My Husband's Mistress.

                                                  

The alarm bells rang with piercing disharmony last Thursday evening as we sat on the couch together watching the telly.

Scotto's phone rang. He looked at the number and stood up nervously.

“I’ll take this outside,” he said quickly, wearing a guilt-ridden expression. “I don’t want to interrupt you watching Masterchef.”

The fact he wanted to slink out to the garage to take this phone call was fishy to begin with, but Scotto knows I hate Masterchef with a vengeance and only watch it because there’s nothing else on and I like to ridicule the fancy food which I could never cook.

I waited, seething with jealous suspicion.

Ten minutes later, I crept to the garage door. Just as I pushed the door open I heard his cruel laugh.

“Well the wife’s just informed me she’s going away with her girlfriends this weekend so I’ll drop by on Saturday,” he snickered.

His words sliced through my body in a shock wave effect and I silently shuffled away like a kicked puppy.

“I should have been more alert to the earlier signs,” I thought in agony later, as I lay on my bed staring at the black ceiling. “Why was I so blind? Was it just denial?”
I recalled our trip to the shops last weekend. Her name kept coming up in the conversation. No matter how many times I tried to change the subject, he persisted in bringing up her maddening name over and over. 

It was almost as though he was a man obsessed.

Then there was the inexplicable, but familiar scent I’d smell wafting around his person when he arrived home (late) from work.

The receipt I picked up from the floor last week was surely a sign I’d dismissed too easily. I noticed the large sum… a figure in the hundreds. He snatched it from my hand before I could see where it was from and urgently stuffed it in his pocket.

“What was that?” I enquired, innocently.

“Nothing,” he snarled cagily, turning away from me to avoid my plaintive gaze.

So… after all of these harbingers of marital doom, like any dedicated psychopath would do, I set a clever trap. 

Instead of going for my walk at 5:00pm as is my usual routine, I sat on the couch waiting for my treacherous husband to come home in order to spring the rat by surprise.

Hearing the crunch of tyres in the driveway I stalked out bravely to confront him once and for all… and there she was... my arch nemesis, standing in the garage in all her steely glory.

She taunted me; bejewelled and adorned with new expensive trinkets, as my husband proudly gazed down on his adored beloved mistress.

Newly recoloured wheels, red highlighted front lips and side skirts, coloured wheel nuts and brand new personalised plates.

Then, suddenly the dawn of realisation settled around me like the comforting, luxurious, expensive velour car seat covers in my husband’s Hyundai Veloster Turbo.

My husband doesn’t love his car more than he loves me!

My husband is Batman!!!

Happy Wedding Anniversary Husband xx

Is your partner obsessed with anything?

Linked with Kelly at A Life Less Frantic. Maxabella Loves
Life Love and Hiccups and Sonia Styling for the Weekend Rewind!

Ermahgerd! I'm on Mrs Woog!

                           Pinky and Kaz (Worse selfie ever taken according to Kaz.)

I was champing at the bit in excitement last Monday when I received an email from one of Australia’s top bloggers, the hugely popular Mrs Woog, informing me that one of my posts was to be published on her blog the following Sunday.

I was so thrilled I didn’t tell anyone in case I jinxed it.

I was so overwrought with titillated anticipation that when I reread my submitted post for the nine hundred and seventeeth time and noticed an alarming and conspicuous spelling mistake, I was too scared to email Mrs Woog and ask her if she could please correct it for me in case she decided I should be put in the too hard basket and cancel the whole shebang.

Here is the link to click on… Woogsworld

I was over at Magnetic Island with the inimitable Buzz Club all weekend and forced all the girls to check out my guest post on their phones.

“I’m going to be FAMOUS!” I shrilled.

“But hang on Pinky,” cautioned Kaz, as she screwed her nose up at the screen. 

“This post is by someone called Pinky POINTER. You’re Pinky Poinker with a "k" aren’t you?”

I snatched the phone from her hand and stared at it in dismay. The story of my life flashing up in my face; the countless disappointments of people getting my name wrong, the forgotten invitations, the bittersweet, successive runner-up ribbons and participation awards I've received over the last few decades.

Mrs Woog, my idol, had called me Pinky Pointer.

“Poinker is a stupid name anyway, Pinky!” scowled Kaz. “You do realise ‘Poinker’ means ‘dickhead’ in Russian.”

                                    My Russian translator, Kaz.
Normally, I would pay no heed to any of the rubbish that comes out of Kaz’s mouth, but rumour has it, she’s part of the Croatian Mafia so she’s probably correct in this instance.

Anyway… I DON’T CARE! 

If the Gorgeous Mrs Woog wants to call me Pinky Pointer she can…and that’s all there is to it.

Please leave a comment on Woogsworld to make me seem more popular than I am... even if it's just to point out my spelling mistake.

Linking up with Emily at Have a Laugh on me! for Laughlink!

The Peeved Pescetarian

Poinkers. Meet the Poinkers.
They're the modern Phone age family.
From a town in Queensland,
They're a page right out of history.

Let's ride with the family down the street.
Driving in the muggy, tropic's heat.

When you're with the Poinkers
you'll have a yabba dabba doo time.
A dabba doo time.
You'll have a gay old time.

Now that Pebbles Poinker has her licence she’s finally able to pay us back for all the lifts we gave her over the last seventeen years.

It was the beginning of Fred (Scotto) Poinker’s birthday celebrations yesterday so we grabbed a lift from her into the city. I sat white-knuckled, gripping the back seat as Pebbles took the corners like Michael Andretti careening through the chicanes at the Grand Prix. 

I tried to keep my mouth shut for a change not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I’d like to think she was only driving in such a fashion because she was in a hurry to get rid of us and go see her boyfriend, Bam Bam. But I suspect she always drives like a maniac what with only one point left on her licence and all.

The birthday boy’s first request was that we stop for a pre-lunch drink at the infamous Yacht Club. No sooner had I settled comfortably with a nice glass of wine when suddenly I appeared to be wearing it. 

Fred, with his appalling depth perception had knocked my entire glass all over my shirt.

As I squelched off to the ladies room to wash it out I heard one of the salty barflies quip, “Hope it’s not ya first date mate!” Raucous laughter ensued.

“It’s Fred’s birthday,” I thought gritting my teeth. “Don’t get cranky.”

Then it was time to move on to Fred’s restaurant of choice. Wilma’s shout of course as is the custom on birthdays.

None of those highfalutin eateries for Fred! 

No stupid restaurants that serve unrecognisable, delicate portions on a fancy breadboard for him. Oh no! 

Fred wanted real food.

Brontosaurus ribs were the order of the day. 

No matter that Wilma (Pinky) Poinker is a pescetarian… there’d surely be something on the menu for her.

It didn’t look anywhere as nice as what he was having when it turned up though.

Sometimes I question my own life choices.

I finished mine in three minutes and sat drooling like a dog as he finished his spicy ribs.

After lunch Fred wanted to go visit the Lodge. His day after all.

Wilma’s sabre-tooth lion skin purse was soon emptied whilst Fred ‘yabba dabba dooed’ all the way home after winning forty bucks on the pokies.

I think Fred had a good birthday. 

But I wonder if there are any pescetarian restaurants around here for when it’s my turn.

“Wilmaaaaaaa!!!!!”

I Love You Too

Scotto and I had a fight last night.

We were watching a movie and I wouldn't shut the hell up from the first scene until the last, about how categorically sh- sh-sh- shoddy it was.

I whinged, I carped, I nit-picked; I disparaged every line of dialogue until he snapped at me to go to sleep and keep my judgmental thoughts to myself because he was enjoying it.

But I wasn't tired... so I lay in bed beside him, flinching in pain at the movie's incompetency, quietly whispering, "Kill me now" at regular intervals and ruined any pleasure Scotto may have gleaned.

How do you know when a movie is not going to deliver what you hope it will?

Is it when you’re cringing under the blankets because of the over-the-top ‘theatre’ acting?

Could it be when an attempt at a 'comical' visual scene leaves you shaking your head from side to side and groaning in empathetic humiliation for the director?

Perhaps it’s when you hear the unrealistic scripted dialogue and suck your cold breath in through your pained teeth then sigh it all out in loud, unreserved disenchantment.

It might be when you can predict the entire plot and denouement ten minutes into the movie because the story line is a carbon copy of hundreds of other much more successfully executed romantic comedies.

One hundred and seven minutes of my life I will NEVER GET BACK!

Pinky's Love Advice for Valentine's Day!

                                               

Hubby Scotto went out on a date tonight with his 'bromance', O’Reilly (my teacher pal).

They went to see “Robocop” at the cinema, a movie which holds about as much interest for me as a romantic candlelit dinner with a tree or a staring contest with the wall, or a sweaty roll in the hay with Mr Bean.

“What do you see in those movies anyway?” I challenged Scotto last night.

An accomplished mimic, Scotto made guns with his fingers and began to make robotic, high tech shooting sounds.

I should have known.

I’m fairly certain Mrs O’Reilly feels the same way I do and is most likely doing the same thing as me; lazing around with her feet up enjoying the solitude.

Gosh… you can’t live in each other’s pockets when you're in a relationship can you?

Time spent apart pursuing interests your partner finds unbearably lacklustre, is the first of my tips for maintaining a long term relationship.

Here are some other more original pearls of wisdom (gleaned from my own mistakes) just in time for Valentine’s Day.

1. Don’t nag.

Instead of saying, “It’s rubbish collection night tonight, don’t forget to put the bins out again like you did last Tuesday,” in a monotonous, whiny drone, try to be more subtle.

For example, you could manipulate action via your sex kitten within, by saying, “Have you put the bins out yet, sexy boy? I’m ready for bed!” whilst suggestively playing with your hair and pouting like Lara Bingle.

Or you could play the martyr… “I’ll start dinner as soon as I’ve put the bins out, fed the animals, cut up the vegetables and taken the washing in, darling. Please don’t bother getting off the couch and interrupting your Facebook conversation.”

Or use subliminal scare tactics, “There are maggots the size of crows in the wheelie bin because someone forgot to put it out last week. I hope they don’t start crawling into the house. Maggots attract cockroaches don’t they?” (Scotto is terrified of cockroaches).

2. Don’t let yourself go.

Just because those elastic-waisted shorts are comfortable don’t think your husband wants to see you sitting around in them for forty-two days in a row teamed with a baggy t-shirt and no bra. If he wanted to see that he’d have a subscription to “National Geographic” or “Granny Does Porn” wouldn’t he?

3.  Keep the mystery in the relationship.

If you wake up in the morning and retreat to the ensuite and know you’re about to execute a superb rendition of Herb Alpert and his Tijuana Brass Band’s Spanish Flea, close the door.

                                            Herbie!

4. Don’t outwardly display jealousy.

For example; don’t have this conversation in the middle of a movie.

Pinky: “Did you know Michelle Pfieffer’s older than me? She looks fantastic for her age doesn’t she? She’s such a great role model for us oldies.”

Scotto: “Is she really?”

Pinky: “What do you mean? She looks fantastic or older than me?”

Long pause.

Scotto: “I don’t know.”

Pinky: “Actually, in certain lights she looks a bit jowly and dried out, don’t you think? She’s clearly had work done.”

Long pause.

Scotto: “I don’t know.”

Pinky: “Do you fancy her?”

Scotto (nervously): “She’s alright I suppose.”

Pinky: So you like Michelle Pfieffer then? How can you like her? She looks like a duck!”

All movies starring Michelle Pfieffer are from that moment on, black-banned from the house.

5.  Don’t forget to express affection every day.

“Hello my darling boy! I love you so much you smoochy, coochy, poopy-headed doo-doo! Come and give me a big kissy, cuddly pie my precious little baby.”

That’s me, greeting Pablo the Chihuahua when I get home from work, whilst Scotto touchingly shuffles in the shadows of the doorway watching on dejectedly.

Make sure you share the love around. It’s not all about the dog.

6. Treat him like a king.

When you’re cooking up a couple of steaks/enchiladas/chicken breasts, always serve him the biggest and choicest cut. If you happen to accidentally drop the best one on the floor, serve it to him anyway. He won’t know and he’ll appreciate the gesture more than you know.

7.  And finally my last piece of advice, whatever you do, under no circumstances, if you value your relationship, don’t ever, ever, ever…

Oh shite! Scotto’s back from his movie night already! Have to go! I missed him!

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone xx

Linking up with Grace at FYBF!

Pinky the Big Fat Cheat!

Way back in the Pleistocene era (when kids played with plasticine instead of IPods), my cupboards and bookcases were stuffed to overflowing with files, folders and yellowed photocopies.

Now I just have these… 

                         Note the one centre-front... very sad.

a congregation of mystery sticks containing God knows what.

Nestled in messy drawers and secreted in my handbag zip pockets along with runaway Nicorettes and Panadol tablets, my USB sticks have been silently procreating over the last nine years.

I’ve stored the contents of one memory stick onto a newer USB stick and the contents of that USB stick onto a third and so forth and so forth…

Whilst hopelessly scanning the contents of my little family of flash drives recently, I happened upon a file that brought a shameful grin to my sinful face.

Several years ago Scotto and I were addicted to nightly reruns of the U.S. quiz show, Jeopardy on cable TV.

We’d keep a point tally of our correctly answered questions but the problem was, Scotto has quite a vast knowledge of Pop Culture (having watched every episode of The Simpsons for the last twenty years) and the verbal response skills of a Ninja... so bad-sport Pinky usually lost the game by miles.

Fiercely competitive Pinky formulated a plan to bring the trivia-savvy Scotto to his knees. It was my Jeopardy Study Plan I found on my archaic USB stick; all the world capitals, a list of all the American Presidents, and similar tedious trifles.

Sadly, despite intensive swotting, my point score failed to improve UNTIL… one fortuitous day I stumbled across a site called J!Archives. 

By deviously searching the names of the contestants from the previous night’s episode I was suddenly and illegally in possession of the upcoming night’s quiz.

“I’m feeling a bit tired tonight… don’t think I’ll be very quick of the mark…” I lied through my teeth attempting to conceal my cocky confidence that evening as we prepared for our ‘friendly’ battle to the death.

“I have to hand it to you, Pinky,” raved an awestruck Scotto when the show finished after I’d thrashed him 78-nil, “You were FANTASTIC!”

“Thanks!” I beamed with feigned humility.

“Seriously Pinky!” he continued to gush. “I’m REALLY impressed! You knew EVERY SINGLE question!”

I sat penitently for about five minutes, a guilty ball of remorse swelling inside me until it suddenly exploded.

“I CHEATED!” I screamed. “I found the answers on the Internet! Are you happy? You’re still smarter than me!”

So anyway… what should I do with all these USB sticks?

Earrings perhaps?

I

The Seven Stages of Grief and Pinky's Porn Stars

                          Scotto and his first world problem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Introducing... "Racy Cup Day"-

Starring, in no particular order...

The demure "Cleo Sheffield"

The sensuous "Poppy Ivory"

The sassy "Sparky Disney"

The inventive "Sandy McGinn"

The luscious "BG Anzac"

The imaginative "Breakfast Greenslopes"

The insatiable "Blue River" 

The frisky "Rusty Queen"

The suave "Pablo Earle"

The desirable "Mr Max Kalangah!"

The cheeky "Kobi Woodwood"

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

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

Mr Cool, aka, "Turbo Casuarina"

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

"Raven Muzzle"

I know... small things amuse small minds.

Meet you back here tomorrow night!

Pinky and the Boys

                             'Creative' Scotto channelling Austin Powers

The winners of the Australian Writers’ Centre Best Blogs competition were announced yesterday and after annoying all of you to vote for me I feel it’s imperative to inform you that I didn’t win the People’s Choice Award. I didn’t even come close. The winner was a Real Estate blog which received a whopping 1468 votes. Maybe I was being a little optimistic! Thank you, my lovely, loyal friends for going out of your way to sift through all of those blogs to vote for me. Maybe I should have named my blog ‘Aardvark Pinky Poinker’.

I also nominated my post “Desecration of British Landmarks”, click …here, for the Most Humorous Post award but was just beaten to the finish line (not really but that’s how I console myself) by a gentleman called Ben Pobjie (who had won it the previous year as well) and I have put the link to his winning post at the end of this in case you would like to read it.

As you know, Scotto and I met online almost nine years ago back in the days when it wasn’t yet sociably acceptable. We had spoken for hours and hours on the telephone and had exchanged countless emails before we actually met. Click…here,  if you haven’t read the amusing story.

After two months of extensive telecommunication, the critical time had come to meet in person and my girlfriend Babette and I had flown down to Brisvegas and were staying at an apartment at Kangaroo Point. Scotto was to drive up from the Gold Coast to meet us for drinks and dinner. Scotto and I were on the telephone making the final arrangements when he startled me with this question.

“So Pinky, would you like me to show you my boys when I come up?”

There was a moment’s silence as I pondered this query.

That’s a bit forward, I thought. Who does this man think he is anyway? Why would I want to see his ‘boys’? What’s so special about them? Are they really big or something? Yuk! Or maybe they’re really small. Double Yuk! Perhaps they’re misshapen or really hairy? Maybe he can do tricks with them. Funny… I hadn’t noticed ‘Puppetry of the Penis’ on his dating site profile. He used the plural ‘boyS’ so at least he has two of them…

“Pinky!” Scotto interrupted my X-rated revelry. “I mean my cartoon characters… my boys!”

Aaaaah yes, I remembered. Scotto had revealed his predilection for cartooning in a few of our lengthy phone calls and I had gushed that I’d love to see the characters he’d created. He called them his ‘boys’.

In truth I was very excited to be finally meeting a man with a drop of creativity running through his veins. Let’s face it; they’re a bit hard to come by in North Queensland, home of Rugby League.

The cartoons are really good but they’ve been sitting collecting dust under our computer desk for years now. 

(You may be wondering what happened to the music clips I committed to embedding in each of my posts as a soundtrack. Well if you haven’t realised how flighty and fickle Pinky is by now then you deserve to wonder.) 

 I intend to occasionally (when it suits) include some of Scotto’s very clever cartoons on my posts and I hope you enjoy them.

This is the first and I believe it reflects our lifestyle perfectly.

Ben Pobjie winner of Most Humorous Post click...here

Introducing the (un)Wicked Stepfather.

Scotto photobombing Julia Gillard

                 

What sort of bloke would take on a divorced mother of five children under the age of fourteen? A very crazy one with a sense of adventure I’d say. 

Scotto’s first introduction to my rambunctious brood took place at a basketball stadium where Hagar was tearing up and down the court like Shane Heal in his hay day (bleached hair included). 

As a basketball fan and ex-player Scotto was thrilled at the fact that four out of my five kids were obsessively into the game. Many hours were spent bonding with the kids in the driveway as he tussled and hustled his way into damaging the already eroded cruciate ligament in his knee. 

Over the past eight years we have attended hundreds of the kids’ games, even travelling as far as Perth to watch Hagar play in the National Titles.

It hasn’t always been like a scene from the Brady Bunch though. My kids have some… how can I put it nicely… idiosyncrasies, that Scotto had to familiarise himself with. 

I recall early in the relationship an unconventional Thaddeus turned to me and with a dead pan demeanour asked,

“So Mum, have you told Scotto about the operation you had to remove your tail?” 

Why Thaddeus would say something so obscure I can’t tell you, but he did and the look that flashed across Scotto’s face was one of repulsion, shock and fear all rolled into one.

It must have been like moving in with the cast of Malcolm in the Middle for Scotto. On occasion we would return from a short shopping trip to find the three eldest boys unlawfully sitting on the roof throwing waterbombs down on the younger two frolicking in the garden below.

The first evening I left Scotto to babysit alone while I was doing a Uni exam I returned to find him and Thaddeus in the driveway waiting for me.

“Don’t panic,” he said anxiously, “She’s okay… but Lulu has hurt herself.”

“Head? Teeth?” I cried urgently, hoping he was going to say neither. 

It was her head. She’d been playing handball with Padraic on the back patio under Scotto’s watchful gaze and had run into a pole and cut her head. There was blood everywhere. 

We arrived at the doctors with a barefoot, bloodied Scotto (the psychopathic stepfather) carrying an iced up Lulu (who looked fairly relaxed in the circumstances). Two stitches later she was as right as rain but I don’t know what impression it made on the doctor.

Ten (and a half, so he reminds me) years younger than me, Scotto imparted a fresher and more youthful approach to parenting into our family compared to my jaded, grumpy, jaundiced outlook. 

He laughs a lot which put out the fire in many of the family squabbles. He’s been here for all the eighteenth and twenty-first birthdays; the awards nights, the plays, choirs, football games and all the other things parents do.

Thrust into the role of ‘step-father of teenagers’ at such a young age has had its frustrations. They steal his T shirts, socks and Bourbon for a start. They’re happy to take his money and eat the lunch he prepared for work the next day, but then roll their eyes at him if he gets cranky at them for leaving every light in the house on. 

One birthday Hagar generously bought Scotto a bottle of Midori. When Scotto took it out of its box a few weeks later for a wee tipple it was bone dry empty. Someone had clearly got to it before him. Nice.

Sometimes the old chestnut, “You’re not my father! You can’t tell me what to do!” rears its ugly head but that’s when I step in with an ineffectual, 

“Yes but I’m your bloody mother so you’ll do it anyway.”

Over the past eight and a half years the guilty thought has crossed my mind that perhaps I should have remained single and devoted every living moment to the kids; inhabiting a lonely martyr- like existence. 

Then I think about how very soon they will all be establishing their own families and fluttering forth from the nest on unsteady wings. 

Nah, now I get to spend the rest of my life happy.

Why Pinky isn't fussed on Bunnings

Scotto in the garage.

                           


I spent last night (a Friday night no less!) in church, as my class was presenting a dramatized version of the Stations of the Cross for their parents and any super keen parishioners who showed up. We had rehearsed in the morning with no major stuff ups and I was optimistic all would run smoothly. 

As the teacher it was my task to deliver the opening prayer and I forgot to take my reading glasses up to the lecturn with me. It was a lengthy and self-conscious skulk down to her handbag and back up again for Pinky. 

The kids stepped up to the mark though and apart from Jesus’ crown of thorns falling off during the crucifixion, it went without a hitch. In fact you might even say…we nailed it.

Saturday morning is my favourite time of the week. Unfortunately that blissful sleep in and undisturbed coffee in bed with the newspaper has been besmirched by the entrance into our lives of the baby Chihuahua, Pablo Escobark… Read more here

Waking up with a sharp-toothed Mexican rat chewing on my earlobe has become the standard and there is no more lying in or reading of newspapers. In fact our main priority this morning was to get up early anyway and go on a reconnaissance expedition to the Shangri-La of all home renovators, Bunnings. 

Paranoid about Pablo inadvertently getting out the back door and falling into the swimming pool and drowning, Scotto decided some pool-fence work was in order and guess who felt duty-bound to go with him to purchase the necessary materials. 

I feel at this point I must express my deep-seated aversion to that particular genre of retail outlet. Many jokes have been made about women dragging their long-suffering husbands around department stores and dress shops, but what about our side of the story? 

It’s not the concrete floors or the cheesy smell of fertilisers that put me off. It’s not even the flock of scavengers blocking the front door, who are only there for the cheap, two dollar sausage sizzle. I really don’t mind the sweaty, pongy blokes walking around in singlets with their tufts of grey underarm hair poking out either. 

The reason I hate going is because of Scotto (I had to write that in a small font so that he won’t notice his name if he looks over at my screen), however, because he was going for the sole purpose of safeguarding the well-being of my mutt I felt guiltily compelled to accompany him.

A few years ago I dug in my heels and stubbornly refused to enter the doors of the hardware store any more and would sit in the hot car panting like a dog waiting for him to return. My reasoning was that if Scotto was conscious of his overheating spouse in the sweltering temperature of a car in the North Queensland sun, he might hurry the f#*k up.

Scotto is quite the handyman and I love him for this quality. His ability to take an hour to purchase one screw however, is not so endearing. He will stand at the shelf comparing screw widths, lengths and then move on to hinges trying to check for the right fit and on and on and on and on. Call me unadventurous but I really don’t see the appeal.

Miraculously it didn’t take Scotto long to find the correct sized edging so we were in and out in ten minutes. Yay! 

Some stupid, clumsy twit carrying a whipper-snipper over his shoulder nearly knocked my effing eye out... but never mind.

You'd hope Pinky would get it right by the second wedding!!

                         
                            Poinker kids being silly!

Seventeen years after my first marriage I found myself gearing up in nuptial mode for the second and final time. Not desirous of any aggravation Scotto and I agreed on a garden wedding. There was to be a celebrant and no guests, (barring two witnesses) and my five kids aged from nine to sixteen. The kids would form the bridal party and we would all shimmy off to a fancy, celebratory lunch at a restaurant.Scotto sourced a celebrant by the name of Zephyr. She was the prototypical hippie, new-age, wedding celebrant and I’m not entirely convinced ‘Zephyr’ was her real name. 

At our first appointment we had to provide and fill in such an immense amount of paperwork that it instantly put me in a foul mood. 

It did nothing to rally my good spirits when Zephyr questioned my morality.

“So what is Thaddeus’s surname?” she queried.

“The same as mine,” I replied.

“And Jonah… what is his surname?” 

“The same as mine.” I answered warily.

“And Hagar?”

“The same as mine.” She was really starting to irritate me.

“What about Padraic?” Now she was just pushing her luck.

“Padraic and Lulu have the same surnames as ME!” I snapped nastily.

After that she addressed all her comments and questions to Scotto. I don’t think she liked me much after that either.

During the week before the wedding I tried on the dress I had bought for a sizeable amount of coinage. It looked like a piece of crap. The pale yellow colour of the over-priced atrocity reflected onto my face endowing me with an enchanting jaundiced hue. I was unable to wear a bra with it and ‘everything’ was pointing decidedly southwards. Another new dress was added to my ever increasing list of last minute things to do.

I’d purchased a sweet, white lace dress and silver shoes for Lulu and the four lads were to wear long black pants, long sleeved black shirts and white ties. I optimistically anticipated the colour scheme would look effective in the wedding photos. 

It was a convoluted ordeal sourcing four pairs of long black trousers. We had several pairs in assorted sizes already floating around the laundry and I coerced each boy to try a pair on to see how many I needed to buy. 

Somehow this exercise became a chaotic mess and on the afternoon before the big day, whilst doing a final check, it became chillingly apparent that Hagar had no trousers. 

Stressed out to the max and swearing like a sailor, I raced him up to the shopping centre before it closed and purchased him a new pair.

Now there were categorically and without a shred of a doubt, four pairs of black pants. 

Halleluliah! I could relax!

The morning arrived. Brilliant winter sunshine streamed through my bedroom window and I just knew it was going to be an amazing day.

“Now I don’t want you to panic,” cautioned a nervous-looking Scotto slinking into the bedroom as I was applying the poly filler to my face, “but it seems that Jonah has no trousers.”

I went mental. 

“How the f*#k can he not have trousers. I saw four pairs all together with my own eyes last night.”

Scotto held up a pair of black trousers that would have been a perfect on a seven year old midget. 

Don’t f#*king tell me I counted and validated those miniscule pants last night? I thought feverishly.

“Fine then! He can wear his f#*king jeans!” I screamed in dying defeat.

Five minutes later Jonah lethargically called out that he’d found his proper pair scrunched up in the corner of his bedroom.

I swear my kids must actually get pleasure from watching their mother acting like a demented, screeching shrew.