Always the Bride and Never the Bridesmaid.

I’ve never been asked to be a bridesmaid and I’m damn sure it’s not because I look like Jennifer Hawkins and none of my friends wanted to have me outshining them on their special day.

On reflection, it doesn’t say much about my excellent qualities as a friend really, does it? Even my sister Sam, robbed me of the opportunity and highly esteemed title by sneaking off to a registry office and not even inviting me to the event.

I’ve had a lot of close and cherished friends over the years and partook of many a wedding ceremony; but no bride ever thought Pinky quite made the grade sufficiently to ask her to be a bridesmaid. .. and the boat has well and truly sailed, my friend. 

In fact it sunk years ago, was raised from the murky depths and sold for scrap metal to Auscon.

As an aficionado of pink taffeta,(You should really read this post!) this lack of recognition by my friends has always been a bugbear with me.

I was, however, asked to be the God mother of a friend’s child many years ago... which was a bit of an honour. We’d been friends since thirteen years of age and were about twenty at the time.

Then, four years later, we had a major falling out. 

A major falling out. 

We didn’t speak for twenty-eight years.

Twenty-eight years… including three marriages (okay, two of them were Pinky’s), two divorces, the birth of seven more children between us, the caring for and subsequent passing of two parents (my friend’s), and many other major life changing events, not to mention the absence of about a zillion shared wines and coffees, many hideous haircuts (Pinky) and a few hundred kilograms in transit (Pinky).

About a week ago my friend and I serendipitously reconciled. We’d been literally “caught in the rain” together and one shy smile led to another. Last night we spent a girly, sacred few hours drinking wine, eating cheese and catching up on the last twenty-eight years.

It’s funny how you can just pick up where you left off. There were many tears and much laughter as we rehashed old memories and resurrected our friendship. 

The moral of the story is... it's NEVER too late to make peace.

There’s only one thing that worries me deeply about our fortuitous reunion though… I now have a sh#tload of birthday and Christmas cards/presents to catch up on for my thirty-two year old, computer engineer God son.

Pinky's Organisational Tips (Give-away!)

As the five kids grew bigger and smellier, Scotto and I had a crack at instigating some level of order into the chaos. 

Tired of sorting out huge piles of laundry every day we installed pigeon holes in the laundry so that as soon as clothes were carelessly yanked off the line they were to be placed in the appropriate hole until the assigned child took them upstairs to their bedroom to be neatly hung up.

What happened was this.

Then we bought another set of allocated shelves for any school bags/books/clutter belonging to the untidy teens we found lying around the house on a daily basis.

The shelves would inevitably be overstuffed with mud-caked joggers, odd rubber thongs and a plethora of smelly football socks with the odd school lunch rotting in darkness at the back.

We took to placing signs in obvious places reminding the kids about social niceties such as flushing the toilet, not slamming doors and doing their own washing up.

It was the latter which caused the most contention.

“Why don’t you get the dishwasher fixed Mum!” they’d whinge. Lulu even dobbed on me to her grandmother, complaining about having to perform slave labour by doing the washing up because I was too cheap to spring for dishwasher repairs. In those eight years after it broke down, Lulu probably actually did the washing up… let me see… um… oh that’s right… never.

In fact, I could count on one hand the amount of times any of them ever did the washing up.

Why didn’t I bite the bullet and have the bloody thing fixed?

Because I needed a place to hide things from the kids.

Now that the kids have grown up and don’t spend much time at home, I feel it’s finally time to make life easier for Scotto and me. I’m going to buy a brand new dishwasher as I’ve investigated the role of dishwashers and their ability to save energy (electrical and human).

Of course I will have to teach Scotto how to load a dishwasher properly and I foresee the odd clash of opinions but what the heck.

I have a pack of Finish Qantum Power Gel Balls to give away to the first (Australian only sorry) person to leave a comment on this post.

The second comment on the post will win a twelve year old Miele two-drawer dishwasher and this wonderful prize is open to anyone… even if you live in Timbuktu. 

*Conditions Apply



*Conditions
The winner of the Miele dishwasher must come and collect it themselves and clean up all the cockroach poo that’s been collecting underneath it for the last twelve years.

Apparently there IS a CYCLONE coming after all.

Cyclone Dylan

I was in a spot of bother the other day on Twitter when I announced to my followers (some awesome people, some unidentified bots and numerous cats and dogs) that a cyclone was ominously hurtling towards us. 

A physics professor from the local university chipped me (and rightly so) about sending out alarming and non-factual information… so I deleted the tweet immediately.

Now, it seems that there IS a cyclone heading towards us and it is predicted to make landfall about 100 kms south of our city early tomorrow morning. As I gaze out the window it does appear to be a bit windy outside and spitting lightly, but nothing to write home about yet. 

Yet.

That’s the trouble with cyclones. They’re quite unpredictable. They can spin around, head back to sea and come back with a vengeance. Or they can change track, build in intensity and cause massive tide surges and devastating floods.

The big question however is… will school be cancelled tomorrow?

“You must be hoping so, Pinky!” I hear you jeering.

The truth is, no, I don’t want school to be cancelled.

The announcement won’t be broadcast until 6:00 am tomorrow morning and if I have to haul my menopausal body out of bed at that ungodly hour (after feverishly waking every hour bathed in sweat, on the hour, every hour) to check the Internet for notifications, I may as well get up, have a shower and go to bloody work.

That’s the only reason I dislike work at all in the first place. 

Getting out of bed in the morning.

It’s only three days into the school year but I can already tell I have a delightful class this year. One of my little nine year old students walked past me in the playground yesterday and lisped, “I love you Mrs. Poinker!” How could anyone resist that superstar adulation?

My class is a captive audience for me to practise my jokes on, expound my deep knowledge on various frivolous subjects to and entertain with my side-splitting anecdotes with added clowning tricks. They’re an adoring crowd… as opposed to my own kids who ceased listening to their asinine mother many years ago.

So… despite the rampant media sensationalism (by reporters who always seem to congregate in Cairns for some reason), I’m fairly certain and dearly hope Cyclone Dylan will prove to be another dud and we’ll all wake up unscathed and secure in our beds tomorrow morning. 

Stay safe everyone!

Pinky's Golden Snow Globe Awards 2013

“Lunching alfresco beside the Fontana Di Trevi!”

“Just saw the cutest squirrel in Central Park”

“Sipping Cosmopolitans at a bar in Manhattan! Lol…”

“Chilling at the Tower of London with ma homies.”

These are the sort of Facebook updates Pinky reads with her sour little puckered up face as she scrolls down her timeline.

Everyone I know has been, or is about to go, on an overseas holiday in 2013... except me.

“Have a great time on your trip,” I jealously comment when they post a status about how they’re just about to board the plane. “Don’t forget to bring me back a snow globe!”

While they’re blissfully cavorting around the globe I’ll sensitively drop a subtle reminder in their message box like… “Hi!...S.G.”

In the last twelve months I’ve been gifted no less than nine treasured S.G.s from the United States, Italy, Ireland, and England which has allowed me to glean a modicum of vicarious pleasure from the travels of my wealthy friends.


I’d like to thank the nominees for the Pinky Golden Snow Globe Awards; Lulu, Jan, Rach, Dolly and Emmsie, however there can only ever be one winner.

And the winner for 2013 is… Emmsie!!!!!

                   Amy and Emma returned from the U.S of A.

Emmsie’s Acceptance Speech.

Thanks for nothing, Pinky!

After dragging these bloody heavy, expensive, annoying things around the United States I forgot to pack them in my suitcase when we were leaving. When I arrived at the airport, security wouldn’t let me take them on as hand luggage and threw them in the damn bin. I fished them out again and after considerable begging on my part they allowed me to pack them in a box and check it in. I nearly missed my flight because of your pain in the ass snow globes, Pinky! Here… take the bloody stupid things. You’re welcome.

Pinky would like to advise nominations are now open for 2014.

The Thing about Snow!

                                
There was a news journalist on the telly this morning reporting from a sub-zero (-16) Chicago, in the United States. 

All you could see were her little eyes poking out she was so bundled up against the cold. 

Residents have been warned it’s so cold even only a few minutes exposure to the elements will cause hypothermia or frost bite.

At least in this heatwave we Australians can venture outside without fear of losing a finger or toe.

Having been born and bred in the tropics I’ll gladly own up to eschewing freezing cold weather as much as I can.

I’ve only ever been to the snow twice in my life. The first time I was about twenty-five years old and went on a weekend bus trip with a mob of wild ratbags up to the Snowy Mountains.

On the first day I hired a ski jacket but was too much of a cheapskate to fork out for the ski pants. 

“I’ll be fine!” I thought. It was snowing heavily that day and by the time the chair lift had reached the top of Mt Koscieszko my jeans and insufficient woollen gloves had frozen onto my body.

                           


I had no idea how wet (as well as cold) snow was. I don’t know why. It’s not as if I’d never stuck my hand inside a freezer before.

Working at the top of Australia’s highest mountain all day, assisting useless tourists to jump onto a moving chairlift without clumsily hurtling themselves over the summit, probably wouldn’t be the most gratifying job in the world and I remember the guy in charge screaming at me as I dithered in my anaesthetised state and failed to connect my deadened backside to the seat and was nearly shovelled to an early death.

By the time I’d travelled down to the bottom again I could not feel my hands. By ‘not feel them’, I don’t just mean they were numb. I could easily have had them chopped off at the wrist with a guillotine and not noticed any pain.

And then my hands began to thaw out. Apart from a baby ripping its way down the birth canal I don’t believe I’ve ever experienced such pain. I cried tears of agony.

Now, I can’t go into the freezer section of Coles without my hands turning ghostly white and I’m sure it’s a leftover side effect of near frost bite.

It was another twenty or so years before I decided to hazard another trip into territory I feel is best left to White Fang and his pack.

Scotto and I were on holidays in Melbourne staying in the city.

“We should take a drive up to Mt Buller for lunch,” suggested a naïve Pinky, imagining a leisurely drive up the mountain, a cosy fireside lunch and relaxed drive back to the city.

I looked studiously at the map. Mt Buller was only two fingernail lengths away from Melbourne… not far at all.

By the time we eventually made it up the two fingernail lengths of twisting, snaking, steep road it was almost 5:00pm and just on cue, the moment we arrived, heavy snow began to fall.

                               


As George W. Bush once said, “Fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again.”


There I stood for the second time in my life in a snow storm, wearing jeans and inadequate attire while the wind slashed through my clothes as if I was standing there stark naked.

Teeth chattering and freezing to death in my wet canvas shoes we jumped in a shuttle and were dropped at the accommodation booking shack. No one was going back down that mountain tonight and we needed somewhere to stay.

There was only one place left in the resort village with any vacancies and naturally it was the most expensive hotel of all.

At six hundred dollars for the night, on top of whatever we were paying for our apartment back in the city, it proved to be quite an extravagant lunch.


After I’d semi-dried my socks on the heater in the room we slipped and slid across the icy pathway to purchase a couple of Subways for dinner (all we could afford) and spent the evening staring out the window at the suitably attired rich people playing in the snow.

                        

How a New Toilet Can Make the World a Better Place

                               
For twelve years the toilet, located right outside my bedroom has been physically abused, overstrained (no pun intended) and ill-treated by a glut of youths who couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a base fiddle.

Some days (especially hot days when the humid air hangs around accentuating even the most delicate odour), I’m frightened to walk past it on the way to my bedroom.

‘What if they forgot to flush it again?’ I’ll think in dread, remembering how twenty year old Hagar had been to Cactus Jack’s the previous night for Cheap Chilli Tuesday.

The tile grouting surrounding the long-suffering porcelain bowl has nitrogenous waste material soaked in to the point of approaching some type of symbiotic relationship. One cannot be separated from the other.

The plastic behind the toilet seat has eroded, and God only knows what my four teenage boys could possibly have been consuming to cause such corrosion; sulphuric acid?

The entire area smells like the type of stinking urinal only found inside the seediest, most squalid establishment in downtown Kings Cross.

Don’t worry, I’ve tried to clean it up but short of a blast from a hydrochloric acid filled Gerney, nothing could remove the lingering, cloying stench of stale piddle. 

Even the toilet brush gives a tiny distressed scream of protest every time I plunged it into the sinister, festering crater of despair.

“Don’t put me in there! I’ll do anything…” squeals the toilet brush.

“Shut up!” screams a ruthless Pinky. “If you don’t want to do the job you shouldn’t have signed up. You should have gone to toothbrush school instead God dammit!”

                                         Image Credit

Therefore this morning, when I once more performed the chilling act of lifting the lid and peering in the bowl in order to determine how many bottles of Domestos I would need to improve its appearance from an appalling, despicable cesspit of filth to a barely tolerable cesspit of filth… I made a decision.

The entire toilet needed to be replaced.

Off Scotto and I trundled to Bunnings my favourite hardware store for some leisurely toilet shopping.

“I don’t get it,” said Scotto scratching his head. “I can see ‘P’ trap fittings and ‘S’ trap fittings... I know what the P and S stand for... but shouldn’t you be able to get one toilet that covers both?”

A Bunnings assistant fortuitously ambled by and explained to Scotto what the P and S really stood for and up-sold us from the cheap crapper I had my eyes on, to a hugely more expensive one.

Twenty sopping towels, a near fainting spell (Pinky), two more trips back to Bunnings by ‘Scotto the Plumber’ later... and it seems we don’t have a problem anymore Houston!
I never in my wildest dreams thought I’d be this happy about a new dunny.

                                                            A work in progress

                                                         Waiting for the silicone to dry.

                         Bring out the bunting!!!

                         Telephone the Queen!!!

Thirteen Reasons Pinky Knows it's the Silly Season

Artwork by Pinky Poinker

                                                         

1. People are proudly sporting really garish, flashing earrings and necklaces in the shopping centre.

2. I keep finding dozens of tiny pieces of Christmas tree tinsel stuck to the bottom of my feet.

3. The queue is unusually and annoyingly long at Dan Murphy’s.

4. At the shopping centre you see a lot of abnormally dressed up, combed down kids on their way to have a photo taken with Santa.

5. Ads are reappearing on the telly reminding everyone to place their Turducken orders (much to the bitter disappointment and paranoia of Turduckens everywhere).

6. The air conditioner breaks down, the pool filter blows up and some other random but expensive household appliance self-immolates causing unwanted financial loss.

7. The dog has to be taken to the vet because we suspect it ate part of the nativity scene (not baby Jesus). He didn’t but we decide to have his ‘bojangles’ removed as a Christmas present since we’re at the vet anyway.

8. It’s compulsory for every shop assistant to wear red, green or white shirts, mandatory antlers and ask you how your Christmas shopping is going in a blank uninterested monotone.

9. There are at least twelve towels hanging on the pool fence; the toilet seat is always wet when I perch my derriere on it (delivering an unexpected, slithery surprise) and the internal stairs are saturated with chlorinated water providing a sure-fire death trap for Pinky as she carries the laundry up.

10. You can’t turn on the car radio without hearing at least one Michael Buble or Human Nature song.

11. The milk goes off every twenty-four hours due to copious openings and closings of the fridge as teenagers go on rum ball and chocolate reconnaissance missions .

12. I walk in and discover Scotto watching the Mr Bean Christmas Special. AGAIN.

13. If we call out to the dog after we’ve had a few drinks, it runs away and hides cos it knows what’s coming.

P#ss off!

    
 How do you know it's the silly season?

Pinky has Another Bad Hair Day

                  Brandon, Lulu and Lily: happy-go-lucky teenagers!

Well… I had my hair cut today and must confess I’m going to LOVE it … in about twelve months when the monstrosity grows out.

(I bet Scotto’s glad he’s not here right now to suffer my relentless whinging and complaining.)

I’ve had some doozies over the years and at least this isn’t as bad as some of the hideous choices I’ve made over the last four decades.

Let’s see… there was the ‘Pageboy’ at 10 years old, the ‘Perm’ in the late seventies, the ‘Mullet’ a-la Duran Duran in the Eighties, the ‘Hospital’ cut in the nineties, the ‘Geometric Bob’ last year and now it’s the ‘Hacked-Off Fringe’ - highlighting a bulging forehead, cut.

And why do hairdressers insist on overdoing the oily products? My baby-fine, thin hair doesn’t need to be coated with Moroccan Oil and cuticle-smoothing emulsions which only served to exacerbate the stringy, flat and lifeless style I’m now sporting.

 I gave a photo to the sweet girl I entrusted my future happiness and self-esteem with to create an accurate replica hairstyle.

It didn't work. I wanted to look twenty years old like the chick in the picture but instead I look like a fifty year old bag lady who has neglected to wash her hair for six months.

Not only that, but I have a headache from those ridiculously uncomfortable wash basins. Why haven’t they invented cushioned wash basins?

I know… first world problems.

After my skulking and sulking in the hotel room for an hour or so (with frequent trips to the bathroom to check if it had grown out yet), Lulu finally returned from her lunch with friends and Precious Pinky invited herself to chill out with them for a bit. There's nothing like hanging out with happy-go-lucky teenagers to cheer you up.

Brandon, a talented Under 20s, Broncos Rugby League player, had been the girls’ formidable body guard all day and he provided me with some tough competition playing a quiz show on the telly.

Actually he beat me. Who knew rugby league players could be smart as well as fit?

Is there a lawyer in the house?

I don’t think we’ll be seeing a shortage of lawyers in the near future. Yesterday we watched Jonah receive his law degree along with 339 others at the Queensland Performing Arts Centre.

The Chancellor of the University delivered his speech and then we clapped three hundred and forty times as each recipient (very S-L-O-W-L-Y) stepped up to shake his hand. Jonah was one of the first which meant Pinky lost interest in the proceedings fairly quickly. At one stage I leaned over to my ex-husband’s lovely wife, Arlette, and dramatically mimed slitting my throat. She nodded in agreement rolling her eyes as if to say, “Kill me now!”

Finally, the last graduate had received their diploma and Arlette and I began joyously fishing around on the floor for our handbags but were quickly and disappointingly stymied. 

Oh no… some old judge was yet to give another long-winded exposition on something to do with political landscapes and legal ramifications blah, blah, de-bloody blah.

When the ceremony had finally finished, I woke up my Dad and we all shuffled out into the foyer to await the arrival of the golden child, Jonah, in order to snap some photos of him in his academic gown.

                              Jonah and Pinky

Jonah’s father Ralphie, was so enormously proud of his second son (who is following in his legal eagle footsteps) it almost brought a tear to my eye. 

                           Arlette, Jonah and his Dad, Ralphie.

                                                         Granddad and Jonah


We quickly absconded to a wonderful restaurant (Jonah had booked) which had the most amazing menu and delicious wine and one I will definitely be bringing Scotto to next time we get down here on holidays.

          (L-R) Nana, Arlette, Granddad, Pinky, Lulu, Ralphie, Jonah

In terms of a family celebration… I’d give it a nine out of ten!

This morning I woke up and assumed it must be… oh, seven o’clock. It was still dark but I felt somewhat refreshed.

I peered at the clock on my phone… Ten-Forty-Five!!!!

Half the day was gone! I haven’t slept in for that long since I was a teenager.

I staggered out of my room to discover Lulu, still deep in dreamland.

(I hope Scotto isn’t reading this and seething with jealousy. Apparently Pablo the Chihuahua kept him up all night last night looking for his mummy.)

We managed to get our act together, met up with Lulu’s gorgeous friend Lily and hit the shops.

                         Lulu and Lily spending up big!

Much more funner than a two hour stint in a Graduation Ceremony.

The girls put up with me for about two hours until they finally grew tired of being nice and let me loose in David Jones while they caught up on the real gossip (not the watered down version).

                                      Get lost Mum!

Can’t wait for tomorrow… I’m getting a new haircut!

Pinky Bites: How to Avoid Cooking for an Entire Week.

With Padraic and Lulu both off for a week at end of school celebrations there's only 20 year old, Hagar and husband, Scotto left at home... so Pinky has decided not to cook for a week.

Below you will discover seven gastronomic delights my family go mad over. Your ravenous family may find them equally yummy should you, on occasion, feel too weary to drag yourself into the hot kitchen and instead languish in a tepid, bubble bath with a glass of champagne and Michael Buble serenading you in the background.

Sunday night (Preparation time for your forthcoming week of hedonistic indulgence)

Sassy Spaghetti Bol- Pinky Style

Quickly brown 1 kg Mince.

Throw in a can of tinned tomatoes and a jar of tomato paste plus a cup of water. Stir every 10 minutes for 30 minutes and serve on boiled pasta. Delicious extravagance.

Monday Night

Left over "Sassy Spaghetti Bol!"

Tuesday night

Pinky’s Tender and Voluptuous Chicken Wraps

Heat chicken tenders in oven for 20 minutes.

Add crisp, shredded lettuce, cheese and barbeque sauce encased in soft wraps and it all looks and tastes just spliffy darlings!

         

Wednesday night

Pinky’s Hot-Ding-a-Dogs

Take one hot dog and place inside an open hot dog roll. Bazinga darlings!

Add barbeque or tomato sauce and cheese as desired. Simply scrumptious!

Thursday night

‘Steak Pinky’ with Cheeky Crunchy Potato Batons

Toss a steak over three or four times in an oiled pan until it’s succulent… you know what I mean, wink, wink.

Place Potato Batons in oven on 230 degrees for twenty minutes.

Presto! Bon appetite!

Friday night

Middle-Eastern Kebabs with Fluffed Rice a-la-Pinky-style.

Buy pre-made and marinated kebabs from Deli. Place in oven at 180 degrees for twenty minutes.

Place sachet of rice in microwave for 90 seconds. Make sure you squeeze the sachet sensuously beforehand.

Pour rice on plate and add desired kebabs. Lick your delicious fingers afterwards.

                        Here's one I prepared earlier!

Saturday night

Pinkster Hamburgers with the Lot

These beauties take about 2 minutes to cook on both sides. Add to a burger roll and with various salad items in the crisper this makes a truly opulent meal fit for a King… or Queen.

Sunday night

Pinky's Golden Arches Special!

Some people caution that Schoolies is a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah and that any parent who allows their kids to attend is sending them straight to an eternity in Hell.

I reckon at least mine will eat better than if they stayed at home this week, possums!

First Installment of ...School Formal F#%K Ups

Wednesday morning at ground zero...

7:30am: Pinky opens Padraic’s bedroom door only to find he’s still not home from last night.

7:32am: Opens Lulu’s door and corroborates with her to meet up at home after work as early as she can get away and drop her to Jock’s (boyfriend) place at 4:00pm sharp for photo shoot.

8:00am: Pinky arrives at school and parks Golden Boy in superior, strategic location for quick getaway in afternoon.

Pinky runs through plans in head. Leave school at 3:00, pick up corsages, rush home, help Lulu dress, drive her to Jock’s house, take photos, rush back home by five pm to take snaps of Padraic and his partner Keely before they leave.

Pinky high fives herself for superwoman-like organisational skills!

3:00pm: Pinky travels home just under speed limit. Can’t risk speeding fine.

3:25 pm: Pinky sashays into florist and scoops up prepaid corsages. Pinky is just too cool for school.

3:30pm: Arrives home, Lulu's not there... where the hell is she??? 

Sh#t a brick.

Pinky locates Padraic, in coma-like state on couch. He grumpily mumbles that Keely is picking him up at 4:00 to drive him to the park to have photos taken... but will return here at 5:00pm so that obliging neighbour can drive them to formal in his flash car.

3:35pm: Pinky rings Lulu to determine her whereabouts. She’s still waiting at shopping mall to have professional makeup done. Lulu will be very late home. 

Pinky’s finely tuned plans go devastatingly awry.

3:40pm: Pinky thinks on her feet… informs Padraic she will take his photos at 4:00 when Keely arrives instead of 5:00.

3:50pm: Padraic is still asleep on couch. Pinky wants to scream at him to get up and put his suit on... but stops herself. Veins are sticking out on her temple.

4:00pm: The gorgeous Keely arrives. Padraic is still asleep on couch.

4:05pm: Keely rebukes slack-arse Padraic then leaves to retrieve a tie she forgot to bring for the unpunctual youth.

4:07pm: Hagar and Padraic have a loud and vitriolic skirmish on the staircase because P. drank H’s pineapple juice. 

H. threatens to give P. a black eye. 

Much swearing ensues. Pinky breaks it up by screaming threatening obscenities at them. 

Pinky needs a fricking drink badly but it’s too early. 

Still no sign of Lulu.

4:12pm: Keely arrives once again and Pinky makes futile attempts at tying a half Nelson Windsor for Padraic. Not possible. Does dodgy school-boy tie style instead. Ushers the pretty couple outside for happy snaps. Runs back inside for almost-forgotten, expensive corsages in fridge. Waves them goodbye.

  

Presenting... the lovely Keely and handsome Padraic!

4:15pm: Still no sign of Lulu!

4:40pm: Still no sign...

4:45pm: At last, Pinky hears tyres crunching on the driveway and the sound of Cinderella rushing up the stairs instead of down.

4:50pm: Pinky, oh-so-carefully zips up Lulu’s dress, flounces the hair, sprays on enough perfume to drown a large rat and they’re out the door and on way to Jock’s place.

Phew! I knew I could do it!

Presenting... the gorgeous Lulu and divine Jock!

Lulu’s hair appointment had been at 1:30 followed by engagements concerning nails and makeup. All up, it took her about 3 hours to get ready. 

How long did it take Padraic? Literally, ten seconds.Hardly seems fair does it?

Pinky and her 'Closet Drinking'

“So how’s it going with another female living in the house?” queried my mother when she was up on a visit last week.

Mum was referring to Meggles, Hagar’s twenty year old girlfriend who moved in with us a couple of months ago.

“She’s gorgeous!” I gushed. And it’s true. I love having another girl in the house after being outnumbered by five males to two girls for so long.

Meggles does her own washing, cooking, cleans up after herself and more importantly, keeps that rascally Hagar in check.

There is one teensy, weensy little thing though. She’s a bit… health conscious.

“Pinky! You’re a complete idiot!” I hear you jeering. “What’s wrong with being health conscious?”

Well… there’s nothing wrong with it at all except it brings into sharp focus just how UNHEALTHY Pinky is.

Our fridge crisper has never been so chocka-bloc full of fresh fruit and vegies , the pantry is stocked with peculiar organic foodstuffs such as Rice Malt Syrup, Cashew spread, Coconut Oil, Rolled Oats, seeds of every description, rice bran and other nutritious items previously alien to the dingy shelves in my kitchen.

I staggered into the kitchen one morning in search of my 43 beans fix to find Meggles sipping on a green tea. “Look!” she said with her dazzlingly white smile, “I made these pancakes out of a banana and an egg!”

Most days I run into Meggles in the hallway on her way to the gym or off to climb Castle Hill.

What is Pinky doing when wholesome, fit and toned Meggles waves a cheery goodbye as she bounces out the door?

Usually sitting on the couch like a slobby bogan watching the telly with a glass of wine in front of her that’s what.

Hagar and Meggle’s bedroom door is straight opposite the lounge room so the sight of we two layabout boozehounds is an unavoidable and confronting sight when they walk in the door.

The other day, feeling ashamed of my hedonistic ways, I sneakily placed my wine glass in the drawer of the coffee table when I heard Meggle’s car pull up.

“What are you doing?” demanded Scotto in disbelief.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m hiding my drink from Meggles.”

“Don’t be stupid! It’s your house, Pinky.”

“I don’t care,” I whimpered, “I don’t want Meggles to think I’m a lush.”

Anyway… Scotto dobbed on me to Meggles the other night so there’s no point pretending any more.

She doesn’t give two hoots apparently and besides, Meggles is probably still recovering from the fact that I asked if I could use her and Hagar’s photos to try out the app where you can put two individual’s photos together to see how their babies would look.I just wanted to know how beautiful my future grandchildren will be.

My Son the Lawyer

I’ve never lived vicariously through my children which is why it sometimes irks me when I bump into someone I haven’t seen for a long time and they ask, “So what are your kids up to now, Pinky?” 

Deep down I know how they want me to reply.

They want me to say, “My kids are great! What are yours up to?”

Their question is a ploy… a ruse, because all they want is to do is regale me with lofty tales of their own golden childrens’ exploits.

“Oh, Nathan’s a chief accountant for a big multi-national company in Hong Kong, it’s terrible really because we hardly ever get to see him, Raphael’s an obstetrician (which is ironic because he married a gynaecologist) and little Monique is a classical dancer with the Australian ballet,” they’ll respond with an affectation of modesty.

It’s true. They’d never ask me what my kids are ‘up to now’ if their kid was doing ten years non-parole in Long Bay would they?

It seems at last, after twenty-four years, Pinky has bragging rights too.

Jonah, my twenty-two year old son, has finished his law degree and requested my presence at his graduation ceremony in the big smoke at the beginning of December.

I wonder how many ways I’ll discover to weasel the phrase, “My son the lawyer” into conversations from now on?

“That’s a nice coloured shirt you’re wearing! My son the lawyer has one just like it!”

“Sorry I’m late. I was just talking to my son the lawyer on the phone.”

“We need a table for two please; my son the lawyer will be joining us.”

“We’ll need two Meatlovers pizzas delivered thanks, my son the lawyer’s coming over and he has a huge appetite.”

I could keep going but I won’t.

As I’m going to the expense of jet setting down especially for this auspicious occasion anyway, I thought I might book into a health resort on the Gold Coast for a week. Visualise Pinky, all alone in luxurious accommodation, hidden away from the vultures picking at my bones in this household.

It would sort of be like rehab, I thought; enforced non-drinking, compulsory exercise and a prescribed organic-only diet.

I imagined myself reclining on a lazy-boy with slices of cucumber over my eyes and an exotic umbrella-adorned mocktail beside me.

But when I looked at the websites there were all kinds of unsavoury activities on the list of options.

I couldn’t picture myself going to Laughing Yoga classes; especially when my diet would most likely consist of lentils and bean curd. The mind boggles at what may transpire.

The resort boasted Australia’s longest flying-fox. Hurtling at a rapid speed from the top of one telephone pole to another is not really my cup of tea. Besides, that would take up I’m guessing, three minutes of my time, so unless I was like those kids at Dream World who keep going back on the same ride again and again, it hardly seems worth the effort.

The five day package also included a fifty minute massage. To be quite honest the thought of a stranger rubbing me all over my body for almost an hour is unsettling so I’d probably wind up skipping that too.

Mountain bike riding, daily health lectures… meh.

So instead of rehab I’ve decided to fork out extra money for lucky Lulu to accompany me on a shopping holiday. We’ll stay at a hotel in the city and spend our days bonding like only mothers and daughters are able, gorging on delicious food and clothing boutiques.

Of course Lulu’s also looking forward to catching up with her big brother, Jonah. Did I mention that he’s a lawyer?