How good are you at taking a compliment?

I just read in today’s newspaper, prison authorities are making particular targeted criminals wear pink uniforms. 

Personally, I take offence at this. What are they saying? That by wearing the colour pink, the offenders’ tough guy image will be demoted to pansy, puffball princess?

It wasn’t until the 1890s that baby boys were dressed in blue and girls in pink. Before that there was no differentiation in colours each gender wore. Pink rocks!

Mind you, I agree with the idea in part. I’ve always thought the media should stop glamorising criminals and more demeaning names should be used in the news reports. For example, ‘terrorists’ should be referred to as ‘shiny dog’s balls’ and a ‘king hit’ renamed a ‘sook act’.

Pink has been my favourite colour ever since I was nine years old and overheard my father telling my mother how much he thought the hot pink dress I was wearing suited me. 

I spent a lot of time as a kid eavesdropping on my parents and rarely heard compliments about myself. It was usually something along the lines of…

“What’s that horrible, nasal sound Pinky’s making?” Dad shouting to Mum.

“She’s in her room singing along with Marie Osmond.” Mum’s reply.

But I never forgot how my father had thought I looked good in pink and have collected quite a lot of pink possessions over the years, which I won’t bore you with now by listing.

My point is that a second-hand compliment is the nicest type you can receive.

Paranoid and self-effacing are my second names and when someone compliments me I usually shrug it off with a self-derogatory remark.

“That’s a nice dress you’re wearing today, Pinky,” a colleague will remark generously.

“This is an ugly, hideous dress and I hate it which is why it’s now a work dress.” I’ll ungratefully retort.

Or… “You’ve got to be kidding! It makes me look like I’m eight months pregnant,” I’ll growl whilst standing with my back arched and guts sticking out.

Or… “It cost me fifteen dollars from the bargain bin at Target. It’s a piece of crap.”

I really need to learn to take a compliment gracefully, huh?

But there’s something about second-hand compliments that mean so much more.

When someone passes on a compliment to you they’ve heard from a third party it’s so much more sincere. There’s clearly no ulterior motive of flattery and there’s no sheepish, awkward moment where you feel self-conscious about the attention.

I try to pass on as many second-hand compliments as I can.

What’s the nicest compliment you’ve ever received?

Meanwhile... back at the ranch.

Eight kilometres across the sea from our fair city lays Magnetic Island; a glittering jewel in the tropics and it was our destination as we boarded the ferry yesterday morning.

Travelling over on the boat always brings back memories of my twenties (circa 1910) when I spent a year as the Picnic Bay Lifesaver’s Surf Girl. 

If you haven’t read this excruciatingly awkward post about those times you can read it here.

Scotto and I bussed it from Nelly Bay over to Horseshoe Bay (yes, that is the nicely apt name of the place) where we were to spend two hours suffering every tooth in our head rattling like marbles in a box whilst perched precariously on top of an unpredictable horse.

“What the hell is that?” Pinky squealed in horror at the entrance of the ‘ranch’.

An insidious black crow eyed us menacingly at the gate cawing tauntingly,

“You’re farrrrrrrrrrrrrked… farrrrrrrrrrrrrrked.”

“It’s a sign Scotto. We shouldn’t be doing this… the crow knows all.” Superstitious Pinky moaned sinking her fingernails into Scotto’s arm.

“Come on, don’t be silly,” he sighed patiently, dragging me in.

“Have you ridden before?” asked Lucy, the Kirsten Dunst look-alike who was to be our trail ride leader.

“About thirty years ago,” I replied shakily. “I’m a bit rusty.”

Scotto’s assigned horse was a bay named Kitaboy, which seemed a rather stupid name to me.

 The white gelding I was allocated was worryingly named ‘Jumbuck’.

“So does Jumbuck… like, you know… buck?” Pinky squeaked.

“No, not usually,” replied the dimpled Lucy, “but he is a bit bitey.”

“As in?” I thought. “Bites his rider or other horses? There’s an important distinction you know.”

Jumbuck, as it turned out, liked to bite everything. He persisted in turning his head unexpectedly in attempts to give my leg a chomp and he’d trot up behind the other horses, nipping them sharply on the bum and inciting violent kicks from the unwitting recipient. The other horses shied away when the unsociable Jumbuck came near them, so consequently my journey was a mostly lonely, solitary one.

The toothsome equine grabbed at every passing green branch yanking at the foliage and triggering the bough to whip back painfully into my face when he let it go. I swear he had an eating disorder as Jumbuck had a mouthful of leaves in his mouth for the entire ride (unless he was biting something of course).

 Old Spice Man: Where Am I?

                              I'm on a horse.

A short way into the excursion the twenty or so other riders had to wait in the hot sun while Pinky’s saddle was adjusted because apparently it was slipping sideways.

I.told.you.that.would.happen.

Back in the ranch we’d mounted our horses via a box, but out in the bush I was commissioned to somehow get back up from ground level.

After several unsuccessful, clumsy attempts (while the riding party silently watched) of a sweating, cursing Pinky trying to hoist her out-of-shape body up onto Jumbuck, the horse was eventually disgracefully led to a hole in the ground to compensate for Pinky’s lack of upper body strength.

Half way through the ride we were to strip down to bathing suits, unsaddle the horses and take them for a swim in the ocean.

“I think I’ll pass on that,” I whispered to Lucy. “I’m a bit worried about marine stingers.”

“There aren’t any stingers out there! We were swimming and snorkelling all day yesterday and we didn’t get stung!” boomed the loud voice of the “there’s always one know-it-all in every crowd” woman disrobing beside me.

But Pinky was immovable and stood on the beach watching the others risking their lives, half hoping a ‘certain someone’ might just get a little sting. Just enough to show her.

“Did you have fun?” asked a pumped Scotto after we’d dismounted and were standing, legs shaking like a blancmange, on the ground back at the ranch.

“It could have been worse,” was my lukewarm reply. “It could have been much worse.”

And so it was when I rolled over in bed this morning with aches and pains in places I didn’t even know I had places.

               Pinky and Scotto getting watered and fed at the Horseshoe Bay Hotel.

The Advantages and Disadvantages of having a Younger Husband.

As some of you are aware Scotto is ten years younger than me and whilst there is the fear when we go out someone might say something like, 

“The table is ready for you and your son Madam,” there are definitely some advantages… wink, wink, nudge, nudge… NO! …OTHER advantages I mean.

For example, younger men REALLY know their way around a computer so I can exploit his expertise on making my blog look pretty. 

I can also fool a younger man with my artificial knowledge of everything that occurred before 1980.

One disadvantage, however, is how much more energy my younger man has than me. 

No… I’m still not referring to THAT so get your mind out of the gutter.

Scotto has planned a full day’s outing tomorrow including waking up at sparrow’s fart, jumping on a ferry to Magnetic Island and… wait for it… partaking in two hours of horse trail riding.

Pinky’s soon to be tender derriere has not been in direct contact with a saddle for roughly thirty years and I’m a smidgeon nervy.

The only stirrups my feet have seen in the past three decades are gynaecological and the only reins I’ve pulled in are when I’ve realised it’s two in the morning and time to leave the party.

Maybe they’ll match the horses up to the riders. In that case I expect I’ll be allocated the old grey mare (who ain’t what she used to be, many long years ago).

When I was a little girl I dreamed of galloping across a verdant field on a black stallion called ‘King’ with my waist length ringlets flowing behind me, followed by a handsome prince on a white steed attempting to catch up with his elusive Princess Pinkette.

Instead the scenario will be Scotto, proficiently cantering into the distance whilst Pinky sits on a motionless, overweight nag, swatting flies, cursing, uselessly kicking the horse in the ribs and becoming more sunburnt as each stationary minute passes.

Scotto’s horse will have a glamorous name like ‘Gunpowder’ while Pinky’s horse will be called ‘Meandering Madge’.

The only time ‘Madge’ will display any sign of life will be during the five minutes before we reach home-base.

At this late stage of the journey, Madge will spontaneously and impolitely bolt; ignoring Pinky’s feverish screams and yanking of the reins in the frightening realisation the saddle is slipping sideways and she’s about to be incorrectly repositioned underneath the equine she-devil.

I’ll arrive back at home-base being dragged along in the dust, desperately holding onto the reins, with one foot in a stirrup and the other foot trailing free style.

Scotto will be calmly resting under a tree, already onto his second beer.

The only positive side of this consequence is that I have accrued at least six weeks sick leave so if I break a leg it will be a very restful teaching time in term four.Although… they shoot old nags when they break their legs don’t they?

Please wish me luck in the comments below :)

Happy Birthday to Me!

It’s ma birthday this week!

When I say this week it’s because I’m going to stretch the bloody thing out (in my usual attention seeking manner) into a seven day rollercoaster ride of gorging, drinking and dizzy hedonism. 

However, before commencing my ‘ramblings of an old mad woman’ (quote: Greggles), I’d like to thank my Mum.

Not for having me, but for NOT calling me Dorothy. My mother’s name is Dorothy you see, as well as both of my grandmothers. Imagine how confused my father must have been when they were all in the same room.

“Can I get you a cup of tea Dorrie? Dot? Dorothy?”

Being the first born you’d expect I would have copped Dorothy at least as a second name, but no. I thankfully escaped.

Another year older… another year closer to death, eh.

I know. Stop being morbid Pinky… anyway at least the extra years haven’t affected my level of maturity, as many will verify.

The evening before Pinky’s Special Day, Scotto took me out to dinner at a restaurant built over the water. I haven’t dined there for about thirty years and walking through the door transported me straight back to the Eighties. I swear the décor hasn’t changed at all and I’m fairly certain I spied someone eating a prawn cocktail. After my mouth-watering barramundi and Scotto’s huge meaty steak we both struggled out to the car groaning, loosening our belts and bemoaning our piggy excesses.

                       (L to R) Shazza, Rach, Ash, Emmsie, Kaz)

Yesterday (the big day) I went to lunch with the girls at my fave restaurant, Longboards. Notably absent was our little friend, Kyles who is away on holidays. If you’re reading this Kyles… don’t worry, we talked about you A LOT!

We met up with Greggles who was out celebrating his brother Matty’s birthday and moved to the beer garden across the road. 

Matty and I had quite a loud, sozzled conversation about how people born on September 25 are special, talented and wonderful people because they were conceived on Christmas day. The others eventually told us to shut the F up and that we were probably both conceived in a drunken mistake on New Year’s Eve and that’s clearly the reason we drink too much.

                        Pinky and Matty: Two very 'special' people.

By about 5:00pm I called Scotto to come and collect me. 

Actually, Shazza rang him,

“Hi Scotto, Shazza here. Pinky’s too p#ssed to call you and she’s serving herself drinks behind the bar again… you know, like she did at last year’s staff Christmas party. You need to come quickly.”
Luckily he can take a joke. 

By about 7:00pm I realised that only ONE of my FIVE ingrate children had acknowledged my BIRTHDAY!

There was only one thing to do… send them all a well-oiled, b#tching text message. 

“I must have been a twerrible mudda that none of youse remembered my bloody birfday!!!!!!!!”

Then, with all the emotion of a legless p#sspot, posted an attention seeking, sook message on my Facebook wall.

Turning off my phone, I tearily huffed off to bed with no dinner. I fell into an instant coma, not moving for five hours until I awoke at 3:am and drank several buckets of water.

This afternoon I’m going for celebratory drinks and snacks with my sister Sam.

Should be fun! Remember, we never really grow up, we just learn how to behave in public! 

Pinky the Pineapple Head

“I’m sick and tired of staying home on Saturday afternoons, watching movies and drinking wine,” I whinged to Scotto in bed this morning. 

“We need to get out and mix with the general community more. Life’s not ALL about drinking you know! I want to cut down on drinking altogether! We should just stop it.”

“Fine, Pinky. Anything you want my princess,” is what I hope he said as he mumbled sullenly into his coffee.

What he PROBABLY said was, 

“For f#*k’s sake, Pinky… do we have to go through this charade EVERY month?”

“Look! There’s a Pineapple Festival on at Rollingstone,” I squealed, rattling the newspaper into his unshaven face. “We’re going! Get up!”

Rollingstone is about fifty kilometres north of the city and the drive up the highway was a pleasant departure from our usual routine. When we took the turn-off, I knew we were heading in the right direction.

“Look! Pineapples!” I yelped in excitement.

“Is that where they come from?” asked my city-slicker husband, “I always thought pineapples grew on trees.”

Naturally, we became lost and unsuccessfully harassed some non-English speaking Dutch tourists for directions, but eventually decided to backtrack and found some signage we’d overlooked the first time.

Finally we arrived at the well-attended bush/beach community event celebrating the not so humble fruit: Pineapples!!!

There were even people dressed as pineapples…

                                  Go Vinnie!

 and a specially decorated Pineapple cruiser...

As Dwight Yoakum blared from the loud speakers we ambled around the carnival running into friends,

 One of my fave colleagues, Donna and her two handsome sons, Harrison and Lachlan.

Tasting pineapple,

Annoying the local Firies,

                      Coming to you on a calender soon!

Keeping the SES crew on their toes,

                Looking a bit relaxed boys! What if there's a State emergency?

                                                                  Sorry, Pinky!

                                                  

                                                Phwoar! Gotta love a man in uniform...

Buying jam from the locals,

                                   

                                    "Don't break your camera taking our picture, Pinky!"

Watching a tractor pulling competition,

Chatting to Slippery Pete and his parrot,

Slippery Pete's real name is actually Ken and it turns out he used to be a State Member of Parliament. Whilst in office one of his achievements was to procure this boat,

which he uses to take groups with disabilities and seniors out for charity cruises.

"Excuse me..." whispered a nervous Pinky, "but are you Santa?"

Ken laughed. You see he has played Santa for the last forty years and indeed, now that I recall, I have several Christmas photographs of my own children posing with Ken!

Community! That's what I'm talking about baby!

Aaah! It was a swell day, Lurline!
But at the end of the day there’s really only one sensible thing to do with pineapples...make Pina Coladas of course.

How to be Unpopular in the Voting World

                             

“Do we really HAVE to go?” I entreated Scotto this morning.

“Yes Pinky, you get a fine if you don’t vote, now get off the Twitter machine and go for a shower!”

So off we went to the school around the corner to cast our ballot papers with still NO idea which despots we’d actually vote for.

Who should we see outside the school gates but Sue the Librarian! If ANYONE should know who to vote for it’s a librarian… right?

“I’m not telling you who I voted for Pinky, that’s why they call it a secret ballot… and that photo better not be going on your silly blog!” she warned.

As we walked through the gates we were besieged with party representatives smiling, laughing and thrusting propaganda material into our hands. We felt like Justin Bieber walking the red carpet with rabid fans wantonly shoving autograph books in his face and slobbering all over him like sycophants. We felt... loved!

The voting rooms were chockablock full of nervous, wild eyed punters but luckily we knew the head bouncer, Julie, who let us cut in line. 

We told her we were “On the List” and apparently it turned out we were on the list! Who knew?

I looked for my favourite party on the ballot sheet but couldn’t find it… the Christmas Party!

Scotto looked confused and wanted to phone a friend.

Voting successfully completed, we walked through the gates again BUT this time the party spruikers SHUNNED us! Didn’t even give us a second look!

We couldn’t believe it! We thought they loved us. We were just old news to them, like a piece of gum discarded from the bottom of their shoes.

B#stards!

It was thirsty work voting so on the way home we thought we’d treat ourselves to something noice.

See you tomorrow when who knows who’ll be running the country!

Would you cross the street to avoid someone?

                                               My friend Nettie who let me use her loo!

Along the path I puffed on my early evening saunter up the river and was almost at the point where I usually turn around and head home when I spotted a familiar couple walking towards me. Now... one of the said couple was my ex-doctor who I I avoid because of this sad and sorry tale but it seemed I was going to be obliged to force out a cheery hello. Come ON Pinky! Surely you can manage that, I thought.

Now the unfairly maligned doctor’s husband happens to vaguely know me through my university days and to my horror he stopped on the path as I approached leading to a terrible foreboding on my part that he was going to actually engage me in conversation. Sh#t a brick!

Sure enough he did and with false bravado I managed to gibber away, prattling on like a fool and laughing as I prematurely cut the conversation short with a friendly wave and hit the path as if I was on a mission of importance, but was, in actual fact, eager to escape the self-conscious situation.

Are you still with me here guys or have I bored you to death already?

About two minutes after making my getaway, it suddenly dawned on me it was inevitable I would run in to them AGAIN on the walk back down the river. 

There were two choices:

I could be courageous and normal and just wave awkwardly as I passed them again OR I could circumvent another uncomfortable encounter by leaving the path, cutting down a side street and walking home the MUCH longer way, possibly risking losing control of my rapidly filling bladder in the process.

I cut down the side street.

“Pinky!” I heard a shout about 500 metres down the street. “What the hell are you doing walking along my street?”
It was my friend of seventeen years, Nettie.

“I’m taking the long way home to avoid passing someone on the path again. Can I use your toilet?”

“No. Not until you tell me who you’re trying to avoid…” she countered in a mildly threatening tone and eyeing me with suspicion.

“I can’t tell you… now can I use your toilet, please?”

Nettie shrugged exasperatedly, well used to Pinky’s shenanigans, and allowed me to push past her to avail myself of her kind hospitality.

Bladder emptied, I hit the road once again, power-walking for about twenty minutes and shrewdly estimated where the juncture I could link up to the river was with the least likelihood of my running into my unknowing nemesis.

As I breathlessly emerged from the prickly bushes leading to the river path I stopped dead. Somehow I had wound up exactly where I’d originally left the path... and who do you think I could see leisurely strolling along the path directly in front of me.

They looked up curiously, observing an oddly paralysed Pinky shuffling shiftily beside the roadside bushes. I don’t think they’ll ever stop to talk to me again.

What the EPH-emera??

                                         
As it's Father's day today, Scotto and I hit the Strand for a Maccas lunch with the two babies of the family, Celine the Mini-Foxy and Pablo the Chihuahua!

It's hard living in paradise!

Even though it's the first day of Spring and not yet stinger season I still wouldn't risk a swim!

So we decided to go for a walk instead!

We soon realised the arts community had quite a number of sculpture installments set up along the Strand for the general public to admire.

The exhibition, titled an "Ephemera" (which apparently means items of no lasting significance) perplexed the unrefined and philistine Pinky, greatly.
What could these strange pieces of art possibly signify and  what purpose do they serve?

Tissue paper stuffed with cotton wool sea anemones?
I suppose they'd make nice table centre-pieces...

Now these would be very handy to hang up on the back patio to scare away the Mynah birds that keep pooping everywhere...

I quite fancy these as clothes drying racks. Maybe I should send Scotto down to the river for some sticks. A lick of blue paint from Bunnings and we'd be set!

Someone appears to have smashed a vase and chucked the shards all over the grass! It's all fun and games until someone cuts their foot!

Now this is taking the concept of open-air living to the extreme!

That reminds me... I must take the washing off the line when I get home...

I think someone's been to Myers and nicked a few of their cardboard displays!

Aesthetically pleasing, but it wouldn't fit into our dining room.

You know... I think I could be an artist!

Now this chicken-wire crocodile is very clever AND it would serve as an excellent cat run!

This is my favourite! And very functional... no..wait...

Finally, Pablo became bored and asked if we could please go home.

I know, I know... 
'Go crawl back into your uncultured hole, Pinky!'