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Showing posts with label Pinky's Everyday Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pinky's Everyday Life. Show all posts

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Would you hold an Eighteenth Birthday Party?

I like to live on the edge, push the envelope, and play by the seat of my pants. That’s why I didn’t bother with any party preparations until 9:00am on Saturday morning even though we were expecting roughly 70 teenagers to descend like bats at dusk in ten hours’ time.

I’d planned it in my head though. Vacuum filthy house, clean toilets, hose back patio, shop for party food, set up seating, wash hair and pour a drink… in that order. 

I’d brought up five wild and woolly kids you see, I rarely get in a flap.

Mrs. Unflappable Poinker, they call me.

Imagine my elation when, as I turned the vacuum cleaner on it blasted a hot hurricane of thick dust into my face. I checked for the bag inside; it had gone AWOL. Not only had the bag been removed but so had the plastic device whose job it is to hold the bag in place. Thrown in the bin with the bag by a negligent teenager I surmised. Again. Twice in the space of a month had Mr Nobody thrown the baby out with the bath water.

“Scotto!!!” I screamed calmly. “We have to go to fudging Godfrey’s to buy another fudging vacuum cleaner!”

I’ve had a few abusive relationships with vacuum cleaners over the last twenty-five years. At least one VC has been thrown across the lounge room causing electric sparks to cascade over the carpet because of its substandard suction ability. I’ve savagely bashed more than a few extension tubes on the floor like a shrewish, mad woman whilst attempting to extricate an obstructive article consequently cracking the offensive tool. 

I've had a colourful vacuuming career.

So it was with nervous trepidation when Scotto pointed out a bagless Hoover model on sale for $69. 

“You won’t have to buy bags anymore, Pinky!” he promised. “And they’re not cheap are they?” He was playing on my thriftiness.

We took it up to the counter.

“How often do I have to wash the filter thing?” I asked the salesman.

“Every time you use it,” he said as I rolled my eyes to the back of my skull. “But the filter is made of paper so it’ll break down after a couple of washes so I suggest you buy a spare one while you’re here.”

“And how much is a new one?” I queried.

“Twenty-nine ninety-nine,” he smiled. “Or you could upgrade to a more expensive model where you don’t have to change the filter and pay it off on a monthly basis.”

But, Pinky Cheapskate Poinker took the inferior model, knowing in her heart it was going to wind up being angrily flung from her bedroom window and smashed down on to the driveway one day anyway.

We finished the rest of the shopping and I set about my cleaning chores. My new VC and I made a pact as we hoovered our way through the house. If it managed to get through the entire house without clogging or overheating and conking out, I promised not to yank it roughly by the cord and sadistically drag it along the ground every time it fell on its stupid side or got stuck behind a corner.

The whole time diligent Scotto cleaned and hosed the backyard and I swore and ranted around like Cranky Consuela, the birthday girl, Lulu, was out shopping with her girlfriends.

When she finally arrived home with the sisterhood at about 5 o’clock I tapped on her bedroom door. “Um, Lulu. You know how you promised you’d help us clean the house for your party?”

“Yes,” came the muffled reply.

“Well… we’ve finished cleaning and you didn’t help us.”


“Do you think you could possibly blow up some balloons and stick them around the place?”

“What! I have to blow up balloons for my own birthday party? That’s lovely that is.”

     "Party? Does this mean I'm going to be locked in the laundry... again?"

In case you’re interested, the party went smoothly and the police didn’t even have to come once... which is more than I can say for the last party Scotto and I held here. The kids partied quietly and disappeared off to the nightclubs at 11:00pm.

                                     The wrist bands.

                                       Pinky with Lulu and her besties.

                                            Lulu's boyfriend, Jock.

                                              Lulu and big bro Padraic.

N.B: I brought the new VC out for another spin this morning to clean up the aftermath and although we're not friends we're tolerating each other, for the time being.

And there was a considerable mess... which we cleaned up...

while Princess Lulu slept.

Friday, July 11, 2014

Pinkerella and the Ball!

Once there lived a blithe and bonny young lass named, Pinkerella.

Pinkerella lived with a handsome prince (who was reasonably nice as long as he’d had enough sleep) and five horrid dwarves who treated her quite badly, drank a lot of Red Bull, never washed their dishes and left all the lights on.

One sunny day, one of Pinkerella’s friends Shazza, asked her if she and the handsome prince and a handful of Pinkerella’s snugly schlepp-sisters, would like to make up the numbers for a table at a forthcoming gala ball.

Pinkerella was beside herself with excitement and arrangements were immediately made with the schlepp-sisters to visit a fancy frock store (which happened to be having a half-price sale) the very next morn.

The schlepp-sisters, Lee-lee, Kyles and Shazza, were waiting outside the shop engaged in petty squabbling when Pinkerella breathlessly arrived (Kaz was at home nursing a sore head from the previous night's festivities).

“You have to wear a floor length gown not a cocktail dress,” insisted Shazza, with an air of pretension. “It’s a proper ball! Not like those dodgy Christmas parties we have every year. People will be very dressed up.”

Pinkerella went weak at the knees when she espied the heavily discounted rack burgeoning with taffeta and beaded netting.

“That one looks cheap nice!” she gushed. “I’ll try it on at once!”

The schlepp-sisters watched resentfully as Pinkerella snatched her size from the rack and waltzed smugly to the dressing room leaving them in a pink cloud of powdered sequins.

“It fits!” she twirled in front of the mirror, florid, plummy fabric eddying around her feet.

“That’d be right!” snarled Kyles. “Pinkerella walks in and buys the first thing she picks off the rack.”

“It’s how I roll, girls,” sang Pinkerella gaily as bluebirds twittered joyfully about her head and sparkling rainbows magically appeared.

But, being the kind-hearted, sweet natured, delightful girl she is, Pinkerella hung around to assist the pernickety schlepp-sisters in finding an equally beguiling gown to wear to the ball. 

Which they did.

                              Lee-lee and Kyles

Pinkerella might be going to the ball looking like a certain garish, infamous, people-eating monster, but at least she only had to fork out ninety-nine dollars. 


Have you found any good bargains recently?

Linking up with Sonia Styling for Weekend Rewind!

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Are You Mentally Strong?

                                         Pinky Starkers!!!

According to the Mind Unleashed website, one thing mentally strong people don’t do is expect immediate results.

“Whether they are working on improving their health or getting a new business off the ground, mentally strong people don’t expect immediate results. Instead, they apply their skills and time to the best of their ability and understand that real change takes time.”

With that piece of advice in mind I’ve come to the thunderously sinking realisation… my mental fortitude is as weak as a weak little kitty-kat kitten.

Of course I bloody well expect immediate results!

If I order a Game of Thrones t-shirt from the United States online, I expect it to be here within 24 hours... max.

I did such an outlandish thing a month ago and waited… and waited… and waited for it to arrive.

It was to be sent to hubby, Scotto’s work place, as there is never anyone home here (except for a huge, savage, unrestrained German Shepherd in case you’re a burglar who’s happened to chance upon this blog and is still reading… although I doubt you’d still be reading because you probably have 'places to case', or you’d be bored already, or trying on ski masks you’d purchased online… if they’d ever turned up in the damn mail that is).

Anyway… in my anxious wait for the much lusted after t-shirt to arrive, I’d violently spear tackle Scotto every time he walked in the door demanding, “Did it arrive yet? Huh? Huh?”

At which he would shake his head sadly in the negative (after picking himself off the floor, popping his shoulder back in its socket and spitting out a bloodied molar or two.)


We live in the age of aeronautical transport. I’ve flown to the United States in a day, why did it take my t-shirt a whole MONTH to get here.

“Can’t you track it like you track the stupid computer parts you order?” I challenged Scotto.

“It’s only a t-shirt, Pinky. It cost twenty bucks. It’s coming via surface mail. You can’t track that,” he replied huffily.

I was desperate. I wanted to wear it when I went over to my sister Sam’s place because she’s in the Lannister Camp and I am clearly out and proud, “Camp Stark”.

Now the fourth season of Game of Thrones is finished on the telly, I’m very anxious about the health and well-being of its genius author, George R. R. Martin.

In fact, I’ve never been so anxious about the welfare of any American author in my entire life. 

The guy is sixty-six and still has two books of the series to write and I’m sorry to be the one to say this but he’s not looking the picture of robust health.
                                  No offence George.

Put it this way, I’m pretty sure he doesn't follow a vegan diet and run 10 km a day followed by yoga/meditation and a wheat grass shot.

What if he… you know, doesn't get to finish the books? What will we all do?

Why can’t he just… write the bloody things. I want to know what happens next, NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW!

Have you ever waited for an inordinately long time for something you bought online?

Monday, June 9, 2014

Things to do when waiting for your husband to come out of the hardware store

Look in rear vision mirror and count your open pores.

Pluck long black hairs from behind your knees which you missed when shaving that morning.

Search through handbag for runaway barley sugar.

Pick fluff off barley sugar and eat slowly.

Closely observe people entering and leaving store and .give them an original Game of Thrones character name like; Petyr Baygon, Polish the Bannister, Jon Dyna-Gro and Eejit, Various Tarpaulins, Stains of the Bathatheon, Hoe-dor, Neon Spraytoy.

Push cuticles back on fingernails whilst acknowledging to self how unfunny those names are .

Count up how many calories you have already eaten today. Calculate if you refrain from eating for the rest of the day and go for an hour long walk wearing ankle weights you can possibly afford to eat an entire Dr Oetker pizza that night.

Recalculate possibility if you up it to a two hour walk.

Stare at the sky until you can see the white cells moving through the capillaries in your eyes. Watch them for a while.

See how many signs you can read whilst holding your breath.

Do twenty pelvic floor exercises.

Calculate calories you just burned.

Take reading glasses out of case and clean them thoroughly.

Put them on and look in rear vision mirror again.

Pull out spiky chin hair you didn’t see before.

Watch owner walk funny looking dog past you.

Make mental note to buy dog food.

Add up in head how much money you spend on animal food a week.

                  (Weekly purchase: not counting 8kg bag of doggy biscuits)

Try to remember why you bought so many animals.

Check phone to see if any of your kids who failed to come home last night have answered your numerous texts.

Notice there are no replies send more texts. Angrier ones.

Suddenly remember why you bought so many animals.

Jump in excitement when you see husband coming out the door.

Notice in alarm there is nothing in his hands and he is wearing disenchanted expression.

Brace self for another exhilarating wait outside next hardware store.

Sunday, June 8, 2014

Mystery on the Moops

                                                             Image credit

“A police car just pulled up in our driveway,” observed Scotto dryly, as we were sitting on the couch watching “300 Rise of an Empire” yesterday afternoon.

It’s not the type of movie I would normally enjoy but I’d loved the surreal quality, the cinematic splendor and the artistic integrity of the first “300”; plus the fact it featured more six packs than the refrigerated section at Dan Murphy’s.

The hair on my head stood to attention. 

The kids! Where were all my kids?

I knew Thaddeus (24) was round the corner at my sister Sam’s place. Lulu (17) was working at the Donut shop. Padraic (19) had texted me ten minutes previously to find out what was on the menu Monday night and Hagar (21) had only just walked out the door. Jonah (23) was the only one unaccounted for. 
I began to hyperventilate.

“It’s alright,” Scotto eased my anxiety, “they just used our driveway to turn around.”

As we’re on the cusp of a crescent shaped street people are always corroding our driveway in their efforts to turn around in the street. The surface is falling to bits it’s so ground down. Scotto wants to sue the council.

With a sigh of relief I turned back to the six packs.

Barely minutes later the same police car drove at a crawl past our house again, this time followed by an unmarked detective car. We paused the movie and silently watched as three more police vehicles arrived, jumping the gutter across the road and snaking down towards the riverbank and coming to a stop at the edge of the moops.

The ‘moops’ are what we call the swampy, grassy riverbank (resembling what I presume a moor looks like) extending out towards the actual river. It’s full of snakes, wallabies and itchy, bitey things and personally I’d never venture out there, though lots of people do.

Naturally I did the first thing I always do when anything remotely out of the ordinary happens and immediately took to social media.

I posted on Twitter first.
There are five police cars on the river in front of my place right now.Should I go and ask them, "What's goin down dudes?" Or maybe not?

The response was instantaneous.

One of my favourite blogging pals, Kimberley from Melbourne Mum, was most encouraging. 

Are you wearing a bra? was her cryptic comeback. 

“Get down there without a bra on and you should get some answers, girl!” was her intriguing advice.

Now if I was a hot little mumma like Kimberley, this strategy might have had some viability... and as it happened I wasn’t wearing a bra and the twins were swinging wide and low, like something distasteful you'd find in an issue of National Geographic.

So I sent Scotto out on a reconnaissance mission instead.

But then another vehicle arrived. Two official-looking guys in long sleeved white shirts and ties stepped out. 

It was the coroner. Shite!

Abandoning any sense of modesty I stumbled down to where quite a collection of neighbours had gathered.

“What do you reckon’s goin’ on?” asked the old bloke from two doors up after he’d stared at my chest in dismay for a few seconds.

“A drug bust?” another curious neighbour chimed in. "Could be a crop of mary-juana."

Somehow, I suspected, a drug bust would not necessitate a coroner's presence.

Then we all saw what we’d dreaded. A tarp being thrown around and then four policemen carrying a body up from the riverbed.

We all left the riverbank and wandered back to our homes.

Scotto and I didn’t bother watching the rest of the movie.

There was no crime scene. We assume it was an accidental death or even more likely and sadder; that someone had just found things in this world to be too full of hopelessness and despair and had taken their own life… three hundred metres from our house.

It was somebody’s dad/mother/brother/sister/son/daughter/friend in that zippered bag.

I wish they’d knocked on our door.

We would have bundled them up in a blanket with a warm cup of tea and called for help.

I wish they’d reached out first before taking that irrevocable step.

We are here on this Earth for each other. We should try to remember there’s always someone we can reach out to.

If this post has upset or distressed you in any way, please call Lifeline on 13 11 14, or head to Beyond Blue.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Would you be jealous of your son's girlfriend?

Scotto and I sat in the near blackness of the cinema waiting for Maleficent to start when I gave a sudden, startled squeal whilst digging around in my bag in search of elusive butterscotch lollies.

The two little girls sitting in front of us turned to look disapprovingly at the silly lady behind them causing a ruckus.

“What is THIS?” I continued, after glaring at the judgmental brats and extricating a long evil-looking orange, plastic coil from my bag. 

“A skipping rope?” I choked in disbelief holding the malevolent object up to the light. “Why does this keep happening to me Scotto?” I pleaded, tears welling in my eyes. “Why? Why?”

The mystery cheese which had bafflingly appeared in my bag on Wednesday had rattled me to my very core. Now this!

“Maybe your bag has become a vortex… you know, and it’s pulling things out of another dimension,” commented my geeky husband.

“What’s more likely, is some smarty pants at work put it in my bag to see how long it would take me to find,” I thought smugly. “I’ll get you my pretties.”

It is strange though, don’t you think?

I don’t mean about the skipping rope in my handbag… I mean that Scotto would accompany me to the movies to watch a little girl’s movie.

Last weekend we sat on the couch together and watched “Frozen”.

I think he liked it even better than I did.

Two Disney movies about princesses in a row…
In his defence he did bring these home from Dan Murphy’s this afternoon just to prove he’s still a bloke.

                            I just hope he doesn't start acting like Homer.

Speaking of blokes; my blokey-bloke son Hagar, won a very special award on Friday night. 

                 Most Outstanding Second Year Electrical Apprentice of the Year

His girlfriend Meggles, sent me the photo from the gala event (which I was not invited to) and apparently he even thanked the sweet girl for all her support in his acceptance speech.

Not that I’m jealous about the fact Meggles got a mention and I, the mother who slaved after him for twenty-one years, failed to come up in any conversations at all.

Remember Mitchell Johnson the cricketer's mother? 

She audaciously stirred up a big fuss in the media because he took his girlfriend to watch him play cricket in England instead of her; the mother who’d dedicated her life to making sure his cricket whites were white and sat around for a zillion hours watching the most eye-gougingly, boring sport ever invented… the very same mother who no doubt sacrificed buying herself nice things in order to pay for his play away games and coaching clinics.

No wonder women end up bitter and twisted.

NB: I speak in jest. I’m very proud of Hagar and I’m thrilled the adorable Meggles has stepped in to wrangle his wild and woolly ways.
It's not like I'm about to curse their first-born or anything...

Wednesday, May 28, 2014

Pinky's Mystery Cheese

“Where did this come from?” I wondered out loud, pulling a box of Camembert out of my bag this morning after ferreting around for my reading glasses in the staff room.

My colleagues just stared at it in an uninterested malaise.

“Maybe you just put it in your bag when you were shopping, Pinky,” suggested Kyles, stifling a wearied yawn.

“No... I don’t even buy this brand,” I replied in bewilderment.

“Maybe it’s the menopause… and you just forgot,” said Kaz.

“It’s not the bloody menopause!” I grouched, pulling out my phone to take a photo of the mystery fromage.

“OH!” cried Adriana, one of the Grade One teachers. Now I see your ploy, Pinky. This is just a set up for your blog. I knew your blog was a fake! Every week I read it and there’s some new sensational bloody drama. You’re just making all that stuff up.”

I couldn’t speak. My blog... a ruse? Me… melodramatic?

I shuffled off to the loo, feeling disembowelled… eviscerated.

“How could anyone possibly think I’d deliberately plant a box of cheese in my handbag for the sole purpose of garnering attention?” I huffed sitting on the toilet, trembling and injured as a baby bluebird with a brutally broken wing.

“Right that’s it! You’re on the blog!” I snapped at the complaining whistle-blower after marching out and taking her photo. ‘That’ll teach her to label me as being obsessively pre-occupied with my own personal agenda,’ I thought.

                                  Yes... you hide your head in shame!

But I still didn’t know where the camembert came from.

I texted Scotto with shaking hands.

No enlightenment there.

I asked Sue the Librarian if she had any insight.

“It’s probably just that you forgot you put it in your bag because of the menopause,” she offered kindly.

“Maybe someone put it in your bag because they thought you might like it to go with your wine, Pinky,” volunteered Alan the P.E. teacher when I grilled him.

‘Really??’ I pondered anxiously. ‘Do that many people know about my drinking habits?’

I sat in the staffroom and debriefed my friend Lyndal, who attempted to comfort me with her wise words,

“I forget lots of things too now I’m at this time of life. It’s just menopause.”

Mmmmm... But despite all of their ageist, bloody attitudes, I know full well I did not shoplift, buy,or even lay eyes before on that damn cheese and I have no idea where it came from. 

If anyone does know can you please put me out of my distressing and shocking suffering?

                           "Ya blog's rigged Pinky!"

And I’m NOT a drama queen!

P.S. Under NO circumstances Google "Mystery Cheese" because you won't like what you find.

Linking up at Grace at With Some Grace!

Monday, May 26, 2014

"Game of Moans"

If you watch Game of Thrones you’ll probably know what the “Moon Door” is.

I’ve been wondering what you all think of the “Moon Door”? 

Have you ever watched as some unfortunate knight who happened to err on the wrong side of Robin Arryn; the whiny, thirteenish year old, breast-feeding demon, is thrown through the Moon Door and hurtles to his death and secretly wished you too had a Moon Door? 

Or is it just me?

These are the objects/persons I would love to mercilessly shove into the yawning abyss and gleefully watch them smash into a million pieces on the rocks below.

1. The guy who walks his two golden retrievers past our house at 5:30 am every Saturday morning triggering my Chihuahua to startle from his dreamy slumber and “BOWROWROWROWROW… BOWROWROWROWROWROW…BOWROWROWROWROW!!!!!!!” loud enough to make me bolt upright in bed, both eardrums spurting blood and heart exploding.

2. My Chihuahua.

3. The student who audaciously calls out loudly, “The cat ate my homework!” when said item is requested on Monday morning causing unnecessary and disruptive mirth in the classroom which takes ten minutes to deactivate. It does not make it an original excuse by replacing ‘dog’ with ‘cat’, nor is it slightly amusing and frankly, I wish the cat would eat him.

4. The two youthful gym guys at the supermarket who accost me at the door every day with their free introductory membership offers. I avert my eyes to the ground; I swerve swiftly around the donut booth, skulking on bended knees to avoid being seen, I pretend to be having an animated conversation on the phone… but they always manage to somehow position their pearly whites up in my face and harangue me until I scamper away clutching the pamphlets and promising earnestly to look over them carefully.

5. The person who decided cheap waxed toilet paper frugally delivered in one sheet rations at a time in workplaces was a practical and economical idea.

6. The people on television cooking shows who carry on like it’s an art form. It’s food! It gets eaten! Gone forever… no art!

7. My lap top when out of the blue it tells me, “He’s dead Jim!” It scares the hell out of me. Who’s Jim? Who’s dead? I just want to hurl the evil machine down the Moon Door!

8. That creepy, disturbing little Robin Arryn. Gosh I hope he goes next!

Sunday, May 25, 2014

The Peeved Pescetarian

Poinkers. Meet the Poinkers.
They're the modern Phone age family.
From a town in Queensland,
They're a page right out of history.

Let's ride with the family down the street.
Driving in the muggy, tropic's heat.

When you're with the Poinkers
you'll have a yabba dabba doo time.
A dabba doo time.
You'll have a gay old time.

Now that Pebbles Poinker has her licence she’s finally able to pay us back for all the lifts we gave her over the last seventeen years.

It was the beginning of Fred (Scotto) Poinker’s birthday celebrations yesterday so we grabbed a lift from her into the city. I sat white-knuckled, gripping the back seat as Pebbles took the corners like Michael Andretti careening through the chicanes at the Grand Prix. 

I tried to keep my mouth shut for a change not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I’d like to think she was only driving in such a fashion because she was in a hurry to get rid of us and go see her boyfriend, Bam Bam. But I suspect she always drives like a maniac what with only one point left on her licence and all.

The birthday boy’s first request was that we stop for a pre-lunch drink at the infamous Yacht Club. No sooner had I settled comfortably with a nice glass of wine when suddenly I appeared to be wearing it. 

Fred, with his appalling depth perception had knocked my entire glass all over my shirt.

As I squelched off to the ladies room to wash it out I heard one of the salty barflies quip, “Hope it’s not ya first date mate!” Raucous laughter ensued.

“It’s Fred’s birthday,” I thought gritting my teeth. “Don’t get cranky.”

Then it was time to move on to Fred’s restaurant of choice. Wilma’s shout of course as is the custom on birthdays.

None of those highfalutin eateries for Fred! 

No stupid restaurants that serve unrecognisable, delicate portions on a fancy breadboard for him. Oh no! 

Fred wanted real food.

Brontosaurus ribs were the order of the day. 

No matter that Wilma (Pinky) Poinker is a pescetarian… there’d surely be something on the menu for her.

It didn’t look anywhere as nice as what he was having when it turned up though.

Sometimes I question my own life choices.

I finished mine in three minutes and sat drooling like a dog as he finished his spicy ribs.

After lunch Fred wanted to go visit the Lodge. His day after all.

Wilma’s sabre-tooth lion skin purse was soon emptied whilst Fred ‘yabba dabba dooed’ all the way home after winning forty bucks on the pokies.

I think Fred had a good birthday. 

But I wonder if there are any pescetarian restaurants around here for when it’s my turn.


Monday, May 19, 2014

Thirteen Ways You Can Survive this Budget

After the recent Budget was delivered last week, it occurred to me that belts need to be tightened around this household.

These are my strategies and I hope you find them useful.

1. Firstly, I’m going to sell my husband’s beloved skateboard collection. He’s not going to miss them if I take one deck off the wall a week and flog it off at Cash Converters

Besides, as I've been telling him for ages, he’s too old for that sort of rubbish.

2. We’ll save electricity by not watching the telly anymore. We’ll find something else to do, like throw pebbles into a jar, play hopscotch, or sit on the front lawn and count how many red cars drive past.

3. We’re all going to have to drink more water. It’s very filling so we’ll save unnecessary expenditure on pointless things like food. Although water’s low on fibre, it’s full of fluoride which is excellent for your teeth and bones.

4. Of course we’ll have to live in the dark to save on power bills. Everyone looks more attractive in the dark and as I won’t be able to afford makeup that’s a plus.

5. I’ll steal other people’s lunch at work. Some of those people at work eat far too much anyway. Surely they won’t miss the odd yogurt going missing.

6. Naturally, from now on I’ll only give homemade presents. I've always wanted to get back into knitting anyway.

                                             Image credit

7. I’ll wear a surgical mask because I won't be able to afford to get sick. As a teacher this is paramount; being surrounded by snotty nosed kids all day and all. They’re better off not seeing my facial expressions anyway.

8. Shopping around for the cheapest petrol will save me heaps. My teenagers don’t need to drive around as much as they do... and sharing is caring.

9. We can rent out our walk-in-wardrobe to a University student. Things might get a bit awkward when I go looking for my bra in the morning but I’ll be cool with it if they are.

10. It will be necessary to lower our epicurean standards. If it’s good enough for the dog it’s good enough for us.

11. We’ll look for a cheaper place to live… and save on air conditioning into the bargain.

12. I’ll read our local newspaper for cheap outing ideas. There’s bound to be some wedding/engagement/21st parties we can crash… even the odd wake perhaps.

                                           Image credit

13. It will pay to research all my fringe benefits from work. Toilet paper, sugar, coffee, tea… it’s all there for the taking. 

Except I wish they’d stop buying International Roast (caterer’s blend).

Bloody cheapskates.

How will you save money? Any tips?

Linking up at With Some Grace.

Saturday, May 10, 2014

Will the real Channing please stand up? Please stand up?

It’s Mudder’s Day tomorrow in Australia!

We spent yesterday afternoon in the classroom busily creating loving tributes to Mum… well, my students did, whilst I sat at my desk cutting out pictures of flowers from old Women’s Weekly magazines for them to stick on to their cards. 

I don’t trust them to do it you see. Little Darius or Aloysius, always seeking a cheap thrill, are likely to find a picture of a lingerie model, draw massive nipples on it and go around showing everyone inciting shocked pandemonium in the classroom.

A few of the kids sat staring into space scratching their small heads.

I don’t know what to draw on my Mudder’s Day card Mrs Poinker…” moaned little Persephone.

Well, what does Mum love?” I prompted.

Her eyes lit up.

I know what she really loves! She LOVES Channing Tatum!”

Oh! She loves the movie ‘Grease’? Then maybe you could draw the Pink Ladies!” I liked Rizzo too!

Persephone gave me a strange look. “No, Channing Tatum the hot guy!” she scolded.

Ohhhh… then who was the Pink Lady in Grease? The name 'Tatum Channing' vaguely rang a rusty bell in the cobwebbed confines of my Friday afternoon brain.

Alright then,” I said. “Draw a picture of Tatum Channing.”

Channing Tatum,” she whispered to herself quietly.

When I came home I asked Scotto, “Have you ever heard of Channing Tatum… or maybe a Tatum Channing?

Yeah,” he replied. “Isn't he the bloke in that male stripper movie?

Is it Tatum Channing or Channing Tatum?” I enquired.

Dunno. That’s the stupid thing about when people have two surnames.

It’s true.

Like… Morgan Spurlock and Stirling Mortlock. One’s a documentary maker and the other’s a footballer and I never know which way their names go or which is which.

Anyway, one mum is going to get a lovely drawing of the venerated Tatum Channing/Channing Tatum tomorrow which is more than I’ll probably get. 

I requested the five of my kids get together and all bring lunch, so I'm optimistically anticipating the arrival of a frozen chook and a hot bottle of cheap champagne. That's if I'm lucky.

Happy Mudder’s Day to all you beautiful ladies out there!

                               I suppose he's alright.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014

Dame Pinky and the Petrol Station


P… Pinged off when I arrive at the petrol station and note a queue of five cars on every bowser on the same side of where I have to stick the thing in the thing to refuel my car.

E… Enraged when I forage through and notice I’ve recently cleaned purse and have no shopper dockets allowing me to save a possible $1:34 from the probable $60 cost of petrol.

T… Tickled pink when number one car moves off and am now fourth in queue. Spend time fiddling with radio station to find one that doesn’t have announcers laughing at their own poo jokes.

R… Rigid with boredom I try on lovely cow shower cap mysteriously gifted to me in my pigeon hole at work today and check desirability in rear vision mirror. Get enquiring glances from other jaded customers.

O… Outraged when hear on radio that Australian Prime Minister is restoring the titles of Knights and Dames in Australia. I bet Pinky won’t get one.

L… Line is moving up and Pinky wants to ram the car in front just for fun. Why aren’t these people sprinting in to pay for their petrol instead of meandering in lethargically and browsing the chocolate and magazine rack?

E… Ecstatic when finally I find myself next in line… then despondently watch the dawdling man in front of me begin to wash his windscreen.

U… Understandably upset when same man takes ten minutes to pay for fuel and walks out of cashier’s eating an icecream. He takes another five minutes to adjust his car seat then sorts through middle console in car; polishes sunglasses methodically and kangaroo hops out of driveway.

M… Murderous when realise have parked on wrong side of bowser after all, so drive off squealing tyres, doing donuts and hoping have enough petrol to get to work tomorrow.

                                   Scotto modelling showercap.
                                             (Thank you to whoever gave it to me xx)

Saturday, March 1, 2014

Pinky's Panties

“I keep feeling a cool draught when I use this towel,” muttered Scotto, as he shaved in front of the mirror this morning.

Wondering what the hell he was talking about I poked my head around the bathroom door.

                     Photo has been blurred. Scotto's not really a Ken doll.

“Oh! I see what you mean…" I gasped, "maybe we should call in to Kmart this morning and buy some new towels,” 
I acknowledged, staring at what could loosely be labelled a 'thread-bare towel' draped around Scotto’s waist which unexpectedly revealed a pair of cheeky buns.

I’d only just peered into my undie drawer and was dismayed to discover the only pair of clean knickers left were a hot pink lacy number which my seventeen year old daughter Lulu had given me at Christmas.

You know the type… nasty little French things with the propensity to sneak up your butt giving you a wedgie with every single step you take.

“I need to buy some new undies and bras as well so we may as well go out this morning and brave the walking dead at Kmart together,” I decided.

So there we were, dodging the zombie mob at the shops; Scotto leading the way with Pinky trailing behind sporadically checking over her shoulder each time she needed to pick her panties out of her bottom.

Ten years (and five kilograms) ago, back in the heady days when Scotto and I first met, we’d often call into a little, specialty lingerie shop where I bought all my underwear. We eventually had to stop going because it became uncomfortable when the girls behind the counter began to know us by name.

“What about this?” Scotto would grin holding up a naughty nurse ensemble.

“Maybe…” I’d reply. “But only if you promise to mow the lawn this afternoon.”

“Or this policewoman outfit?” he’d beg.

“Sure thing,” I’d promise. “As soon as you hang those pictures up in the hall.”

(I know it sounds like emotional blackmail but it works a treat girls.)

But as I said, that was ten years ago and things are different now.

Comfort and security are the name of the game when selecting my underwear now.

Not quite Bridget Jones’ grannie pants but somewhere between what you’d expect Jessica Rabbit and Marge Simpson might wear; closer to Marge if I’m being truthful.

Beige, cotton, dependable and a size larger than I need so as not to feel restricting are what I seek out. The baggy bum does make me resemble an over-sized toddler who needs their nappy/diaper changed but nevertheless they’re exceedingly comfy.

I bought six pairs.

“One for each day of the week and on the seventh day I can just turn one pair inside out!” I joked to Scotto.

“Or you could go commando!” he winked back.

Seems all is not lost...

P.S. If you think I’m a terrible wife for posting the photo above, I did ask Scotto if I could put it on my blog and he gave a definitive ‘thumbs down’.

“Why not?” I asked, expecting protestations regarding over sharing and modesty.

“Because I look fat,” he complained resentfully.

What about you? Do you go for comfort or glamour when buying underwear?