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Showing posts with label In Pinky's Opinion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label In Pinky's Opinion. Show all posts

Saturday, June 14, 2014

Things Our Kids Have Missed Out On!

                                          
If I could sum up my childhood in one word it would be… BORING. So much has changed in our world for the better but after hearing of the imminent demise of our postal system this week it started to concern me what things my grand kids will never have experienced.


Indeed, there are certain things which stand out in my mind I’m sure my own kids are ignorant of which may have been… challenging, fun, character building aspects of life assisting them in their later development which they'll never even know existed.

For example:

Making prank calls from a public phone when there was no caller ID and only the police could trace calls and that was only if you stayed on the phone for a really long time. Remember the old chestnut, “Is that the Wall residence?” "What? You mean there are no Walls living there? How is your house standing up then?" Hang up giggling and running away.

Or ringing the number which told you the time just because you were bored.

Or ringing the free call directory assistance number just to annoy them with questions like, “Do you know who won the Melbourne Cup in 1967?”



How sorry I am they don't know about going to the movies and having to stand for “God Save the Queen” before the first movie commenced. There were always two movies featured and the first one was a guaranteed shocker.

What about being the first up when the milk man delivered bottled, unhomogenised milk to your door every weekday? I was always first up and would pour the creamy bit on my cereal leaving the bland, watery whey for everyone else. Dad would crack a mental.

How sad they missed out on when really friendly young guys would come out at the petrol station, fill your car up, clean your windscreen and check the oil.

Or when you could buy 20 cents worth of lollies and they’d last all afternoon.

Or when the naughty boys who mucked up in class would be sent to the office and come back crying with “the cuts” marks on their hands and were well-behaved for the rest of the year.

Or when the school tuckshop sold “Cream Horns” which were delicious and decadent and no-one thought to make a dirty connotation out of it and nobody got fat because we all walked or rode to school.

Or when we would all spend fifteen minutes repacking our Cuisenaire Rods back into the boxes in Infant School… back when it was called Infant School.


Or when you had to have your shoes properly fitted with one of those medical-looking metal contraptions at the beginning of every school year. You couldn't just pick a pair of Nikes from the shelf.

                                                   

Or when television didn’t start until 4:00pm and there were only two channels anyway but you’d still sit and stare patiently at the test pattern waiting for it.



Or when at eleven o’clock at night the telly would close down and God Save the Queen and the test pattern would come up.

Or when every local television station had an afternoon show hosted by a pretty young woman and a clown and you wouldn’t miss it for quids.

Or when the highlight of the year was when “The Show” came to town and you’d get a new outfit and money to spend on Sample Bags that cost two dollars and had actual ‘samples’ in them not cheap confectionery from China.

Or when your father wouldn’t let you go out with boys who owned a Panel Van even if they came in to the house and shook your father’s hand.

Or when smoking an Alpine cigarette on the way home from school was de rigueur but in the holidays you’d keep the packet in your school bag until next term when they’d be stale but you couldn’t afford to buy a new packet even though they only cost $1.80 so you’d cough your way through them anyway to impress your friends.

Or when you could buy a brand new release 45 single for $1:00 and an LP for $6:00.



Or when your stay at home Mum would pour herself a Bacardi and Coke at 6:00pm and put lipstick on because your Dad was coming home soon.

Or when you’d spend Saturday night listening to the local radio station and request songs for your twelve year old girlfriends and you’d have to sit with your finger in the last number’s hole and patiently wait for the right second on your rotary dial phone to get through.

Or when a treat was to eat last night’s leftover rice with sugar and milk or to eat Milo out of the tin whenever your Mum went out and left you for ten minutes.

Or when your rite of passage was to have your ears pierced when you turned twelve not a sleeve tattoo when you turned eighteen.

Honestly… I could keep going with my trip down memory lane but I think the ambulance has arrived to take me away to the old people’s home.



Is there anything you remember you think your kids need to know about?


Linking up with Sonia at Life Love and Hiccups.

Saturday, May 17, 2014

I Love You Too



Scotto and I had a fight last night.

We were watching a movie and I wouldn't shut the hell up from the first scene until the last, about how categorically sh- sh-sh- shoddy it was.

I whinged, I carped, I nit-picked; I disparaged every line of dialogue until he snapped at me to go to sleep and keep my judgmental thoughts to myself because he was enjoying it.

But I wasn't tired... so I lay in bed beside him, flinching in pain at the movie's incompetency, quietly whispering, "Kill me now" at regular intervals and ruined any pleasure Scotto may have gleaned.


How do you know when a movie is not going to deliver what you hope it will?

Is it when you’re cringing under the blankets because of the over-the-top ‘theatre’ acting?

Could it be when an attempt at a 'comical' visual scene leaves you shaking your head from side to side and groaning in empathetic humiliation for the director?

Perhaps it’s when you hear the unrealistic scripted dialogue and suck your cold breath in through your pained teeth then sigh it all out in loud, unreserved disenchantment.

It might be when you can predict the entire plot and denouement ten minutes into the movie because the story line is a carbon copy of hundreds of other much more successfully executed romantic comedies.

One hundred and seven minutes of my life I will NEVER GET BACK!

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Should you comment on someone's weight gain?


I was on my afternoon walk when I happened to overtake an older couple ambling along with their two dogs. 

“Are they Mini-Fox Terriers?” I enquired, staring at the corpulent little spotted bodies .

“Yes, they are!” replied the woman proudly.

“Really? I have a Mini-Foxy at home and she’s a third of the size of them! Like their tucker do they?” I joked.

“Well yes…” replied the woman and quickly added, “But they’re on steroids.”

“Oh,” I continued on my comic roll. “Mental note; never take steroids!” 

They laughed and I walked on. But as I walked away it struck me their laughter had sounded somewhat hollow, empty, forced.

Had I insulted them by insinuating their dogs were fat?
I mean, you wouldn’t say that about somebody’s kid would you?

“How old is your son? Five!!! Cripes my son is five as well but he’s a third of the size of your bruiser! Likes a bit of a chow down, does he? It must cost you a fortune in food to feed that little porker!”

No. You would never say that.

It’s different with babies

You aren’t allowed to make comments like, “Good grief, what an ugly little face your baby has!” or “Would you take a freakin’ look at the ears on that baby. He’ll be able to fly before he can walk!” even if it is the honest truth. 

But you are permitted to squeeze the baby's chubby thighs and make a smart alek remark about how much more appealing cellulite is on a three month old than on a forty-five year old woman.

The mothers love to hear how fat their babies are. It’s a badge of honour for insecure new mums proclaiming to the world what excellent breast feeders/nurturers they are.

I can honestly say I’ve never carelessly informed a person they’ve put on weight.

There have been enough times in my life when I’ve suffered the sharp sting of an insensitive, rude buffoon commenting on my frequent bouts of fatty boombah-ism to know better. 

Most people are quite well aware they've put on a bit of beef. They don't need anyone else to remind them.

But what about telling someone their dog is fat?

My mother, who is never backward in coming forward, becomes highly defensive when I grab a fistful of fat from her Cocker Spaniel’s back and ask her if the dog is eating up my inheritance in dog food.

“She hardly eats a thing! She can't help it. It’s her metabolism.” Mum will declare protectively. Meanwhile this dog, Millie, is afraid of having her photograph taken because of a bad experience when the police took her into custody and took Identikit photos after catching her in the act of stealing the neighbour’s chickens.

                                     Spoilt Mutt.

Perhaps a middle of the road approach is the way to go… diplomacy not judgement.

Something along the lines of-

“Millie is looking so well! The fuller face suits her. Has she been on a holiday cruise or something? Something’s agreeing with her anyway!”

Got to preserve my share of what’s left of the inheritance somehow I suppose.

Has anyone ever told you you've put on weight?

Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace



Sunday, May 4, 2014

Zombie Invasion in my Suburb!

                                       
The streets here in my suburb are plagued with the living dead. Large groups of raucous, staggering teens walk in a cluster, howling spontaneously with frightening ferocity and causing every dog in the neighbourhood to respond with aggressive objections of their own.

The girlie zombies; with their bum cheeks enjoying the crisp breeze and their flat unspoiled midriffs on display are tripping along with the identically singleted and cargo-short wearing boy zombies. The boys with a beer stubby in hand and the girls a vodka cruiser, are headed in one direction only; their sole purpose… self-annihilation at the music festival down the road.

I can’t say I blame them for the rebel cry. 


It’s tough being a teenager these days. The price of the entrance ticket and drinks are extortionate… they have to get wasted before they get there even though it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning. 

They’ll be searched at the gate by the fascist bastards on security so they’ve stuffed a vodka filled hip flask snuggly amongst the tackle in their jocks.

A few will be there for the music, but many will be there with the sole intention of intoxicating their bodies until they’re so smashed they won’t remember anything about the day. Too bad that a huge proportion are underage; there are plenty of older kids to buy the alcohol for them.

I hate this time of year when I watch my boys transform into driven, obsessive zealots with the single-minded ambition of going bat shite crazy with the other horde of thousands, thumbing their noses at us… the parents, the establishment.

“You don’t have to be stupid with your drinking you know!” I said to my nineteen year old son and his mate as I drove them to a pre-festival gathering.

“Anyone can get drunk. It’s not a skill. Pace yourself. You can stay at a happy level all day and enjoy yourself without ending up in hospital having your stomach pumped believe it or not.”

I may as well have been addressing my sermon to the bottle of sunscreen on the dashboard. I watched him wolf down a Bacon De-luxe from Hungry Jacks, thankful he’d at least put a lining on his stomach.

I love my son; he’s a good boy with a kind heart and a generous nature.

I’ll sit white-knuckled all day wondering what’s going down but in my heart I’ll know he’s okay. 

But, what about the other angry young men fueled up on alcohol, steroids and an overabundance of natural testosterone pumping through their veins? 

The angry young men who don’t really know what they’re angry about.

What is it with the chip on some young men’s’ shoulders? Why are their lives so disappointing they have to mutiny against the tyranny of sensibility and normal society? 

Is it that they live such an instantaneously gratuitous lifestyle they've lost the lust for life which comes from working for what you want?

Are we giving them too much all at once and toll free? 

Are parents making too many excuses for them and not teaching them one of the basic lessons in life… good things are worth waiting and slogging away for and that 'the rules' are there to protect them.

What do you think?

                         John Butler Trio... Good Excuse.




Sunday, April 27, 2014

W- is for Why a Ban on Excessive Photoshopping Won't Work

A to Z April Challenge

We had a small gathering at Chez Poinker yesterday as a belated celebration of son Hagar’s twenty-first birthday and as is my custom I heroically sorted through the old photo albums for ‘Hagar paraphernalia’. The violent sneezing fits brought on by layers of dust couldn’t deter me and I managed to unearth his first tooth, ultrasound pictures from the womb and his little newborn ankle bracelet.

I also came across a photo I hadn't seen for decades.



It was of me walking the three eldest boys through Hyde Park in Sydney. Hagar was only about seven months old, Thaddeus four and Jonah about three years of age.

At the time the photo was taken, I distinctly recall hating myself. Giving birth to three kids in four years had taken its toll and I felt fat, hoary, unattractive and at thirty-three years, well past my prime. I was merely a milk machine, a nappy washer and cook.

But this serendipitous little find told me a different story. I didn't look fat or old... or unattractive.

Why then did I believe I was so physically repellent back then?

I wonder why many women allow these festering, terrible self-images to darken their confidence and sense of worth?

How many times have I trundled into the motor registry office to renew my five year driving licence and on seeing the new and disappointing photo (with the inevitable startled, wild-eyed expression) and wished I still looked like the earlier photo…the same one I despised five years ago?

There’s a bit of a hullabaloo in the media about a new bill recently introduced in the US congress ensuring fashion and beauty advertisements don’t promote unlikely and disturbing body images by banning excessive use of photoshopping.

As I ate my Vegemite toast in bed this morning, I listened to a couple of social commentators (whatever the hell a ‘social commentator' is and what qualifies them I’d like to know) discussing the issue on the telly. Their main concern was how photoshopping celebrity goddesses into unrealistically perfect icons might affect the physical and mental well-being of teenagers.

Bugger the bloody teenagers, with their naturally slim hips, dewy skin, post-orthodontist smiles and pert boobies. What about us old chooks? Don’t we have feelings too or are we to be shunted into a corner again with Black Cohosh in one hand and a tube of Estogen gripped in the other?

The only time I ever furtively flick one of those idiotic trash magazines into my shopping trolley is when the headlines scream, “How Celebrities Look without Make-Up!”

                                       
“That’s what your Katy Perry REALLY looks like!” I’ll snidely remark to Scotto, sitting beside me on the couch as I maliciously rifle through the New Weekly.

“Who’s Katy Perry again?” he’ll ask in a weary grunt.

“That young one wearing the weeny, animal skin who sings, Roar!” I’ll snap back in a tone strangled with envy. “You know who she is and don’t pretend you don’t! I’ve seen you looking at her!”

Truth is, I’m old enough to have given birth to the poor girl (and I’m not talking a teen pregnancy here), so why do I find her to be threatening in a sexual-jealousy kind of way? 

It’s ridiculous.

I should be allowing the soft folds of lard to settle on my belly like a comforting life jacket at my age; not squeezing my spare tyre angrily leaving deep, bleeding fingernail marks whilst wailing in anguished torment , “Why am I so freakin’ FAT????”

Why can’t I be happy with the way I look right now? Is it because there are so many glamorous, thin women thrust in our faces via magazines, television, the Internet?

Did my mother have to put up with this crap?

Essentially, I think she did.

There were unquestionably glamorous women in magazines and movies back in the sixties which Mum undoubtedly measured herself up against; women who had stylists, makeup artists, hairdressers, lighting crews, Vaseline on camera lenses and who had their photographs meticulously hand-coloured.

So why is everyone worried about the smoke and mirrors now if women have always been subjected to idealistic comparisons?

Until the notion of beauty as a purely external thing is eradicated altogether, we women will forever suffer constant negative, self-imposed judgements of ourselves.

I look around at my friends sometimes; their voluptuous hips, well fed bellies, relaxed but unmade-up faces and imperfect teeth and I think how fortunate I am to know such stunning and magnificently beautiful women.

I wish I could just get over myself and see the same thing when I look in the mirror.

Banning photoshopping isn’t going change a thing.

Perhaps changing the fundamental idea of where true beauty emanates from and what authentic beauty is may be the only solution.

And in the meantime I’m going to stick that photo of myself on the fridge as a reminder I should be happy with the junk I have in my trunk right now and embrace those jowls and wrinkles... because from this moment on I’ll probably never look better.

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Pinky the Clairvoyant’s Electrifying Reading Just for You!






Have you ever seen those clairvoyants on the telly preying on the grief and desperation of the recently bereaved? 


 I reckon I could do what they do hanging upside down with a large carrot stuffed in my gob.

How about I do a reading for you using my ‘spirit guides’ and please let me know how good I am…


I have three people coming through to me right now. I feel one of these people is a lady who passed away. Do you know the lady I may be talking about? Her name starts with a vowel, it could be an A?
No? Then it must be one of the others.
Am I right? 
No?
Another letter? I thought so. Who is it?
Ah… your Grandma!
So, she’s holding something up to show me.
Is it an earring? No?
A necklace… some piece of jewellery… it’s round… could it be a tennis ball? Yes it definitely looks like a tennis ball.
Ah! So Grandma played tennis. No?
Did she ever watch tennis on the telly? 
Cricket? 
Was there ever a tennis ball or any type of ball in the same room as your Grandma? 
Yes? Great! It’s definitely Grandma then.
She’s giving me a message for a friend of yours. The friend’s name starts with a T. No?
An S or an M? 
Middle name? 
Maybe a P?

Peter! You have a friend called Peter. Great!

Okay, she has a message for Peter. The message has something to do with the house he lives in and how he can save money. 

I see the number of the house has a 6 in it… or a 9. Six and nine can be turned upside down you see. 
No?
What about 3? Six and nine are multiples of three. 
No? 
It’s definitely an odd number… or an even? 
Yes? Great!

She’s holding up a letter… an electricity bill. She says to tell Peter to pay it during the discount period and he’ll save some money…




How’d I go? Pretty accurate?

Well… we certainly didn’t need a clairvoyant to tell us our electricity bills were going to skyrocket this quarter. The Poinker’s bill came in alarmingly close to $1300 and we’re seriously thinking of going Amish.

This was despite switching to low tariff, changing all the light bulbs to LED, using remote control power point switcher off-er-ers , purchasing a new energy efficient fridge and applying rigid, Stalinesque guidelines regarding the teenagers’ use of air-conditioning during the day.

            Padlock on the power box preventing banned Air Con being turned back on by                                               rebellious teens who don't pay board.

We know what the culprit is. It’s the bloody pool filter. I’ve a good mind to fill the pool with cement and build a green house on the top of it. Or empty it and transform it into a windowless, very hot granny flat for when the Mother-in-Law comes to visit (jokes Joan!).

I know… first world problems; but enough is enough. 

When is North Queensland going to get alternative electricity suppliers to Ergon? South-East Queensland has them as well as the other metropolitan areas… why not us?


How shocking (pun) was your electricity bill? What strategies do you use to save electricity we haven’t thought of? 

*And please don’t suggest ‘better birth control’ because the horse has well and truly bolted on that one.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Pinky Discovers Familiarity Breeds Contempt!

                                           


The word “blog” is a truncated version of “web log”. A log is a journal… a diary of thoughts, events and disclosure. It’s for this reason, despite some hesitance; I feel it is perfectly okay to write about a surprising and unwelcome revelation regarding myself that has recently and decisively come to light.

I’m tactless, insensitive, brash and oblivious to the feelings of and subjective injury I inflict on others.

Many years ago when I worked as a Sales Executive for a hotel chain I befriended Cathy, a secretary to the Banquet Manager. 


We’d been casual friends for about a year and it was commonplace for me to pop downstairs to her desk and engage her in comical banter, to-ing and fro-ing as you do. As her birthday was coming up I thought it might be a nice gesture to buy her a birthday card and present it to her with my best wishes.

The card I chose was a droll but comical one with a picture of a wild eyed, outrageously overdone drag queen on the front blowing out a candle. It had “Happy Birthday You Crazy Bitch” on the front which I found to be mildly hilarious and I wrote a nice message inside the card and popped in a chocolate.

Leaving it on her desk in her absence I went on my merry way hoping she’d appreciate what I believed was a thoughtful gesture.

I couldn’t have been more wrong if I’d presented a birthday card to Martin Luther King Jnr with a photo of the Ku Klux Klan blowing out candles on a cake in the shape of a noose.

“Pinky I need to talk to you urgently,” hissed the Banquet Manager closing the door to his office firmly.

Apparently Cathy had found what I thought was an innocently silly card to be distastefully offensive and had put in a formal complaint about me. I was severely rapped over the knuckles for my odious choice of birthday greeting and Cathy never spoke to me again averting her eyes whenever I walked into the room.

Now many of you may be nodding in agreement right now and questioning whether or not you should be reading the blog of such an inappropriate and hateful person such as Pinky, but to be honest, at the time I was reeling in shock, hurt and bewilderment.

It was a freaking joke for Pete’s sake. A playful humorous joke and no more.

Just recently I found myself in the exact same situation. It seems for the last few months Pinky has been making what she thought were light-hearted comments to someone she thought she was close to. It seems she was wrong again and instead of the recipient believing my jokey comments were all in the name of good humour, the victim of my verbosity has been silently stewing in resentment until the coffee percolator finally blew its lid and scalding liquid has spewed forth blistering Pinky’s sense of reality.

Despite attempts at an apology Pinky has once again been given a serve and is now questioning whether she should ever speak out loud again… to anyone.

How do I know if I’m being overly familiar? Invasive? Impolite? Inappropriate?

Am I suffering some sort of deficiency in conversational subtlety? Just like an immature child, or someone on the Autism Spectrum am I incapable of discerning other people’s feelings adequately?

Or is it that some people need to grow a thicker skin?

What do you think?

Sunday, February 2, 2014

Who Decides on Who has Real Talent Anyway?



It makes me really, freakin cranky when I see sub-standard crap being praised on the media/internet whilst clearly talented musicians, writers, actors, artists are consistently overlooked most often due to nepotism, contacts and hype.

Scotto went into paroxysms of gladness this arvo because the sultry North Queensland sky finally decided to open its retentive bladder and provide us with some long lusted after rain!

“Let’s go to the Riverside Tavern and watch the water falling from the sky!” he enthused like a true ex-Melburnian.

So off we went to sit by the river and savour a couple of cold ales staring at each other in boredom with nothing to discuss but what level of overflowing our pool would be at.

Imagine my delighted surprise when the afternoon’s entertainment proved to be the acoustic guitar playing genius and undiscovered talent of Jeremy Romeo. 





“Here we go…” I thought as we sashayed in and I saw the ginger in rubber thongs and a singlet. 

“We’ll be in for some off-key renditions of Cold Chisel and rubbish of the like.”
I couldn’t have been more wrong if I’d said NAPLAN would be phased out by 2014… (Bloody stupid thing should be...)

My point is… this boy blew us away with his appealing tonal quality, his understated demeanor and his ability to make us put our glasses down and listen the f%#k up.

It worries me that there is much raw, unbridled talent out there in the world that’ll never see the light of day!

I watch the big stars playing live on Sunrise and frankly they sound like a bunch of sh#t. They can't actually sing unless they're produced to buggery! Then you listen to an unknown guy playing his itty-bitty guitar, singing like a nightingale and not hitting one bung note. Who has the talent I ask you?

So please take a look at this twenty-two year old’s work and tell me he’s not bloody awesome!



Like his page and support these jewels amongst our midst!

Friday, January 3, 2014

What Men Should and Shouldn't Wear in the Tropics


With 35+ degree heatwave temperatures across Australia over this Christmas period the only place to be is here…



Pinky, Kyles and Kaz on New Year's Day.


Pinky enjoying the icy cold waters at Crystal Creek today.

Even the dogs are getting in on the action…

                                Pablo and Scotto

Permitting the men to take over the task of cooking is paramount.

        Troy (right) had his phone on a timer to go off every 2 minutes so he would                                     remember when to turn the steaks over??? (Our boys can pull off                                           anything!) 


Much is written on the Internet about women’s fashion in the Australian summer's sizzling conditions, but I haven’t seen any of my favourite Queensland fashion/lifestyle bloggers writing about 'what' and 'what not' our men should be wearing.


So… I made a list.

1. Singlets

Unless you are under twenty-five years old (or have arms and a chest like Liam Hemsworth)… don’t do it in public.
N.B. Especially if you have grey underarm hair. 




2. Budgie Smugglers

Never acceptable unless you are a bona fide lifesaver and even then, make sure the leg elastic is secure because we don't want to 'accidentally' see any "Purple Speckled Robin's Eggs" poking out.

                                       

3. Shorty-short footy shorts.

Again... with the exception of actually being a ridgy-didge football player like Cooper Cronk, Billy Slater or Cameron Smith and are in the act of, well playing football... don't go there. Not only can the speckled eggs be unknowingly exposed but so can the Ding Dong McDork if you forget to put those jocks on.

                                                               
4. Crocs/Sandals

If you drive an unmarked van and hang around schools... fine. 

Otherwise it's best to avoid these if you want to attract the ladeeeeez...

                                       Image Credit

5. The Sombrero Hat

Not only does this reflect the representation of "I don't like any woman as much as I love my sport" it tends to make you wear green and yellow zinc cream, scream out obscenities and look like a bit of a tosser.

So there you go guys.
Anything else that makes you girls or guys turn your toes up in the sand?

P.S. I'm only joshin', our men can wear anything they like as long as they're prepared to put up with us in our tracky dacks :)


Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Pinky's call to ban candy canes.


You can tell it’s the last week of school by the sticky, stained fingers and faces of all the kids at school; it’s candy cane season. 


The carelessly discarded, annoying little pieces of cellophane blow freely around the gardens, oval and walkways on their way to the storm drain only to be swept out into the ocean to choke an unsuspecting turtle.


Some students suck their candy cane into sharp pointy spears which they use to stab each other. Others use the ones with golden strings attached as inventive earrings. 

The kids’ eyes are dilated in sugar-rush fever as they hand out the ubiquitous Christmas cards to their 29 classmates. I haven’t seen any sincere, meaningful messages on any of the cards, merely “To Jack, From Amy.”

I’m thinking the cards are a ruse to cover for the candy.

I have a rule. No eating candy canes until after the sausage roll at morning tea.

Apparently, a school in Darwin banned the giving of candy canes with Christmas cards and there was loud uproar from the parents. The dentists are the winners here, laughing all the way to the bank every January.

Candy canes were originally a religious symbol at Christmas. The “Good Shepherd’s Crook” or the “J” shape meaning Jesus, the white candy suggesting purity, the three red stripes denoting the Holy Trinity...

Now they’re just an added financial stress for Mum to add to her never-ending list of end of school year crap.

Every school should ban them.


Sunday, September 29, 2013

Why have common sense and goodwill gone to the dogs?

                              Pinky and "Someone"

It was a gorgeous, breezy, sunny day. Pinky was excited; she and Scotto had made a date with “Someone” to go for a laidback lunch at a casual eatery in town in order to celebrate the recent anniversary of “Someone’s” day of birth.

“Someone” appeared at Pinky’s door looking not a small bit green around the gills. Apparently “Someone” had been heavily on the turps the previous night revelling in observation of the same commemoration.

“Are you sure you want to go to lunch today?” asked a cynical Pinky. “You don’t look very well… we can make it another time…”

“I’ll be right!” “Someone” slurred, its eyes glazed over with the appearance of hungover zombification.

The three of them; Scotto, Pinky and “Someone” ordered their food at the restaurant. “Someone” sat with its head in its hands, groaning occasionally and squinting painfully in the light.

When the delicious food arrived onto the table, Pinky and Scotto tucked in like sailors on shore leave but “Someone” merely picked at its pizza like a sick kitten.

It seemed that “Someone” was too poorly to chew and swallow.

“Why don’t we go and have a hair of the dog down the road?” suggested a tremulous “Someone” looking decidedly off-colour and pressing its temples firmly with a glass of ice. 


“I’ll take this pizza to go…”

So off they went down the yellow brick road, boxed pizza tucked under "Someone's" arm.

As soon as the three adventurers entered the premises, Pinky, alert to random hostility, perceived the Duty Manager staring intently at the trio; the hirsute and meaty Duty Manager who resembled a trendy golf playing Hagrid.

Scotto was dispensed immediately to acquire drinks while Pinky and the fragile “Someone” settled comfortably into a window seat.



Within two minutes Pinky espied the burly Duty Manager whispering into the ear of his stringy minion.

“Oh crap, here we go!” hissed Pinky, watching the minion pompously approaching their table out of the corner of her beady eye.

“I know we can’t bring food in but we’re not eating it… see! It’s still in the box! We can’t leave it in the car or it’ll go off!”
asserted Pinky, before the messenger could open his supercilious mouth.
“You can’t have food here. You’ll have to leave…” officiated the minion in a robotic bleat.

“Could you please just put it in the fridge for us?” blurted out a silly, silly Pinky, forgetting that this wasn’t the eighties when everyone was still reasonable and nice about things.

Suddenly Scotto made a timely entrance jovially juggling three drinks in his hands.

“We have to go,” announced Pinky, in the most scandalised tone she was able to muster.

“But I’ve just paid for the drinks!” exclaimed Scotto, shocked at the dramatic proceedings unfolding.

“What if I put the pizza box in the garden bed outside this window? Then it’s not ACTUALLY inside the premises…” ventured sharp-witted Pinky, channelling brilliant barrister Geoffery Robertson QC.

“Well…” simpered the minion. “I suppose technically you’re right.”

So the pizza box rested in the garden bed for the next fifteen minutes whilst the trio enjoyed their ice cold, refreshing beverages.


Pinky 1: Bureaucracy 0

P.S.



When the three 'conscientious objectors' finally retrieved the pizza box it was riddled with ants and “Someone” was observed grumpily throwing it into the wheelie bin as he walked to his front door after being dropped home… but it’s the principle that counts.

Young men may know the rules but old women know the exceptions!

Saturday, August 31, 2013

Pinky's Beauty Tips! What works and what doesn't!

Look... you can stop laughing right now! Okay!


If I can give tips on raising a daughter…click here

Tips on how blogging can be bad for you…click here!

Advice to men…click here!

And tips on how to deal with teenage boys…click here

Then surely I’m qualified to present my accumulated knowledge of what does and doesn’t work in the cosmetics industry… yeah?

Pinky aged 9 years

                             What's with the fringe, MUM??

Bitterly unhappy about the shape of my pointy, largish nose I took to sleeping with a headband stretched over my conspicuous proboscis hoping to restrict its growth. It didn’t work… and the rest of the kids persisted in calling me cruel names such as, Witchy-Poo

Lemon juice squeezed all over my face to fade my freckles did nothing for me either... except get me into trouble when Mum went to make her evening Gin and Tonic and there were no lemons left.

Pinky aged 16 years


The focus was on developing a deep tan via vegetable oil. Not recommended as thirty years later a very deep sun cancer was removed from my right cheek.


Pinky aged 21 years


Wearing copious amounts of thick makeup was the name of the game during my twenties. Leaving it on after a big night partying was de rigueur and sometimes I’d just slide it around the next day to fill in the gaps. They say every time you sleep in your makeup it ages your face by two days. Okay… by my calculations I must have the face of an eighty-seven year old...
Read this terrifying article!

Pinky aged 31 years

                          If I look frightened it's because I was.
I’d had two kids and was destined to give birth to another three within the next five years. There were NO beauty routines during those years aside from accidentally rubbing some zinc and castor oil cream onto my face whilst changing the baby’s nappy.

Pinky aged about 39 years

                           Pinky with Padraic and Hagar.
Panic set in! I was nearly FORTY! 
La Prairie night cream costing a fortune was purchased, trips to the plastic surgeon for micro-dermabrasion treatments, spider vein treatments, lip fillers and Botox injections for the deep gorge running between my eyebrows ensued. Nothing could stop my attempts to halt the clock ticking.

Pinky aged 50 years

    Pinky on her fiftieth and Thaddeus' twenty-first birthday with nephew Heinrich!

I've grown wiser over the years and I'm not falling for fancy packaging and false advertising anymore. Just the basic no nonsense, inexpensive 
QV range does it for me now. 

                                  My all time fave!

Let’s face it… it’s what’s on the INSIDE that counts anyway.

When I look in the mirror I may look like this…


But the best beauty tip I can give you is this... 

Take your glasses off when you look in the mirror... 


                            It's a bloody miracle!

Photoshopping by Scotto at Scottos World

Thursday, August 29, 2013

North Queensland's Got Talent... The H Factor!

Introducing the gorgeous Harriet Dyer (in character)!

During the fifteen or so years I taught speech and drama and was the director of a youth theatre company, I would sometimes detect a particular spark, an extra glimmer of talent in one of the kids.

When you go on stage to collect your Oscar in years to come you’d better mention your old teacher!” I would solemnly command whilst they laughed and promised earnestly to remember me.

Well guess what? I’m thinking my dream may one day soon become a reality!

I first met her when she was two; sitting in a shopping trolley inspecting me suspiciously with her Siamese-blue eyes.





“She’s gorgeous!” I commented to her heavily pregnant mother, Dolly.

“She’s evil!” retorted Dolly, “A little witch.” Dolly was clearly well and truly over her pregnancy coupled with the exhausting effort of running after two young daughters.

The sapphire-eyed Harriet did look a bit of a handful though... I thought quietly.

Fast forward about six years and I was delighted to be consigned the job of teaching drama to all three of Dolly’s kids.

The eldest, a multi-talented Maddie, took on all the lead roles in our plays until finally she moved on to greener pastures allowing her diminutive sister Harriet, to rise from the ashes like a Phoenix, dazzling us all with her energy, vitality and unique ability.

Both girls could sing like nightingales and I’m guessing this talent sprang from their father’s genes as from my educated guess, Dolly shares the same singing ability as me… the ‘did someone just step on a cat’s tail?’ type of tonal quality.

Nevermind; the beauty genes originated from her mum.

For many years Dolly and I would tearfully watch Harriet climbing the stage stairs to collect award after accolade and, self-effacing to a fault, she always remembered to graciously thank the cast and crew. Since she left for the big smoke I’ve been following her evolving success in the Australian theatre and television industry from afar.

Scotto and I watched her vivacious, highly skilled lead performance in the Bell Shakespeare Company’s “Tartuffe” last year and I think our Harry may have learnt a few more tricks since treading the boards under Pinky’s direction.

Every time I see her in a national advertising campaign I’m straight on the blower to Dolly,

I saw her! I saw our Harry!... Did she really shave half her hair off?”

She is about to hit our screens in an upcoming television series, ‘Love Child’ and in a typically humble way credits her success to her local training in plays and musicals.

I’m telling you now… this stunning girl is going to win an Oscar and you heard it here first.
And you know what? I’ll be so proud I won’t even mind if she doesn’t mention me in her acceptance speech.

A link to the story about Harriet in the newspaper today... click here!

A link to one of Harriet's latest national advertisements...

A link to one of her equally talented sister Maddie's national advertisements! ...click here

Thursday, June 6, 2013

You have too much time on your hands!

                                     Marie-Antoinette


I was out (somewhere) recently when a creative friend I shall name Nigella, brought out a lavishly decorated cake she had obviously spent hours painstakingly working on for another friend who was celebrating her birthday. 

Another lady, who I shall name Cynthia, stood behind Nigella as she carefully took off the cover, revealing the sumptuous, meticulously adorned gateau in all its glory.

“Gosh! You clearly have too much time on your hands!” commented Cynthia.

Unlike the wilful and ill-humoured Pinky; who may have been incited to stab Cynthia in the eye with the cake knife, Nigella merely tensed imperceptibly and replied, “No I don’t!”

I’m positive Cynthia didn't intend any malice with her throw-a-way comment as she is a lovely girl, but I believe, 
“You have too much time on your hands” is a passive aggressive statement right up there in the same league as, “You look tired” (You look old) and “You’ve really improved” (You sucked before).



When I first began writing my blog five months ago and posting it on Facebook, a friend, who I shall name Drucilla, made the comment on my wall, 
“You have too much time on your hands”.

Drucilla had never and has never read my blog, however, I still felt p#ssed off. The wound festered for a while, then dried up, scabbed over and fell off but the cake incident started me thinking.

When I meet up with friends and they tell me they spent two hours the previous evening running up and down the mountain at boot camp I don’t say, 
“You have too much time on your hands”.
When colleagues are standing in line at the urn discussing the previous night’s State of Origin match, I don’t say, 
“What? You spent eighty minutes of your valuable evening watching a bunch of blokes you don’t know running up and down a muddy field chasing a ball? You have too much time on your hands.”

Whatever your passion is you will somehow find the time to pursue it.

My sixteen and eighteen year old will regularly lurch into the loungeroom when I’m writing at night harassing me to start dinner. The washing mounts, the barge-a#se gets bigger through lack of exercise, but I’m enjoying myself by utilising whatever measly creativity that hasn’t been sucked out of me after a frenzied day. 

Don’t listen to anyone when they criticise you for following your obsession.

Let them eat cake!


Image credit: www.gogmsite.net