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Showing posts with label Pinky's Outings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pinky's Outings. Show all posts

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

M is for My Girlfriends- Divine Secrets of the Blah Blah Buzz Club

Blah Blah Buzz Club AGM Agenda

 Meeting Time and Date: Monday 5:00 pm 

Meeting Venue: Yacht Club

Attendees: Committee Members: 

Kyles (President) Shazza (Vice President)
Kaz (Treasurer) Pinky (Secretary)
Lee-Lee ( Advisor of all things to do with relationships because she reads Cosmopolitan and is the youngest and closest to hipster we have).

Apologies: To the staff at the Yacht Club for making them stay back and put up with us all night.
Agenda Items:
1. Minutes of the previous meeting: 

Recalled out loud in the car on way to the Yacht Club by Pinky – Kyles was supposed to have sent bulk texts out to other members regarding tonight’s meeting. 

Kyles insists she thought Shaz was supposed to be doing it. Small quarrel ensues in car with accusations flying and tempers flaring. 

Our chauffeur, Shaz’s husband Michael, turns radio up and puts foot down on pedal to speed up process of offloading us so he can go to his tennis game.

                         (L-R) Kyles, Kaz, Pinky, Lee-Lee, Shaz.

2. Business arising from previous Minutes: 

Disputed matter is eventually settled that it was no one’s fault other members weren't notified.
It's unanimously decided Pinky should have the first shout.

3. Correspondence
Pinky (secretary) reiterates verbal warning by each of our husbands to behave ourselves on girl’s night out.

Menus are handed out and youngish Lee-Lee reads them out to other oldish committee members as everyone has left reading glasses at home.

4. Discussion of what “behave” actually means. Nothing conclusive deduced. 

Pinky decides to order Atlantic Salmon.

5. Reports:

Treasurer Kaz, reports that as Pinky is a member of the Yacht Club she will have to pay for all the food and drinks tonight and be reimbursed, in order to receive member’s discount for the other cheap skates. 

Pinky argues that she can’t possibly carry five drinks at once or remember five meal orders and it’s agreed an elected member will come and help her.

As Secretary, Pinky agrees that any notes taken down during evening must be dealt with and recorded on blog but omitting details of salacious and rowdy behaviour. Scandalous or unflattering photographs are banned with the exception of extremely funny ones. See item 3.

It’s voted and passed that what happens at the AGM stays at the AGM.

6. Subcommittee reports:

Lee-Lee reports that when Pinky returns from ordering drinks at bar she has accidentally ordered one too many. Pinky acknowledges that she did wonder why the round was so expensive, then to cover up her mistake, insists she bought the extra drink in honour of our fallen comrades at home watching MKR.

7. Election of Office Bearers

All offices are reinstated but Shaz is appointed “Gopher” as well as the position of Vice President.

8. Guest Speaker

A slightly annoyed lady at table beside us asks if it would be possible to keep the noise level down, especially Kyles' raucous laughter.

Kyles explains we are all teachers and letting our hair down on school holidays.

After hearing us incompetently attempting to sort out money exchanges in order to pay for dinner, same lady makes observation that no wonder kids are like the way they are today if they are being taught by the likes of us.

Committee members begin to loudly throw fake school name into conversation to cover tracks and avoid possible consequences.

9. Motions on Notice:

11:00 pm, Motion by Kaz to move on to the Australian Hotel to discuss General Business because the weary Yacht Club staff had turned the lights out and were bundling us out of now closed and deserted restaurant.

10. General Business:

Discussion of the presence of any interesting prospective suitors for Kaz (our single lady) in proximity at the Australian Hotel, followed by quick scan around room by committee members. 

It seemed eligible gentlemen were thin on the ground down town on a Monday night.

Suddenly a fitting candidate is identified.

Newly elected Gopher Shaz, is sent on reconnaissance mission (on behalf of Kaz)  to investigate suitability of intriguing stranger in mint green t-shirt as possible point of focus.

Discussion of possibility of going home when Pinky looks at watch for first time and notices it is 11:40 pm; two hours past her bedtime. 

Entreaties by Pinky to call it a night are dismissed by other committee members.

Shaz buys another round of drinks.

11. Notices of Motions: 

Motion set for scheduling next meeting as this hotel was closing.

Motion proposed by Kyles to call into Maccas drive thru on way home.

Motion to stuff Kyles into baby seat of (designated driver) Lee-Lee’s car as she is smallest.

12. Next Meeting: 

To be advised.

13. Meeting Close

Pinky attempts to slither into bed without waking Scotto as time is now 1:30 am and ‘some people’ have to work the next day.
Scotto gets up to go to loo grumbling under his breath and Pinky knows she’s been sprung.

Giggles herself to sleep remembering fun night with the Blah Blah Buzz Club.

Inspired by Rebecca Wells' book about the joys of sisterhood.

Linking up with Essentially Jess #IBOT

Sunday, February 23, 2014

What if Abbot makes us all live like Old Age Pensioners?

                                       What Pinky would look like as a pensioner.

If our Prime Minister, Mr Abbott is suggesting the S.P.C. workers drop their yearly income by $20 000 - $30 000 (lowering some workers wages to $33 000 p.a. in order to save the company), what’s next?

Teachers? Nurses? Tradies? Shop Assistants?

It’s a bit brazen for someone who earns a reputed $340 000 a year don't you agree?

If my pay packet dropped by $20 000 a year my life would transform considerably; in fact I’d have to live like an old age pensioner.

With this in mind, Scotto and I decided to spend our “date day” on a sort of budget; pretend we were old aged pensioners and see how it turned out.

Normally we’d ask one of the kids to drop us into the city for our epicurean odyssey but as no Poinker teenagers were to be found on Saturday morning we decided a taxi, about a fifty buck fare, was far too extravagant and we should catch a bus. 

We sat in the sun at the bus stop for at least twenty minutes with our innards cooking in the steamy heat and just like a lettuce leaf in a lunchbox left in the sun, Pinky’s carefully blow-dried hair wilted, sticking to her forehead in long, greasy strands.

If I was a pensioner I’d have a neat, grey perm though so I suppose the dripping tendrils wouldn’t be as noticeable.

Scotto had suggested we drop in and check out the latest installation at the Art Gallery as firstly, it’s free and secondly, it was still too early to have a glass of wine as the only bus we could catch had us in the city before noon.

The last exhibition we went to was outstanding so I was looking forward to it. Little did I know but Scotto had cunningly hoodwinked me by neglecting to mention the gallery was currently hosting a Lego display. Sharing the usually peaceful gallery with a multitude of squabbling rug rats was not the cultural event I’d had in mind. I nearly left him in the playroom but he was too tall to be allowed in.

             The Millennium Falcon (according to Star Wars expert Scotto)

Once Scotto’d had his fill of geekism we strolled across the bridge to the Yacht Club for lunch.

Just when I thought we'd escaped my husband's youthful fantasies I then had to wait inside by myself for a good ten minutes when someone noticed the chef's car parked outside... dammit! 

                           "KITT" from Knight Rider

Noticing the Yacht Club members' prices for meals were five dollars cheaper, it was clearly imperative we join up immediately. 

That’s what pensioners do isn’t it? 

Look for the bargains? Join clubs? 

At fifty dollars a year membership fee, I’d recoup most of that by bringing my kids here for dinner in one night. It knocked ten dollars off our meal bill there and then!

Despite developing seasickness by merely standing on a pier, Pinky is now a card-carrying member of the Yacht Club.

Inspired by this turn of events we crossed back over the bridge after lunch to join the local Rugby League club and have a bit of a spin on the pokies since that seemed a very pensioner-like thing to do.

Three minutes later, when we’d been stripped of our ten dollar futures investment we decided to head on over to the beer garden across the bridge where our friends, Dolly, Julie and Val were ensconced. 

It was time for a bit of a turn on the dance floor to the elderly band, 'The Reclining Rockers' who cater especially to the hipsters. When I say “hipsters” I mean people who’ve undergone hip replacements.

The ambulance is always on standby in case someone becomes overexcited and throws their back out whilst jiving to Status Quo’s, “Roll Over and Let Me In”.

Before long it was time to farewell our mates and catch the late bus home.

                             Scotto bidding Dolly an affectionate farewell...

All up the cost of the day was a $6.00 return bus fare, $10 pokie fee and a $12.00 meal of fish and chips each. That sounds reasonable for a pensioner’s all-day outing, doesn’t it?

Add in the drinks and membership fees though and we may have to start thinking about re-mortgaging the house.

Linking up with Grace for FYBF!

Sunday, February 2, 2014

Who Decides on Who has Real Talent Anyway?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like his page and support these jewels amongst our midst!

Monday, December 30, 2013

A Spooky Tale: Pinky Visits a Ghost Town

                                                              Image Credit

The days between Christmas and New Year are strange

It’s almost like being in a kind of dead zone… accompanied by an eerie feeling of knowing we’re living the final days before the new beginnings of the next year.

“We need to do something,” declared Scotto yesterday, the sweat dripping down his forehead in the 35 degree oven we call the lounge room. “Let’s go on a day trip somewhere.”

Scotto loves to drive his new “Batmobile” on the highway, so I scanned my tiny brain for somewhere we could pay a visit to, in our parched hinterland.

“We could go to Ravenswood,” I offered. “It’s about an hour drive away.”

“What’s there?” queried Scotto, swatting away a slow, heat-stricken fly.

“Nothing,” I replied.

“Let’s go then! It might be cooler there. It might even be raining.”

Poor Melbourne-born Scotto hates the heat and lack of rain here in North Queensland.

“Ravenswood’s a ghost town,” I lectured Scotto in the car on the way. “It used to have a population of about 4500 back in the 1890s because of the gold rush but now only a couple of hundred people live there. I’ve heard there’s even a haunted pub!

Just don’t blink or you actually will miss it,” I warned as we approached the tiny hamlet.

Our first stop was the historic cemetery. 

Ravenswood Cemetery 

Our shoes crackled across the brittle, dried out grass and we pondered over the sad gravestones of little children and young women who’d probably died in childbirth back in the 1800s. 

“Why are there so many little kids’ graves?” asked Scotto.

“Diphtheria, Typhoid… they didn’t have antibiotics back then,” I answered feeling a little melancholy.

Grave at Ravenswood Cemetery

We both suddenly jumped in fright as the shutter on Scotto’s camera began automatically firing over and over.

“That’s weird…” he stared at me with a pale face. “Why’s it doing that?”

"Maybe something wants to be seen?" I answered with false bravado.

                                What the F-f-f-f-f!

The temperature when we climbed back in the car was close to 37 degrees and there was not a cloud in the sky.

We had a quick look around the museum.

“Where are you two from?” probed the elderly woman at the door when she overheard Pinky jokingly whinging about the extortionate two dollar admission fee.

“I’ve lived here all my life,” she continued with a toothless sneer. “People are shocked when I tell them that... I can think of worse places to live.”

“I can’t…” I thought, as I feigned interest in the three glass cabinets containing boring old rubbish from the nineteenth century.

“Don’t forget to have a look at the old jail out the back,” the woman called out when she noticed Scotto and Pinky attempting to slither out the door unnoticed.

Ravenswood Museum
                     I think they must have forgotten about someone...

“Time for a beer!” announced Scotto. 

Railway Hotel Ravenswood

The Railway Hotel (circa 1890 and one of only two remaining hotels) was straight across the road and as we walked in to the establishment the local bar flies stared at our city slicker attire with barely concealed derision (no they didn’t... but it would have been funny if they had).

We ordered counter lunches whilst three poodles, a couple of tiny terrier pups and a biggish mongrel had a full on barney around the bar, barking, growling and nipping each other.

The beer was great; ice cold and refreshing, the fish and chips delicious.

Pub Lunch

“We can go and have a look at the old mine after lunch,” I suggested.

Open cut mine Ravenswood

We did. There’s nothing spookier than an abandoned mine. The hike up to the lookout had a steep ascent with a 10 degree gradient, so in the searing heat our thirst had re-established itself and it was time for another beer.

“I think this is the haunted one,” I informed Scotto as we pulled up outside the Imperial Hotel.

A table of locals out the front of the pub, unashamedly gawked at the Batmobile as Scotto (showing off) did a powerslide in the gravel as we pulled up.

“They’re staring at your car!” I commented. “Probably never seen a car like this in these here parts.”

Scotto was thrilled at the attention and disembarked from the Batmobile feeling like a superstar… right up until he fell in a hole and nearly went ass up.

The entire table erupted in loud guffaws and watched us hobbling across the road in embarrassment.

“Have a nice trip?” chortled the matriarch of the group.

“Yeah, I’ll be back in the fall,” muttered a sheepish Scotto.

Bar in Ravenswood Hotel

Behind the bar stood a tiny, attractive blonde girl; she was clearly a backpacker by the sound of her Scandinavian accent. 

She stood out like a dog’s hind leg (sic) against the back drop, with her golden hair and white smile. "How the hell did a backpacker have the misfortune of winding up here?" I wondered.

We drank our beers and Scotto insisted, quite passionately, on returning the empty glasses back to the bar. 

I suspected it was more to do with the stunning blonde barmaid inside, rather than his impeccably good manners.

“Let me take them back…” I suggested.

“No. I’ll do it,” he replied (quite firmly).

“Nice car, yah!” I heard the Nordic goddess trill to my husband, who stood with an irritatingly silly grin on his face.

We left the pub and decided we’d seen enough for one day even if we hadn’t espied any ghosts as such.

“Did you have a nice day?” asked the shop keeper at the antiquated post office/store we called into to get water for the journey back.

“Yes thanks,” Pinky mused. “We saw the museum and the mine, had a lovely lunch at the Railway Hotel and a final roadie at the Imperial just before.”

The shop keeper stared at me, his pupils dilating slightly, his face blanching.

“The Imperial Hotel has been boarded up for the last thirty years,” he choked, “ever since that young, Swedish backpacker was murdered by a jealous miner’s wife.”

                                     I swear every hair on Scotto's head stood on end!

Ravenswood goat

N.B: Some of this story may have been made up… a bit.

Saturday, November 30, 2013

How to Survive a Staff Christmas Party

                                      Toni Basil

I read in the newspaper yesterday that staff parties are highly dangerous in the respect that alcohol acts as a truth serum and many people wreck future career prospects with their big, well-oiled mouths.

Last night, I spent six hours in the same room as 100 colleagues and their partners at our "Eighties Themed" staff party. The champagne was flowing but apart from certain staff members hilariously falling off the stage during a dance-off competition, I’m fairly certain there were no serious incidents of inappropriate revelry.

The only foreseeable staff party dangers as far as I’m concerned are the grisly hangover you’re possibly going to suffer the next day, the remorseful and cringe-worthy flashbacks of your own flamboyant ‘sexy’ dancing and… THE PHOTOGRAPHS!

So here are the self-reflective tips I have (after the fact) for avoiding these mortifying issues.

1. Try to block photographs of yourself after a set time (when you’re plastered) so you don’t fall into the trap of pulling outlandish faces, poses or experiencing a wardrobe malfunction.

2. Do a bit of detective work prior to the party when you're deciding on a costume.

It would be such a shame if somebody else turned up in the same outfit!

         Meet...Mario (Mel), Luigi (Scotto), Mario (O'Reilly), Luigi (Rachel)      

3. Make sure you are adventurous in your wardrobe choices. One thing you don't want to do is merely blend in with the scenery.

4. When posing for photos try to stand with perfect posture ...

                       Blondie (Trina), Rubik's Cube (Emmsie), Amy.

If you're snapped leaning against a wall, or worse another body, you could wind up looking like a piss pot.

    Kazza, Emma, Kyles, Pinky, Shazza ... more lean than the Tower of Pisa.

5. No matter how infused with endearment for your beautiful colleagues you are, refrain from repeatedly telling them how much you LOVE them. They will tire of it quite quickly.

                                                  Rachael putting Pinky in a headlock.

6. Just like "planking", photobombing is extremely childish and so yesterday... look it up Greggles. Don't do it!

       Pinky trying to have a nice photo taken with the party mastermind, Kyles.

7. Remember that a group of people have been working hard in the background to make this special night a success.
Offer to help out if you can.

                                                 Pinky Poinker helping to judge the Dance Off.

8. Finally, to avoid that horrible hangover; take two aspirin before you leave for the party and two more when you get home (with a glass of milk). This will prevent inflammation of blood vessels in the brain. It may make your stomach bleed but you won't have a headache in the morning and I know which I'd prefer! 
(This is not authentic medical advice but the voice of experience)

9. If you do wake up feeling as though a bat has shat in your mouth there's always this sure fire way to feel better...

Sunday, August 11, 2013

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.