How to bond with your teenagers… Pinky style!

                               Hagar (right) : This is going on her damn blog I just know it!

Besieged with overwhelming feelings of parental negligence after the sentimental weeping in last night’s post I felt it was necessary to gather the progeny together. 

There is only one way to assure full attendance at such a ceremony.

Steak.

Of course Jonah would be absent as he’s currently living in Brisvegas completing his degree... however there were still four of my offspring open to meaty inducement.

Casually bandying the restaurant name ... 

HOG'S BREATH, around last night stirred the familial pot and I successfully managed to amass five favourable responses (including Scotto, who loves a good chow down on animal flesh at the best of times).

Sadly, there was a late scratching.

Padraic, despite my repeated text messages failed to show up in time and was directed towards the frozen pizza in the freezer but… Thaddeus, Hagar and Lulu were all keen to avail themselves of the carnivorous delights on offer.

“What’s the catch?” asked twenty-three year old Thaddeus, when I sent him a textual invitation.

“Nothing …” I replied, puzzled that he would think there was a catch??? Just because I invite him over for spaghetti every Wednesday night so that I can entice him to pick his sister up from her netball game at 9 o’clock… sheesh!

We sat down to order. 

Iron deficient Uni student Thaddeus, naturally ordered the MEGACUT! 

Hagar, a protein protagonist since the age of six months ordered a traditional cut steak with mushroom sauce.

(You know how a baby’s first solid food should be egg custard or the like? After six months of being exclusively breast-fed, Hagar stared so longingly at a medium rare steak at a barbeque we were attending I felt sorry for him. The voracious six month old Hagar sucked every ounce of juice out of a hunk of that steak and never looked back. He sat there in his high chair gnawing on his lump of bloodied flesh like a baby wolf.)

Lulu, despite spending a considerable amount of time texting, enjoyed an equally meaty burger whilst Scotto, ripped into a set of baby back ribs with the gusto of Fred Flintstone at a Water Buffalo lodge meeting.

Ah, you know what they say… feed the man meat!AND… when we arrived home... there was no washing up!

Porky Pinky

                       How relaxed do I look?

I know I’ve written about how Scotto and I intend retiring to a farm on Mt Tamborine and providing a home to a zillion Chihuahuas when we get older, but there is another vision I store in my head, 'the ideal fantasy scenario of our golden years'.

Imagine a Christmas table adorned with food and wine; each seat around the table filled with my five children and their laughing spouses.

Picture a fat, jolly Pinky wearing a nasty bathing suit three sizes too small and a portly, Santa-hat clad Scotto, lolling around on floating beds in the pool, hedonistically sipping champagne and playfully splashing the dozen or so grandchildren.

Sort of like the Waltons but without American accents or the unappealing overalls.

Bear in mind, this is my dream, not necessarily Scotto’s.

But Pinky! You’ll have four daughters-in-law and a son-in-law. You don’t think there might be a chance of conflict in the equation? I hear you chortle cruelly.

Let’s just say I’m optimistic.

Last night we escorted Lulu and her boyfriend to dinner for her birthday. Longboards on the Strand was her restaurant of choice and we had a great night dining and celebrating whilst overlooking the twinkling Cleveland Bay and chatting to the gorgeous, conversant, well-mannered and easy-going Jock.

                             Jock and Lulu

What with Hagar’s adorable girlfriend, Meggles and Lulu’s boyfriend Jock, things are pointing to the possibility that my kids have damn good taste. If they keep it up then my idealistic hopes for joyous and crowded family celebrations are not such a fanciful prospect after all.

Lulu was her usual domineering self all night but we managed to get our own back by ordering a surprise chocolate fondue with sparklers and raucously sang happy birthday to her intense shame and embarrassment.

Like most rugby players Jock has a great appetite

“Leave that bedroom door open, Lulu!” I cautioned after we arrived home and she and Jock were about to head upstairs.

“What do you think we’re going to do Mum? Make babies or something? Do you want a grandson or a granddaughter???” she demanded dictatorially, as poor, stunned Jock stood stock still with a mortified expression on his face.

I heard her bedroom door close and decided to let this one go. Even if Jock had been planning on any nefarious activities there was no way he was going to play them out now!

Goodnight John Boy!

Pinky and Lulu: Girls Day Out

                                 The 'Before' Shot

Even though Princess Lulu doesn’t turn seventeen for a few days she requested that we spend a mother and daughter day together at the local shopping mall. What she really wanted was for me to fork out $200 buckeroonies to have her long hair bleached, tinted and treated with some rare, exotic oil only found and extracted from the baby teeth of a Fairy Penguin.

“Don’t get it done like you did last time,” I cautioned, “with the top of your hair brown and the bottom bleached. It looks cheap.”

“Frankly, I don’t care what you say Mum, I don’t have to listen to what you think,” she replied tartly, forgetting who was footing the bill for this costly coiffure.

“WhatEVER!” I replied, rolling my eyes, putting my ear plugs in and turning up my IPod. 

No I didn’t… that’s what she does.

During her two hour pampering procedure I thought I’d enjoy a little indulgence of my own.

              "Mum! Just go away! Just leave! You're spoiling our day out together!"

Swanning through Myers, I was unable to resist this Leona Edmiston frockle which I can wear to the Amateur Race Carnival next weekend.

… and this hat to go with it.

When I went back to check on Her Highness she was in the wash-basin part of the cycle.

   "Mum! This head massage is so relaxing I feel like kicking my leg in the air like the dog!"



“I told the hairdresser what you said about my style looking cheap and trashy Mum. He said he wants to have a word with you.”

“WhatEVER,” I drawled and trounced out flicking my hair as I went, glancing over my shoulder to make sure he wasn't following me.

There was still at least 45 minutes to wait until she was finished so I went and had fake red claws glued on to match my new red dress. The technician was wearing a face mask to prevent inhaling acrylic fibres. Where the hell was mine? I held my breath for thirty minutes to protect myself from contracting acrylestosis. It was hard work.

I had to explain to Scotto when I returned home that now I have these long nails I won’t be able to cook or execute any housework for that matter for the next foreseeable future.

He took it fairly well.
I popped my head once more into the salon to discover a revamped Lulu with shining golden locks and a big grin on her face.

It was blow-dried and straightened beautifully but don’t tell her this…

I don’t think it really looks any different at all!

Hair: $196

Nails: $55

Dress: $103

Hat: $40

Time spent with daughter: Priceless!

Princess Lulu and the Pee

    

Baby girl Lulu, turns seventeen next week.

“What would you like for your birthday darling girl?” I asked her yesterday.

“Mum! You’ve already paid $2500 for my netball trip to the U.K. in September, plus you’re going to have to pay for two formal dresses, two lots of make-up, two lots of hairdressers, two pairs of shoes… gosh Mum, I’ve cost you so much already… just give me some money and take me out to dinner for my birthday. That’ll do.”

Mmmmm.

Yes… you read right. Two lots of formal overheads because not only is she attending the Grade 12 formal for her own school, but she’s also accompanying her boyfriend, Jock to his all boy’s school formal. 

I suppose I could sell the $1300 treadmill I’ve only used six times in two years… or I could pawn my engagement ring… or sell the cat... in order to cover these incidentals.

“Would Jock like to come out to dinner with us for your birthday dinner then?” I asked, even though I’d only met the elusive Jock once in the last few months and was curious as to why he hadn’t been coming over.

My first boyfriend when I was seventeen, Adro, liked my parents far more than he liked me. If fact even after he callously dumped me, he still came over twice a week to catch up with Mum and Dad. (I think my parents probably preferred him over me as well, if truth be told.)

“Why doesn’t Jock ever come in and have a chat?” I asked Lulu, concerned about his anonymity. “Why do you always go over and spend time at his place with his mother? What’s wrong with him? Is he hiding something?”

“It’s not him, Mum,” sighed Lulu, “It’s this house. It’s filthy. I don’t want him to see what a pig sty I live in. The toilet smells like wee.” She followed this comment with a regal sniff.

Really? I wonder why the toilet stinks? Years of badly aimed doodles splashing litres of impossible to clean widdle into the tile grouting most probably.

So yesterday, shamed by my unimpeachable daughter, I dragged the vacuum cleaner out and begrudgingly whisked it around the (not really) obscenely dirty floors, all the while swearing under my breath and thinking, ‘If it’s so filthy then why doesn’t SHE get off her butt and lift a finger around the damn house.’

And who should mosey on in to our den of debris in the afternoon but Prince Charming himself. I have to say… he seems lovely (Lulu is the one who’s been keeping him away from her freak show parents) and he’s coming to dinner with us so I’ll be able to wreak revenge on her by telling embarrassing stories all night long.

Let’s see… which one will I start with?

                             Lulu and her "Jock"!

What the hell are they teaching kids these days?

                                   Padraic, hard at work!

"Me and Matthew Arnold"

Last night, 8:00pm.

Padraic: “Mumma Bear! Can you help me with my poetry assignment? I know you love poetry…”

“Do I Padraic?” I eyed him cynically, “Do I really? When is it due?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

Bloody typical, I thought. “You write the draft and I’ll take a look at it tomorrow,” I sighed in defeat.

With Padraic and Lulu both firing towards the end of grade twelve, I’m thinking this may be the very last assignment I will have to ‘help’ one of my kids with, EVER!

The ‘draft’ was waved in front of my coffee cup in the form of a USB stick this afternoon.

Hmmm… I mused. An essay on Canonical poet, Matthew Arnold’s poem, “Dover Beach”.

Canonical? What the hell is that? I skated through the mildewed labyrinth of my brain searching the rusting filing cabinets stuffed with the useless information I’ve collected over the past three decades.

Seems I’d lost the key to the skates and the filing cabinets.

The real issue however is this; Padraic’s career aspirations feature gaining employment as a Plumber’s apprentice. How is this assignment possibly going to assist him in fixing water pipes and unclogging S-bends?

Unless he applies for a job with a Canonical poet-loving plumber of course…

“Grogans Beached” by Pinky Smith.

The pipes have burst again.

The bowl is full, the poo lies fair

Upon the floor; in the next room the torch

Gleams and is gone; the wrench and pump stand

Glistening and moist, out in the backyard shed.

Come to the window, fetid is the foul air!

Only from the long line of spray

Where the pee meets the sun-bleached rug,

Listen! You hear the grating sound

Of flushing, when the pipes draw back, and fling

The brown turd, up the cistern,

Begin, and cease, and then again begin,

With tremulous groaning slow, and bring

The eternal pile of floaters in.
So anyway… we had to write about the ‘gaps and silences’. Well the only gaps were the gaps in the information Padraic left out of his draft and the only silences were when I ordered Padraic to mute the television because I couldn’t concentrate with “Deal or No Deal” blaring in the background.

There was also a puzzling question about a “resistant reading”. The only resisting that occurred was me, resisting the urge to slap Padraic over the head with the task sheet when he became distracted by his mobile phone.

Reluctant as I am to ever give advice to ANYONE, I will impart two tips on helping your kids do their English assignments.

#Tip 1. Dumb it down big time.

#Tip 2. See above.

For a related post on homework horrors please click on…Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf

The real first verse of “Dover Beach”

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin.
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Hard Boiled Scotto

                           The sexy, but gritty Scotto.

Pinky tries her hand at Gum Shoe...

I dedicate this to the memory of 

Dashiell Hammett. 

Author of The Maltese Falcon.

(There are many of his adapted quotes in this piece of detective genre.)

Scotto walked into the lounge, and observed his surroundings… he saw the stains splattered all over the bare gyprock walls… stained without any indication from where the staining had originated… and there in a dark corner of the room he saw it. 

The scenario laid out before him was one of disgrace… and even though he’d witnessed many crimes before, the body on the couch told him the story of what had occurred in that very room the previous night.

Scotto Poinker’s jaw was strong and chunky, his nostrils flared and his black eyes impenetrable; framed by his questioning eyebrows. His greying hairline, rising higher every year, added distinction to his furrowed brow. He looked rather handsomely like a young James Bond.

The air in the lounge room was thick and cloying with the stale stench of tobacco, fast food and hard liquor. The glass window all steamed up and the light streaming through gave the room a jaundiced tinge; like the light streaming through an empty Four X Gold bottle.

Dried out Macca’s fries littered the coffee table like the cold pale fingers of a dead man and the corpse-like body on the couch stirred and groaned with the same timbre of a drunken, seasick pirate.

Scotto’s dame, Pinky, was upstairs still in the land of nod; draped in purple satin sheets and the scent of a woman… he didn’t want to disturb her. She hadn’t had a good life, bad… worse than you could ever know… she deserved a sleep in, damn it.

Then he saw it on the coffee table… his bottle of vodka, empty…as empty as Pinky’s wine glass on a Friday night. It was full the night before. He eyed the snoring carcass lying prone on the red velour sofa.

“Was it you, Thaddeus?” he woke the suspect with a prod from his gum shoe. “Was it you who drank my vodka last night, damn it?”

Thaddeus stared at Scotto through bloodshot eyes… as bloodshot as the eyes of a whacked-out stoner walking the streets of King’s Cross.

“Tell the truth, Thaddeus,” Scotto drawled, tapping his fedora over one eye and grinding his spent cigar into the floor with his heel.

“I distrust a man who lies about his liquor… if he lies about liquor he’s not to be trusted. Listen Thaddeus, it’s a long time since I burst into tears over spilt vodka. Tell me the truth and we’ll call it quits, damn it!”

“Wasn’t me…” stammered the suspect.

“The cheaper the crook, the fancier the patter. You were the only one here last night. You always have a very smooth explanation ready. Don’t be a weak sister, fess up, damn it!”

There was a gloomy silence in the seedy surrounds of the lounge that morning… and no confession.

So the mystery of the misappropriated Vodka remains unsolved… for now...

                                 

Pinky's Theme song for Teenage Boys

Remember the old Afroman song, "Because I got High"...

well I've rewritten the lyrics after finding a few similarities

to our household shenanigans.

I was gonna clean my room… cos it looked like a sty
I was gonna get up and find the broom… but that was a lie
my room is still messed up and I know why
- cause it was all lies, it was all lies, it was all lies.

I was gonna go to class cause I just scrape by
I coulda cheated and I coulda passed but instead I scrape by
I am taking it next semester and I know why
- cause I scrape by, cause I scrape by, cause I scrape by.

I was gonna go to work at KFC… but then I thought why?
I already had two warnings and I was just squeaking by.
now I'm always broke and I think I know why
I didn’t comply, I didn’t comply, I didn’t comply.

I was gonna go to court in my white shirt and tie
I was gonna pay my traffic fines... but then I walked by
they took my whole paycheck and I know why
I told a pork pie, told a pork pie, told a pork pie.

I was gonna obey the road rules as I drove by
I was gonna pull over and stop for the cops but I kept driving by
Now I’m only allowed to drive before ten, cause the cops saw me fly
I’m a tough guy, I’m a tough guy, I’m a tough guy.

I was gonna pay my car rego but I let it slide by
Was gonna win it at the casino but I got squeezed dry
Now the tow truck is pulling it away and I know why
- I’m a slack guy, I’m a slack guy, I’m a slack guy.

I was gonna take the rubbish out for mum to the bin nearby
I was gonna mow the lawn for Mum but my plans went awry
now my Mum’s staring at me with that look in her eye
- with the stink eye, with the stink eye, with the stink eye.

I messed up my entire life with no right of reply
I didn’t get my HSC because I didn’t try
now I’m working on the side of the road and I know why
- I didn’t apply, didn’t apply, didn’t apply.

(This may have been slightly exaggerated.)

Should I have my teenage sons neutered?

This letter arrived in the snail mail yesterday. It seems that Pablo the Chihuahua’s number is up.

The vet wants him for more than just a little chat, a vaccination and the odd claw clip this time.

In order to avoid undesirable behaviours such as; humping, wandering, fighting, and marking his territory he needs to be neutered (castrated, desexualised, sterilised, desexed, demasculinised, vasectomised, emasculated, altered, or fixed).

The thought has occurred to me that it is not poor unsuspecting Pablo who needs to have his yet undescended testicles lopped off. 

I’m thinking of a couple of undomesticated teenage youths currently in situ at Poinker Palace who may benefit from a bit of a snip.

Let’s see; sterilisation prevents wandering, fighting, humping, and marking out territory.

This could mean the end of anxious nights waiting to hear the front door slam itself off its hinges just so I know my wandering teenager is home safely and not spending the night in the lock-up or worse.

No more fighting, yelling and shoving matches over who drank the last swig of Coke or who gets to watch Entourage versus (WWE Main Event) World Wrestling Entertainment.

The stinky, urinally smell emanating from the downstairs toilet will be a distant memory as the boys will no longer feel the urge to spray the wall, floor and toilet seat in order to mark their domain.

I suppose I haven’t noticed any obvious displays of humping, but then again I can’t be absolutely positive about that.

While the boys are on the operating table the Vet might like to microchip them as well… and clean their ears and clip their fingernails.

The only drawback I can see from the literature provided by the Vet is that once neutered the male patients increase their daily food intake by 26% and at the same time their energy expenditure drops by 30%.

Does that mean I’ll wind up with obese teenage boys lounging around the house, eating Hungry Jacks and painting their toenails?

I’ll tell you what… I’ll leave it up to you dear readers. Should I have the boys neutered or not?

Please enjoy a couple of "Scumbag Steve" memes I created which reflect the recent goings on at Chez Poinker over the last couple of days leading to this vitriolic post!

Ten Things That Truly Warm My Heart!

Things that truly warm my heart:

# When I panic thinking I’ve run out of wine and I’m going to have to drive up to the bloody bottle shop… and then I find a spare bottle in the pantry I’d forgotten about.

# When I’m yelling at one of my teenagers and one of the other four turncoats stick up for them and yells back at me. It’s nice to see them defending each other for a change.

# When one of my nine year old students ask me how old I am, I reply without blinking, “Twenty-one”, and they just nod acceptingly.

# When my dogs growl possessively every time the teenagers kiss me goodbye. It makes me feel especially loved.

# When I turn to the obituaries in the newspaper and I notice my name is still not on the list yet.

# When my baby Chihuahua Pablo has an ‘accident’ on the tiles instead of the carpet.

# When my sixteen year old daughter, Lulu, asks me for advice about life. Well… it will warm my heart when it eventually happens.

# When they bring out those stories in magazines about celebrities with no makeup on and showing cellulite so I have something reassuring to read when I’m waiting at the checkout.

# When I wake up and wonder how long until the alarm goes off at 6:15am then I look at the clock and it’s only 11:00pm.

# When I have an argument with Scotto and I bet him one million dollars that I’m right; and when I lose he doesn’t make me pay up.

# When it’s the end of the financial year but I don’t care because I’ve meticulously catalogued and filed every receipt over the last twelve months. (I really, really wish I had.)

And finally…

# When I walk in to the kid’s toilet and I see this;

Not this;

Or this;

Not this;

Please leave a comment about what warms your heart. 

Pretty please?

Why Onesies are the Best Things since Sliced Bread

Back in the 1800s, when I was a teenager, my mother would watch me leave to go out with my friends her face riddled with disappointment and disapproval.

“Why do you go out all dressed up in a lovely outfit wearing rubber flip flops and not bothering to dry your hair?” she would despair.

“It’s dry at the front!” I’d retort.

For some reason I would blow dry my fringe but not bother about the long strands of sopping wet hair trailing down my back.

Have I lectured my own teenage daughter about her style choices over the last couple of years?

Well… I have had a few words to say about shorty-shorts such as these silly things with the pockets hanging out (not to mention bum cheeks).

“Boys like a bit of mystery Lulu,” I snap, channelling my mother, “They don’t want to see what you had for breakfast!”

None of my four boys adopted the “pull your bloody pants up, idiot” style that has hubby Scotto spitting chips every time he espies one sauntering down the street.

I guess it’s a clear-cut sign of getting old when you fail to understand current teenage trends… like the "Onesie".

These have been on the overseas market since last year but have only taken off in the back woods of North Queensland a few months ago (as far as I’m aware anyway). I can almost hear the banjos playing.

Surely this is a singularly teenage phenomenon. Personally, if I take a trip to the supermarket I will be very disenchanted to see a grown man dressed up like a baby pushing a shopping trolley.

Lulu and her friends went to the school rave on Friday night dressed in their Onesies. 

“Why aren’t you wearing the animal types?” I queried, displaying a broadmindedness and awareness of fashion pop-culture I hoped would impress the sisterhood.

“The animal Onesies cost eighty-five dollars each, Pinky! These are from Target!”

As those gorgeous girls left for the rave (whatever that is) my only thoughts were that at least all their boobs and bums were covered and they wouldn’t get a chill.

 Seriously, how beautiful are these girls? They have 4 months left of school before they are unleashed on the world!

Pinky says- Mothers! Make friends with your son's girlfriend!

                                        Meggles!

Feeling a bit full of pride today, a bit chuffed you might say! Two of my boys are the reason for this self-satisfaction.

Last Wednesday evening Hagar stumbled out of his bedroom brandishing a tie and shirt in the air.

“Hey Scotto,” he called out, “does this tie go with this shirt?”

Scotto gave him the A okay sign and he had just about withdrawn back into his den of ill-repute, when I snapped out of my blog-writing abstraction and intercepted him.

“Where are you going that requires one to wear a tie?” I royally needled him.

“Awww… just an apprenticeship board dinner,” he answered evasively.

“Why are you going to that?” I persisted. “… have you won an award or something, Hagar?”

“Yeah Mum,” he mumbled discreetly, “I’ve been nominated for  a First Year Electrical Apprentice of the Year award.”

After a bit more motherly badgering a typically uncommunicative Hagar finally came clean and informed us that the formal dinner presentation was on Friday night (in two days) and he was one of four nominees out of 300 apprentices. It goes without saying that Pinky was not on the invitation list. I’m counting myself lucky I even found out about it.

The mind-boggling news is that I think I may have a new and clandestine ally in my continual struggle to glean any information from Hagar. 

His adorable girlfriend Meggles, accompanied Hagar to the dinner and without any prompting from Pinky, snapped a photograph of the elusive gentleman accepting his medal and sent it to me via her phone.

                             Hagar second from left!

Yay for girlfriends! We mothers really have to be grateful for the small things when our boys grow up.

Who’s the other boy I’m so proud of on this beautiful Queen’s birthday weekend?



This little guy…

Pablo Escobark, who went for his first walkies along the Strand today. Pablo took to strutting around on a lead very quickly and I would have expected nothing less from the smartest Chihuahua in the Universe.

Poem for Pablo (El Perro) 
(To be read in a Mexican accent)

Andale epa! We are een the car!

Where are we goeeeng? I hope eet’s not far!

Please don’t say eet’s back to the vet!

I theenk I break out een a cold sweat

The smell of that Vet's ees one theeng I hate…

Plus when he pokes sometheeng een my date.

What’s that I smell? Eet smells like the feesh

The stupid cat sometimes leaves in eets dish.

Eh sweet Holmes! I theenk it’s the beach!

My mummee is holdeeeng one lead each

For me and my seester to go for a walk!

What’s that een the sky? It looks like a hawk…

I theenk I’d better stay close to my mummee

That hawk is theenking that Pablo looks yummee.

I better stay nice and close to her feet

Or that hawk will swoop down for eet’s lunch meat.

Why ees my mommy lyeeng on the ground?

Why she say Pablo go back to the pound?

I deedn’t mean to trip my mummee up

Eet’s not my fault I ees just a chico pup.

PS: Happy birthday Queen Elizabeth II and thanks for the day off! Have a cracker party and don't do anything I wouldn't do.

Pinky and Parental Advice.

“I’m so cranky with my daughter right now I don’t know what to do!” sighed my friend Shazza one day in the staffroom.

Oh goody! I thought spitefully. Someone else’s teenagers besides mine are acting up. I wonder what the daughter did? Maybe she was driven home in a paddy wagon by the cops… or perhaps she was sprung sneaking out at night?

“Poor Shazza,” said the wise, experienced Pinky who had been behind the door when the good Lord had been handing out parenting skills.

“She’s been lying to me about where she goes on weekends.” croaked an emotional Shazza.

This is good, I contemplated, I can’t wait to hear this juicy piece of scandal.

“Go on Shazza,” I murmured sympathetically.

“She’s been telling me for the last two months that she’s been at a girlfriend’s house studying.”

Holy cow, if my kids had ever told me that sort of story I would have been instantly on to them. What's wrong with this woman?

“So where has she been going then?” I asked, knowing in my heart it could only be boys!  She's probably meeting up with some loser lout who drives a fluorescent Ute and hoons up and down the Strand, I mused.

Shazza leaned in closely and whispered in a discreet manner,

“She has been going to rehearsals for her high school’s annual musical! I told her she wasn’t allowed to be in it this year because she’s in grade twelve but she went behind my back. Not only that, she somehow managed to get a lead role and now it’s too late for her to pull out without letting the whole production team down.”

I stared at Shazza with a mixture of intense jealousy, resentment and a sense of thespian outrage.

“So what’s the musical then?” I sniffed enviously.

“That’s not the point, Pinky! She’s been lying to me!”

“Lying, Schmying! you big spoilsport!” I snapped. “What’s the musical?”

“Oliver Twist.”

“So she is playing Nancy?” I demanded deferentially.

“Yeah, I think that’s what she said.”

“You should be thankful she has the initiative to go and follow her dreams. This is a fantastic opportunity. She’s a super smart kid, I’m sure she’ll keep her marks up to scratch! Stop trying to make her someone she's not!” I blurted out a bit too passionately for the conservative time of morning.

Do you see what this scenario reveals?

Pinky reliving lost aspirations and pipedreams? No.

Pinky revealing why she has failed as a mother? Yes.

Too much permissiveness. Too many situations where an indulgent and liberal minded Pinky gave way to outright deceit in the name of creative exploration.

Oh well... it’s too late for me now, but I like to think, partly because of my rant, Shazza relented and her resourceful and inspired daughter was permitted to indulge in her artistic pursuits. (Fancy taking Pinky's advice!)

Kyles, Lee-lee, Emmsie and I went to watch Shazza’s daughter perform last night at the theatre. 

She was stunning. 

If she was my daughter I would have bawled my eyes out with pride. 

But the best part was when, in character as Nancy, she Oom Pah Pahed her way up onto a table and sang her heart out… 

just like her Mum, Shazza does every time she has one drink too many!

Poem for Teachers- about Writing Reports

“Worst report I ever saw,

You’ve failed both Maths and Science, you’re

a lazy girl Pinky!” my mother shouted.

“It’s not my fault,” sour Pinky pouted

back at her mother whilst watching TV.

“It’s those stupid teachers! Don’t blame me!”

“She should try harder! Not up to par!

If Pinky tried she could go far!”

continued Mum as she read my report.

“Maybe I just need parental support…”

My mother exploded, “You silly twit!

You’ve had plenty of that, you just don’t give a sh#t!”

Many years passed and Pinky soon learned

it wouldn’t be long before the tide turned.

Her own kids would bring home a pitiful letter

reporting how they could also do so much better.

“Hagar’s not reaching his true potential.

His effort has been almost inconsequential.

If only he wasn’t so strongly attracted

To exotic things that make him distracted.”

“Padraic’s attendance has been quite appalling,

and the office ladies are sick of calling

to ask you why he's not at school,

and you make excuses like a foolto explain away his conspicuous absconding,

we are sick and tired of this corresponding

with a mother that seems to not have a clue

where her son is and what he should do.

His schoolwork seems quite vegetative

Except for his artwork, which is quite creative…”

So now my friends the worm has turned.

And it’s Pinky’s students who should be concerned.

But teachers now are so regulated

It makes our writing constipated.

When writing ‘bout our studious minions,

Teachers must hold back opinions.

We may not mention aberrations

merely state kids don’t meet 'expectations'.

We cannot say, “The boy is rude.”

It's not allowed to ever allude

To any particular bad behaviour,

and the comment bank becomes our saviour.

And now our remarks sound quite robotic

Verging on the idiotic.

I long to write what I really think

But I’d probably stir up a bit of a stink.

“Your son displays no dedication

What he really needs is medication!”

Teenagers Behaving Badly Part 12- I See Dumb People

                         
I’ve been trying to work out how I would categorise my blog for when Oprah Winfrey comes knocking on my door asking me to come and talk about my life on her television show. She still has a show doesn’t she? If not I’ve been wasting my bloody time following her on Twitter…

Is Pinky Poinker an ‘Informative’ blog covering history or current events or even how to cook cupcakes or make slippers from duct tape? I can easily vouch for the fact that there is nothing anyone could possibly learn from any of my posts, except perhaps that the contraceptive pill was invented for a very sound and prudent reason. 

                                 

Could it be a ‘Creative Rant’ type of blog releasing my frustrations with the world in an amusing and entertaining manner? Not really… I have a Teachers' Registration Board, a bowdlerising father and a suppression order from my kids which all serve the purpose of gagging me from saying what I really want to say.

No. I feel that Pinky Poinker’s blog is more of a ‘Cultural Introspectives’ genre.

“Oh come on, Pinky!” I can hear you moaning into your Sauvignon Blanc. “Get off your high horse and stop being a wanker.”

But before you stop reading, think about it... Along with all my incessant whinging about my five teenage kids, I usually compliment their outrageous crimes with an equally appalling tale from my own nefarious youth. 

I write this way in the hope of inspiring improved global relations between other parents and their pimply offspring.

Perhaps the ugly confessions from my own despicable and shady past are merely an altruistic action aimed at posing the confronting concept that we were just as bad as they are? Still not buying it?

My friends… I was- sadly- just as wicked as my own children have turned out to be but, and it’s a big but, I wasn’t as dumb.

I knew how to cover my tracks whereas Abbott, Costello and the Three Stooges leave such blatant clues I feel like I’m on the set of Scooby Doo. 

                                 

I seem to always catch them in the act which makes me wonder if I’m only aware of what’s floating on the surface. Are they really dumb or just pretending and merely throwing red herrings in my self-congatulatory face? 

Am I the dumb one?

Carlo Maria Cipolla, a famous historian, is renowned for his essays about human dumbness. The following are Cipolla's five fundamental laws of dumbness:

1. Always and inevitably each of us underestimates the number of dumb individuals in circulation. (So it would be possible for a mother to give birth to five dumb people in one family… I’ve often wondered.)

2. The probability that a given person is dumb is independent of any other characteristic possessed by that person. (So even if they played State Representative basketball, achieved an OP 4, or won a State Award in Playwriting they could still be dumb people.)

3. A person is dumb if they cause damage to another person or group of people without experiencing personal gain, or even worse causing damage to themselves in the process. 

(Hmmm…. I’m thinking about two written off cars right now.)



4. Non-dumb people always underestimate the harmful potential of dumb people; they constantly forget that dealing with or associating with dumb individuals invariably constitutes a costly error. 

(You can say that again. If I had a dollar for every replaced item that was carelessly lost or destroyed by my suspected 'dumb people' over the last twenty years I’d be chartering a yacht and docking at St. Tropez instead of scanning my shopper dockets every week.)

5. A dumb person is the most dangerous type of person there is. 

(What the hell does that mean? Come to think of it, Jonah once left a soft drink can in the freezer which exploded when I opened the door missing my head by a centimetre.)

Now I get it! My dumb people are trying to kill me!

Pinky and the family curse.

                Jonah- the 'good-looking' one according to my Cougar friends.

I don’t write much about my twenty-two year old son Jonah; this has something to do with the fact that he has threatened to sue the crap out of me if I so much as pen one word in regards to his activities and as he is close to completing his law degree -and I don’t want to lose the house- I usually refrain.

However, I heard from Jonah’s father on Thursday night that he had been involved in a car accident in the big smoke where he is attending university. It was only a wee bingle but Jonah was at fault and like all the Poinker children, he doesn’t have any insurance. “Lenny”, Jonah’s car copped the worst of it but thankfully it’s still driveable.

I phoned him this morning in order to glean more information.

“What sort of car was it that you ran into, Jonah? Was it an old one?” I ventured hopefully.

“Ah no Mum, it was an new Audi.” I could see the hairs stand up on the back of Scotto’s neck when I repeated in a dismayed squeal, ‘An Audi!’.

Thaddeus caused an accident a couple of years ago damaging his car, Hagar and Padraic both devastatingly wrote their cars off and now Jonah has finally succumbed to the family automobile curse.

Lulu at least is safe. She already smashed up the family four wheel drive when she was about four years old.

We had just returned from dropping her brothers to school when Lulu resolved to chuck a full-blown wobbly and stubbornly refused to get out of the car. After ten minutes of listening to her screaming at me and humourlessly watching her thrash around in the back seat, I lost my patience.

“Right! You can stay in the car then you naughty little girl!” I sternly announced.

I walked inside the house planning on giving her a five minute timeout when suddenly I heard her screaming.

Rushing outside I was horrified to witness the truck rolling slowly backwards out of the garage down the slightly sloped driveway. Paralysed with fear, I was certain the brick garden edging would bring it to a standstill but instead it trundled right over the bricks. 

 Gaining momentum the monster truck bowled over a well-established palm tree while continuing to head towards the gully separating our house and the Newmans’ next door.

All the time I could see little Lulu’s terrified face pressed up against the window. As if in slow motion it barrelled backwards down the six foot gully where it finally came to rest. Flying to the truck and opening the door I grabbed my precious, little stunt driver and thanked God she was perfectly fine.

Much to the entertainment of the block of units next door, the four wheel drive had to be extricated from the gully via a crane and although the damage to the vehicle was minimal, Pinky’s opinion of herself as a responsible, careful mother was permanently damaged. 

I’d broken one of the Golden Rules of child-rearing, Never leave a child alone in a car!

My own record as a driver is pretty spotless (despite what other lying folk may tell you) except for one accident when someone ran into the back of my Volvo. (Yes…stop laughing okay. So Pinky used to be a Volvo driver… get over it!)

I had seven year old Thaddeus and baby Lulu in the car with me at the time. Thaddeus was taken to hospital in the back of an ambulance as a precaution because he'd hit his forehead on the dashboard. He seemed fine but as soon as they put a neck brace on him he went into shock out of sheer fear. Poor little bloke.

“I had a bit of a rear-ender! You’ll have to come and get the car.” I hurriedly informed my then husband on the phone. 

He was expecting a little ding in the bumper bar but this is what he found when he arrived at the scene. 

It was a write off… we don’t do things by half in the Poinker family.

Pinky's Special Poem for the Mothers of Teenage Daughters

Lulu and Pinky back when Lulu still liked Pinky.

                       



“That’s not a skirt, it’s a handkerchief and

that top you’re wearing is beyond belief!”

yelped Pinky as her daughter walked off,

tossing her hair and turning to scoff

at an out-dated mother she’d grown to hate.

“Don’t worry Mum I won’t be late.

Don’t wait up, I’m sixteen now!

… she’ll be asleep by ten, the stupid cow…,”

muttered the daughter so Mum wouldn’t hear.

Through the blinds did Pinky peer

to catch a glimpse of her baby daughter, 

climbing into a car with someone who oughta

not have a licence by the look of their parking.

They hit the wheelie bin and the dogs are barking.

Off they drive down the empty street. 

Pinky sighs and picks from her feet

the bindis she stood on as she ran outside, 

to wave goodbye to her oh so snide

daughter who’s got better fish to fry,

than her stupid mother with the tears in her eyes.

Pinky goes back, sits with a wine

and picks up an album from a happier time

when her daughter was two and cuddling her Mummy.

… Six months old and suckling a dummy.

Her first day of school with the cheeky grin…

and the cross country race Pinky knew she’d win.

Why have things changed over the years?

Now she only wants to mix with her peers,

thought Pinky, wiping a tear from the page.

Maybe it’s me? Maybe it’s her age?

Pinky dials the phone with depressed emotion

and calls her own Mum in familial devotion.

“What’s happening Mum?” she cries to the grand dame.

Who wisely replies, “Don’t worry Pinky… you were exactly the same. 

Teenage years never go without a hitch,

Believe me Pinky, you were a right little b#tch."