of my DNA ancestry.

I’ve forked out a considerable sum of money to AncestryDNA to be precise.

Pre spit donation

This analysis won’t give me any clues as to my health but merely inform me from where from my ancestors originated.

I could have originated from any race really, what with my pointy ears (Vulcan), short legs (Elven) and propensity to lose my temper and scream (Dothraki).

“I reckon it will say you’re 40% Chardonnay, 20% Nicorettes and maybe 40% Anglo-Saxon,” quipped the ever witty Scotto.

He’s very unoriginal. I could easily have made that joke if I’d thought of it first.

In truth, I reckon it will come back saying I’m 90% American Indian.

Mainly because I had an imaginary American Indian friend when I was a child and I have a deep seated belief I am reincarnated from an Indian princess. Plus I have a penchant for wearing plaits.

I’d fancy being anything except Ango-Saxon really, because let’s face it, it’s a bit boring.

All those bad teeth, weak chins and negative outlooks on life; you know... winter is coming, and all that moaning.

I wouldn’t mind it if I was Scandinavian; preferably directly linked to those good-looking Vikings on the television.

Even a direct relationship to the female members of ABBA would be okay. Not the male members though because they were ugly.

If it comes back and says I’m bloody Anglo-Saxon with NOTHING at all exotic in the mix I will be bitterly disappointed.

On the other hand, if it comes back and says I’m part Chinese or Italian or African, I will be redecorating my house, dress style, music playlist and accent, accordingly.

I will fully embrace the culture and drive you all mad.

What would you expect to see from a DNA report?

P.S. Sorry to all my Anglo-Saxon friends. Particularly my husband.