Tuesdays are Poosdays!

                                

Tuesday is my busiest day of the week, mainly because we have a staff meeting after work and that extra hour throws my entire meticulous timetable out ... that extra precious hour is so bloody important to me.

Today was particularly frenetic because with Father’s Day looming this coming Sunday, it’s the final day I have to buy Dad a present and succeed having it arrive in time through the snail mail.

I calculated that if I managed to escape work at 4:00pm I could get to the shops by 4:30 and parcel it up for mailing tomorrow. I spent all day racking my brain as to what original and creative gift I could buy him… after all, who knows how many more Father’s Days I’ll have with him… I could get hit by a bus tomorrow.

Dad’s a little on the eccentric side. Last year I ordered an exotic silk dragon-embroidered kimono on eBay, which he loved. I’ve bought him enough Mambo shirts over the years to outfit the entire membership of the Cronulla Surf Club. He doesn’t wear aftershave… or read books… or watch movies… or really listen to music. At almost eighty years of age he doesn’t drink and pretty much owns everything a near octogenarian could possibly desire.

It was 4:40 by the time I reached the shopping precinct, agonising over the blank void of ideas in my head until I saw this sign and swerved into the car park. Surely I could find something in this behemoth of manly trappings.

                              Go Bunnings! www.bunnings.com.au

Feverishly running up and down the concrete-floored aisles, my panic rising with every fruitless step, I finally hit pay dirt!

I was still behind in my hectic schedule and wildly drove on to the supermarket for the dinner groceries, stopping by the chemist to buy my drug of choice, Dozile (over-the-counter sleepy-feel-good capsules). I had my answers for the inevitable interrogation down pat… no I don’t use them every night, no I only use them when I really need a good, solid night’s sleep… all the while trying not to look or sound like a junkie. As the lady serving me passed me the package she cautioned, 

“You do know these may make you drowsy.” 

Okaaaay… I’ll remember that, I thought, WHEN I’M TAKING THEM TO HELP ME GO TO SLEEP!

I hurtled homewards, turned sharply into our driveway and noticed Scotto had beaten me.

(Quick kiss, chug down heart-starting coffee, throw on joggers and head out to the path for an hour’s therapeutic power walk along the river.)

It’s seven-forty now and as soon as I’ve finished writing and posting this it will be time to cook dinner,( the ravenous vultures are circling) feed the six animals, make the lunches for tomorrow and put on a load of washing.
I bloody hate Tuesdays.

Do you ever feel you're being BURIED ALIVE!!!

                                Pinky: Buried Alive

B – Bed linen… haven’t changed sheets for two weeks... they're sticking to our legs.

U – Underpants… haven’t done washing for ages and have run out. Have to wear ancient G-string. Permanent wedgy.

R – Recipes… went to the Lenard’s Chicken shop on four days this week. Marvellous range there.

I – Irate, complaining teenagers… “Muuuuum! Not bloody chicken AGAIN!”

E – Energy… nowhere to be seen around here, gone AWOL... along with only comfortable bra lost in huge pile of dirty washing.

D – Dusting… can’t turn ceiling fans on because big lumps of fluff keep flying off. I keep thinking there are bats loose in the house.



A – Apathy… Eighteen year old stayed out all night on a school night; didn't bother to get up him. Had to ring the school to ask if my own son had turned up that day. School secretary thinks I'm a weird mother.

L – Lint… someone left tissues in pocket again, spread all over the black pants I was going to wear to work. Wore them anyway.

I – Idiot… guy who yelled at me and gave me the finger for cutting him off on roundabout. Someone needs to go to anger management workshops, methinks.

V – Vacuuming… there is a dead cockroach stuck to the floor that's been there since Monday morning. It'll need a chisel to get it up.

E – Ever hopeful that next week I’ll get my act together whilst also remembering a lot of other people are much worse off than Pinky and I should cease my whinging.

I'm still smiling like a rat with a gold tooth!

                          Every mother's saviour!

                      (Not sponsered but should be; in fact                                             should be CEO)

Image credit: www.lenards.com.au

Why is everyone so interested in my husband's plums?

This is what greeted me when I arrived home after work today…

As a precautionary exercise, unbeknownst to me, Scotto had been rushed to hospital today with chest pain. Apparently there were cool sirens and everything! 

He’s had a bad cough and bronchitis for the last two weeks so during the process of being laid out on a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance he managed to maintain a moderate sense of calm knowing it was probably related to that and not a heart attack.

There were no hysterical screams of,

“AM I DYING! ANSWER ME DAMMIT! PLEASE SAY I’M NOT DYING!” whilst feverishly clutching the collars of the paramedics… which is what Pinky would have done.

He was so chilled out during the whole experience he didn’t even bother to have anyone call me.

Perhaps it was because of the last time he went to hospital after suffering agonising abdominal pain for a week and I’d told him it was probably just wind and to go for a walk around the river.

I remember him lying on the hospital bed waiting to be diagnosed while I sat beside him, bored sh#tless, thinking he was making a bit of a fuss about nothing.

At last a young female doctor entered the cubicle and drew the curtains. She gently palpated his stomach and asked a few pertinent questions,

“So... I’m going to have to massage your balls,” she quipped merrily, “Just to make sure you don’t have strangulated testicles.”

Okay… those weren’t her exact words... I’m not a doctor... but that was the gist of it.

I swiftly gathered my bag and went to make my escape. “Stay!” croaked Scotto, blind panic glinting in his eyes.

AWWWWKWARD! Sitting in an enclosed space whilst a strange woman played with my husband’s knackers. I can tell you... I didn’t know where to look. Should I watch or just stare at the wall and hum to myself? I thought.

She disappeared and about ten minutes later a tall, much more officious looking doctor wandered in with a clipboard.

He also immediately requested permission to manipulate Scotto’s nether nuts and the look of sheer terror in my husband’s face mandated my loyal and neutral presence. More staring at the wall and rocking quietly.
How you can diagnose appendicitis by squeezing someone’s coconuts I’ll never understand… but then I don’t have a medical degree.Anyway, it seems Scotto has pleurisy as a complication of his bronchitis which explains the chest pain. 

I wonder if the doctors needed to grasp his goolies to work that one out?

And if you are wondering why he is still wearing the sticky node patches on his chest??? He's too scared to rip them off because they're stuck to his chest hair!

The "Do You Seefood Anywhere" Festival.

Yesterday Scotto and I were invited to attend the local Seafood/Jazz festival by the incorrigible Dolly and the Dolly Birds.
Arriving early for the 1.00pm restaurant booking at the Heritage Restaurant we thought we might sit at an outside bar and enjoy some cold refreshment before entering the roped off festival enclosure.
I noticed the constabulary were out in full force. 

Wow, maybe this was going to get a bit exciting later on, I thought in anticipation.

"If that's all we get for our ten dollars I want my money back!"
complained a woman walking back from the festival and passing close by our table.

"Well that was a load of crap! There was nothing there!" grumbled another.

Ah people always like to have a whinge... I mused optimistically.

"Does it really cost ten dollars to get in?" I asked Scotto.
"Maybe I can use my Pinky Poinker press card and we can get in for free!"
"What Press Card?" he queried.
"You know, those cards you printed out for me when I was hounding people to vote for me in the blogging comp."

"It's hardly a press card," he remarked whilst rakishly trying on my fascinator he'd discovered still in my bag since the day at the races.

We walked to the long line up and waited patiently. When it was our turn I smiled confidently at the girl taking the money and held up the card,
"Hi! I'm Pinky Poinker! I'll be writing a review of the festival on my lifestyle blog. We'll be right to just walk through then?"

"Oh! Just one moment... I'll check my list." she picked up a clipboard and scanned it.
Shockingly, we weren't on the list and had to cough up the twenty bucks.
The part of the street blocked off for the festival still reeked from the night club shenanigans of Friday night. Julie had booked an outside table at the Restaurant but the entire area smelled like a sewer. No drinks were being served outside because of licensing regulations either so we had no choice but to go and sit inside the dingy interior. Such a shame on such a beautiful Townsville Winter day.

                           (L-R) Julie, Scotto, Stu, Alan, Val, Dolly)
The only food available were seven dollar plates of seafood for which you had to line up at a singular lonely stall in a queue of roughly one thousand people.
Remember the story about the feeding the multitudes with the loaves and fishes? Well unlike our Lord and Saviour, these caterers ran out. 

At 3:30 none of us had eaten, however, copious amounts of wine had been consumed and we'd worked up a massive appetite so it was off to the Chinese restaurant down the road where we saturated out bloodstream with mono-sodium glugglutinate.

                       (L-R) Pinky, Les, Alan, Julie, Patrice, Dolly, Mark, Stu, Val.)
I heard no jazz music and I ate no seafood. None of us did. Although I did bump into my twenty year old son, Hagar and his girlfriend Meggles, and they'd managed to procure a plate of something fishy after lining up in the hot sun for thirty minutes.

Hagar is always so thrilled to run into his mother!

We eventually found a pub where Dolly's adorable and talented niece was playing the guitar and singing and the hipsters all rocked around the dance floor for a bit.

I don't like to criticise anything or anyone in my blog so all I'll say is this:

If all it takes to produce a successful seafood/jazz festival is a face-painting stall, a pointless admission fee, an odd, out of place stall selling wind-up dogs, one food stall that runs out of seafood early in the day, an abhorrent stench pervading the entire area and no jazz music... then it was an extremely triumphant event in our fair city.

With My Friends Who Needs Enemies?

“Pinky… look!” 

Kaz had one immaculately groomed eyebrow raised and was staring at my mid-section. We were in the school staffroom and I paused with my fork of tuna salad midway to my mouth.

“Wha..?” I responded with a gob full of half-chewed food.

“You’re showing a bit much luv,” Kaz grimaced and pointed at my stomach.

My shrunk-in-the-wash, pre-shrunk shirt had worked its evil way up my midriff and a roll of whitish and gleaming stomach fat was on display for all and sundry to relish.

“It’s mah belly!” I laughed, squeezing it in my fist.

“Look! You’re hanging out everywhere!” jibed Emmsie, pointing out the hip fat, struggling like a cream-coloured Labrador puppy attempting an escape from the back of my pants.

“SHUT UP!” I cried out piteously. “I can’t help it! It’s the hormones! I don’t eat anything except salad… I powerwalk… what the hell else can I do? It’s middle-aged spread!”

“It couldn’t be anything to do with the amount of wine you drink could it, Pinky?” smirked Kyles.

Bloody be-artches!

It was a bit of a rude shock to have my weight gain so cruelly pointed out to me. 

Scotto hasn’t said a word about it.

“I’m so FAT right now!” I say in a silly voice every single morning when I’m getting dressed, fishing for compliments and reassurance.

“You’re beautiful, Pinky!” he’ll reply in a sincere voice every single morning.

Maybe he’s just been too scared to say anything and left it up to my (sometimes overly) candid be-artches to give it to me straight...

It’s just been so hard lately to come home from work, drag on the joggers and get out there amongst it pounding the pavement; but I think I’ve discovered a secret motivational strategy...

Berocca.

If I take one of these ‘fizzy feel-goods’ at about three o’clock, I’m instantly infused with enough energy to push me into seeking out my jogging shoes. 

There is the added benefit that, halfway through my hour long walk, I abruptly and without warning, experience a pressing and unrelenting urge to wee. 

It’s such a critical and insistent inclination that I actually have to break into a slow trot... then a proper jog, then a faster jog and finally a panicked sprint which would rival Black Caviar coming into the home straight.

Every afternoon Scotto witnesses me galloping up the driveway, slamming open the front door, roughly pushing everything in my way aside (including the terrified cat) and screaming frantically, 

“Toilet! Toilet! TOILET!”.

                          

Stomach Upset! Oxygen Debt! I can beat the Nicorette!

                       
Scotto and I were watching the ‘Slasher Porn’ movie, “The Evil Dead” the other day when I hurriedly excused myself and absconded to the kitchen in fear, under the flimsy guise of doing the washing up. 

The movie tells the story of a group of unknowing young people staying in a remote cabin ominously haunted by a viciously evil entity. One of the girls is a tormented drug addict and is attempting to go cold turkey with her friends to help her get through the withdrawal symptoms.

Inevitably, the cabin is flooded in, and the menacing entity assumes the form of what can only be described as a disturbing black pudding. 

The black pudding then violently enters the distressed drug addict via one of her bodily orifices (and it wasn’t her mouth, nose or earhole) thus escalating her withdrawal symptoms to unbelievably unpleasant proportions.

However ridiculously bloodthirsty the movie was, it caused me to stop and have a good think about my own addictions.

“Which addiction would that be, Pinky?” I hear you shriek in hilarity.

Well… all those shareholders in Chardonnay manufacturing can relax because I’m not thinking of giving up the booze, yet.

“Blogging!” You’re thinking hopefully. “She’s going to shut down her obsessive blogging so we won’t have to put up with her on Facebook and Twitter anymore! Yippee!”

Sorry guys, I have a few more posts left in me yet.

What I desperately need to give up is my twelve year addiction to Nicorette chewing gum.

Whilst the maximum recommended daily intake is about six hits a day, Pinky has been gnawing away like a manic squirrel at about fifteen gums a day over many years.

My over-extended love affair with Nicotine is coming to an end. 

I’m sick of dropping them between my legs in the car and finding them melted all over my bottom and the car seat an hour later. I’m tired of feeling my heart bursting out of my chest because of the overload of nicotine in my system. I feel guilty when I find my Fox Terrier, Celine, buzzing around on a high chewing away on a dropped Nicorette she found on the floor and frankly, a lot of the time they make me feel sick... just like cigarettes.

Wish me luck to fight the evil substance as I’ve heard Nicotine eats into the grey matter in your brain and as you know I don’t have a hell of a lot of grey matter to lose.

The Seven Stages of Grief and Pinky's Porn Stars

                          Scotto and his first world problem.

We were off to a Race Day Party at Kirsten’s place yesterday and called in to Doctor Dan Murphy’s to pick up the required supply of aqua vitae (innocuous word for booze). I’d already bought the cold chook and we’d stockpiled our gold coins from behind the couch and the bottom of the washing machine for the anticipated sweepstakes so this was our last errand before heading over.

Scotto, in his usual arsy style had managed to find a rock star car park.

“Are you sure you want to park your BRAND NEW car here?” I asked tartly. “The cars on either side are a bit close. Aren’t you worried about someone putting a ding in your car with their doors?”

“Nah… it’ll be right,” he responded casually.

“But look how close that one is,” I badgered.

“It will be fine!” he said with a slight ‘tone’. So I dropped the subject.

As we returned to the car ten minutes later with our spoils in hand we watched in horror as a three year old terror ran to the car parked beside us, and enthusiastically opened the door. 

There was a sickening thwack of metal on metal, juxtaposed by his mother’s voice screaming, “Get in the bloody car, Jackson!”

“Did he leave a dent?” I squeaked to Scotto after a frozen ten second hiatus whilst watching him intently inspecting his door with his trembling hands.

“Yeah… there’s a ding,” he replied with astounding serenity. (Shock)

“Why are you so calm?” I asked when we were driving off. “I would have grabbed the little sh#t and throttled the living daylights out of him.”

“Well there was nothing I could really do about it.” (Denial)

“I would have given his mother a serve for not watching the little #$#*!” I ranted.

“Actually I should have! Maybe I should turn around and tell the b#stards they have to pay for it!” he shouted, his pupils dilating to liquid pools of black. (Anger)


“I suppose it was an accident though,” I replied selfishly, not really wanting to go through a road rage scene in a bottle shop car park.

“It had to happen eventually. I just didn’t think it would be in the first week of me having it. It was Karma.” (Bargaining)

“I hate to say it but, I told you not to park there,” my spiteful voice blurted out and betrayed me.

“I know. I should have listened to you, Pinky.” (Guilt)

It’s just not the same any more. I’ll never have the perfect car again. Never… (Depression)

You know what? It’ll cost me a hundred bucks to get it fixed. That’s what I’ll do. No one will ever know there was a dent at all.” (Acceptance and Hope)

We did make it to the party and after losing all my moolah pretty much straight away I got bored and took a few photos of my friends who I then pestered for their 'porn star names'

(You know... first pet, first street).

Introducing... "Racy Cup Day"-

Starring, in no particular order...

The demure "Cleo Sheffield"

The sensuous "Poppy Ivory"

The sassy "Sparky Disney"

The inventive "Sandy McGinn"

The luscious "BG Anzac"

The imaginative "Breakfast Greenslopes"

The insatiable "Blue River" 

The frisky "Rusty Queen"

The suave "Pablo Earle"

The desirable "Mr Max Kalangah!"

The cheeky "Kobi Woodwood"

The double act of "Joey Coachwood" and "Snoopy Woodland"

(There seems to be a lot of 'wood' around... soz).

Mr Cool, aka, "Turbo Casuarina"

Now this bloke couldn't remember his pet or his street so I used his own nickname and the street he was currently in.

"Raven Muzzle"

I know... small things amuse small minds.

Meet you back here tomorrow night!

Ladies’ Day at the Races (or Old Girls Behaving Badly)

                                                                          Dolly

“You have to be fricking joking?” I exploded at the girl at the ticket booth. “Eighteen dollars for two Rum and Cokes? That’s a bloody rip-off!”

She burst out laughing in my face; clearly amused and not at all concerned about a tipsy, loud-mouthed, feather-crested woman carping on about drink prices.

Dolly and I had abandoned the pristine marquee in order to get down and dirty with the plebs in the public bar. We’d ordered the drinks at the bar and tried to pay when the barman told us we had to purchase tickets as they weren’t taking money at the bar. He’d already snapped open our two ice-cold cans of Rumbo.

“Keep them under the counter for us!” commanded Dolly to the barman. “And don’t let anyone put Rohypnol in them either! I don’t want to be raped!” 

She was wearing her “Miss Marple” hat and was in very fine spirits. I seriously don’t think anyone would have been game to spike Dolly’s drinks for fear of what extreme behaviours it may incur.

She’d already upset Michael at the photo booth in the marquee when the two of us decided we needed some happy snaps.

                                         Michael

Looking pointedly at the half curtain in front of the booth she turned to Michael before we went in, 

“That curtain’s no good!” she protested. “How are we supposed to get our gear off in there? Everyone out here will see us!”

Michael coughed nervously and didn’t know quite where to look. I think he thought she was serious.

I had several surreal and hysterical conversations with Dolly over the course of the wine-sodden afternoon and it was necessary every now and then to jot down what she or someone else had said so I wouldn’t forget it.

I caught Patrice taking a ‘Basic Instinct’ beaver shot of one of the Dolly Birds to send to her husband. It’s very early in the day for those sort of high jinks, I thought. 

How will this day end??

“Is your husband away overseas or something?” I queried.

“No,” she replied casually, “he just dropped me here.”

“Don’t put that in your blog!” a chorus of sozzled voices would chime in a futile attempt at censorship, each time I pulled out the notebook.

“I don’t like Pink!” declared Dolly vehemently at one stage. “I think she’s a lesbian. That husband of hers is a decoy. I wouldn’t go and see her in concert because she’d probably rape me! So put that in your blog and smoke it!”

I’m not sure what the fixation on being raped is, but never mind. Jules and Dolly then became immersed in a quiet discussion about the merits of Pink as a performer, with Jules defending her (as only a truly loyal Pink fan is able).

                             (L-R) Jules, Dolly and Pinky

Quackers, one of the Dolly Birds joined us in the public bar and a debate about tattoos came up. Dolly confessed that in her rambunctious youth she daringly self-carved and inked a tattoo on to her ankle. It was supposed to be a mushroom but unfortunately looked more like an umbrella which wasn’t nearly as radical as she’d planned.

Years later, wanting to rid herself of the unexciting umbrella tattoo she applied liberal amounts of Wart-Off and lo and behold, now she only has a tiny scar.

Dolly and I took Quackers outside to show her “The Tree of Knowledge” under which we usually sit when we go to the races and pursue ‘knowledgeable chats’ whilst supping delicious beverages. 

As we were discussing the virtues of the tree as opposed to paying exorbitant prices to sit in a boring tent, a Channel Seven cameraman approached and asked if he could film us.

“Of course!” we tittered happily. “We’d love too!” 

After a few minutes of him filming us pretending to be examining Quacker’s marquisate watch, Dolly called out with a dramatic Karate chop, “Cut!”

“Thanks ladies!” he smiled, “Everyone else told me they didn’t want to be on the Telly because it’s too embarrassing. Everyone else.”

I’m being too severe when I say the marquee was boring. 

It wasn’t. 

I had the most entertaining day catching up with the Dolly Birds and meeting new ones. There was even a ‘touch-up station’ set up where a beautician would re-apply lipstick for you when you went to the loo! 

                               Quackers getting a touch up!

Three of the Dolly Birds, Laura, Patrice and Jules made it into the fashion parade and sashayed down the catwalk with uber- style as we raucously cheered them on like a bunch of middle-aged Beliebers.

At one stage I squatted down beside Val and Deb and had a wonderful conversation but there came the moment when I had to stand again and I discovered my leg muscles had clamped into paralysis and getting up gracefully was not an option. I think I nearly took the table down as I used it for support. Too old to squat any more it seems.

                           Val and Deb (and Quackers on the right).

We pooled our bets all day and each of us walked away with crisp twenty dollar notes in our handbags which was fantastic since I probably spent eighty dollars on drinks.

I’m sure at the end of the day the staff were happy to see the back of us.

 But we will be back next year! I love the Dolly Birds!

Presenting.... some of "The Dolly Birds"

                                      Val

Laura

                                         Jules

                                       

                                       Patrice

So... what should I wear??

Sorry but… this post may be not the most grammatically correct or well organised literary composition, however, if you can forgive my errors I will be eternally grateful, as I must confess I have been imbibing in Satan’s juice for the previous five hours and may be a bit nonsensical. 

As you know, today I was invited to be a part of the Ladies Day marquee at the horse racing carnival event. I was extremely excited to be included in an event for normal, but fashionable savvy women; given my lack of style and popularity.

As I prepared to decorate and adorn myself in order to be acceptable in the racing ‘Fashioneesta Sorority’, it suddenly occurred to me that I had not given my choice of outfit any attention and there was a mere twenty minutes before I was scheduled to be picked up.

I sorted the dress. Easy, Charlie Brown bought one month ago; still with the tags on. Awesome! A shift dress requiring no sucking-in-of-the-guts.

But then, perusing the newspaper while my hair dried, I noticed a picture of some frocked-up ‘Fillies of the Day’.

Their outfits were nothing like what I was planning to wear. I was going to wear stockings and high heeled boots. If I was going to have to wear open-toed shoes then clearly I would have to somehow disguise the blackened and septic toenail on my right foot.

Not only that, but my fractured and flaky fingernails needed some attention if they were to be outed in public.

I quickly scraped the emery board over them and for added shine applied a coat of “Harden Your Nails” thinking I could read the rest of the newspaper as they dried.

As I licked my finger before turning the page I managed to transfer a humungous glob of nail hardener on to my bottom lip and tongue.

My entire mouth area instantaneously burned, went numb and began to quiver uncontrollably.

Panicked, I ran to the bathroom sink, swishing and rubbing my tongue and lips into oblivion with the first thing that came to hand, which was the towel that Scotto probably wipes his bum with.

After things had settled down and my lip was swollen to Angelina Jolie proportions, I texted my son Thaddeus, to enquire as to whether or not he could possibly pick me up at five in the arvo when our outing was complete.

“No, I’m sorry Mum. I’ll be too busy.” was the sad text reply.

Hagar completely ignored my calls and text messages for the rest of the day.

Seriously folks… What is the fricking point in having children; driving them this way and that for twenty years, waiting for hours at soccer and basketball games, torturing yourself through one hundred hours of driving lessons, picking them up at midnight after cast parties and end of school festivities and buying them cars!!! if the b#stards can’t be arsed to pick you up at five o’clock on a frickin Saturday afternoon?


My advice. Don’t have kids!

I did warn you… I’m emotional. But! Stay tuned for all the photographic high-jinks in tomorrow’s post, revealing the Dolly Birds and their frolicsome antics at Ladies’ Day at the races!

Thank Goodness it's Friday

Speed reading my Facebook feed this afternoon before picking up Lulu from her job at the donut shop, I spotted this tremendously jubilant image of hubby Scotto, taking delivery of his brand new car. He does appear to be a mite jolly doesn’t he? Cool number plate! 

Scotto flew down South this morning and will drive the steely beast back to North Queensland later in the week. Meanwhile, Pinky has been left to her own dodgy devices for a few days.

Yes… I’m all alone and “While the cat’s away the mice will play”… (or maybe I should be saying, “While the cat’s away the lunatics will be running the asylum”).

Tomorrow, my exciting plans include attending the Ladies’ Day (sponsored by Tackleworld, the fishing mob, which is ironic) at the horsey races. 

A ticket was purchased at a cost which I believe could support a large family in the Democratic Republic of the Congo for an entire year. This gold-plated, exclusive ticket means Pinky is authorised to sit in a very exclusive marquee with a couple of hundred other excitable but extorted fillies (apparently the cost of the ticket doesn’t include alcohol????).

When I say ‘other fillies’, I don’t actually consider myself to be included in that metaphorical description. Sadly I am fully aware that I am no longer a filly… not even a mare really; an old nag ready for the glue factory is probably closer to the mark.

Arrangements have been made for my fun-loving but slightly nefarious friend Dolly, to pick me up on her way and to then meet up with the ‘Dolly Birds’ for an outing which could possibly degenerate into a group of (very attractive) middle-aged women atrociously disgracing themselves.

Dolly, you see, is a wicked influence and if you remember this post…click here has led me astray more than once at the gee-gees.

These are the items I will be packing in my clutch bag to insure the best possible outcome in any situation.

# Aspirin, for the headache I will develop from the feathery Fascinator I’ll be wearing.

# Bandaids, for raw blistered heels resulting from the ridiculously high shoes I’ll be wearing.

# A pen, so we can circle the hot, sure-thing tips we acquire into our betting guide.

# My lucky pebble.

# Sunglasses, so I can stare at and secretly mock people in strange outfits without them cottoning on to it.

# A camera to make sure we get a photo of at least one of the Dolly Birds falling over (probably me).

# Safety pins, in case someone rips their dress when they take a tumble (possibly me).

# Bribe money, for when we need to get one of the Dolly Birds out of the Paddy Wagon.

# A spare pair of knickers (I’m not really sure why, but it always makes me feel more secure to know they’re in my bag).

And finally…

# A phone, so I can call one of my judgemental children at the end of the day and slur, 

“Thaddeushhh, itsh ya Mummy, come and take me home pleashh. Mummy ish a bit pished!”

                      I was a filly once you know!

Pinky Learns a Wee Lesson!

                                   

If I was asked to encapsulate my personality in three words those words would have to be, 

“KNOW-IT-ALL”.

On one occasion, when I took three of the kids to see a musical production, I insisted loudly that four innocent theatre patrons had mistakably sat in our seats at the theatre compelling them to collect their bags and programmes and self-consciously get up and move to the seats behind; only to have the usher come down in a fluster, rectify the confusion and insist the poor family who had listened to my protestations move back to their original seats; which were in actual fact theirs... not mine.

Some of my unhealthiest “Overconfident Episodes” occur in the doctor’s surgery where I have usually already diagnosed my ‘disease du jour’ before arriving, researched the appropriate drug to be prescribed, and usually manage to somehow boss the doctor around enough to get out of medical tests. As you may be aware… I hate medical tests.

About a month ago I wrote about visiting the doctor regarding a recurring and nasty infection (click here) and being of good judgement and intellect, this doctor refused to listen to my whiny objections and insisted on Pinky providing a urine specimen. 

I’d been able to avoid providing said specimen for the previous… oh… twelve visits. I knew what was wrong with me you see. I knew exactly which antibiotics I needed because, let’s face it… I know everything… I’m totally omniscient.

Last night, Scotto slapped a letter he’d discovered in our snail-mail box down on the coffee table.

“It’s a letter from the doctor,” I sighed, “Probably a pathology bill for that stupid, unnecessary test he made me have.”

It wasn’t. The letter was a harbinger of doom, informing me that the doctor needed to discuss the results of the test with me and I should call in as soon as possible; no appointment necessary.

Panic mode set in, especially when the letter was dated a month ago, two days after my initial visit!!

Either it had been lost in the mail or the useless gits who live in this house had been too lazy to clear the letter box out properly... I’m thinking the latter.

Dreams of gothic hospitals, grave yards, black crows, grim reapers and coffins disturbed my sleep and I lay sweating in bed, eyes wide open and bulging towards the ceiling all night.

I cornered our very sensible school librarian Sue, today and narrated the story in hushed and urgent tones (we were in the actual library at the time).

“What if it’s cancer?” I hissed. “What if he wants to see me because the urine test revealed cancer and it’s been spreading for the entire month that the fricking letter was lurking in the letter box?”

“I don’t think cancer usually shows up in wee, Pinky.” she replied calmly. “Besides, wouldn’t they have tried to telephone you if it was that serious?”

I didn’t believe her. What do librarians know anyway?

As soon as school finished I sped to the doctors scuttling up to the front counter and urgently flashing the letter at the receptionist.

“Oh! Doctor Norman is away in Afghanistan.” she chirped.

“I can squeeze you in with Dr Ramadanadingdong if you like.”

I do like foreign doctors because they’re usually so gentle and pleasant but I can never understand a bloody word they say.

“Okay,” I agreed in defeat, anything to get this over with.

Two minutes later, Dr Ramadanadingdong appeared calling my name and I followed him into the room in neurotic trepidation.

“Ooooh,” he frowned staring at the computer. “This is complicated.”

“Oh sh#t! This is it.” I thought. “Who will love my children when I am gone?”

“You have been on wrong antibiotic. I give you anudder one.” he chuckled.

So that was it. Because of my sly shenanigans, I’ve avoided one simple test for the last two years which could have cleared this underlying infection immediately.

Maybe ‘totally omniscient’ isn’t the precise word to describe me; maybe ‘mentally defiscient’ or ‘utterly ineffiscient’ would suit me better.