Pinky's Book Link

Tuesday, November 18, 2014

How to Make a Volcano



My class of nine year old cherubics have been studying a science unit on land forms this term and my Grade Four colleagues decided it would be a good idea to have the students make paper mache volcanoes. The idea was to invite parents in to watch a dramatic eruption of bi-carbonate of soda and red-tinged vinegar spew forth from the magnificent creations.

I was understandably hesitant but eventually buckled under peer pressure from the other bossy teachers.

Of course I researched the process on Google and was unimpressed with the spectacular mess I could see would inevitably be part of this folly.

I'd like to forewarn and forearm anyone who may be considering embarking on such a senseless venture.


Step 1

Collect as many empty cling wrap and Alfoil cylinders you can. They can be cut in three and blu-tacked onto paper plates as above. Do not be foolish enough to bring empty toilet rolls into the classroom. The children will react with hysteria and spend all their time examining the rolls for residual poo. If you are somehow able to reassure the kids the toilet rolls were nuked in a microwave to get rid of germs, your own children will refuse to ever use the microwave again and you'll have to buy a new one.


If you run out of cling wrap rolls because, even though you're a primary school teacher you can't work out what twenty-six divided by three is, then you can always make cylinders out of cardboard.



Always use a flour based glue for the paper mache because when someone becomes over excited and flaps a glue-sodden hand in the air causing Clag-based glue to spray in your eyes it can really sting. 

Believe me because I know.


Flour and Water Glue

Don't be a know-it-all. Always do your research. Just because you assume one cup of flour in 10 litres of water will make glue doesn't mean it does. It will just make slightly cloudy water. It's one cup of flour to one cup of water. Read the instructions readily available on the Internet.

Ensure you carry the glue to the various tables. If you let one of your minions do it they'll most definitely spill it, not tell you about it in their anticipatory flurry and you'll slip over on it. 

You'll jar your neck. It won't be bad enough to warrant worker's compensation but just bad enough to give you a stiff, whip-lashed neck for a week.



Step 2

Rip up the newspaper before the boys can get to it and start chortling over the underwear advertisements. Don't wipe your hands on your face afterwards or you'll wind up doing your grocery shopping that afternoon looking like a chimney sweep.


What do you call a group of volcanoes?


Step 3- Painting the volcano

When you get to the painting stage only put out red and brown paint. If you give them a choice the girls will all paint their volcanoes like a rainbow and add a plethora of jaunty unicorns grazing on its psychedelic slopes. It will take away the authenticity of the project.


An 'Irritation of Volcanoes'?

Finally, whatever you do don't make the volcanoes two weeks ahead of when you actually need them. You'll have to store them on the floor and the largest boy in your class; the one with precocious growth development, the one who looks like he might need to shave in the morning, will tumble over on top of at least six of the hideous things. There'll be rabid histrionics in the classroom and you'll have to start the whole bloody process again.

Next week! How to make a working simulation of the Hadron Collider!

(Just joking).


What's your best craft project story?

Linking up with Trish from My Little Drummer Boys! My Little Drummer Boys

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Teach your sons to cook, woman!



With the final two of my four sons recently moved out of home, I find myself thinking about house fires a lot and whether or not my boys have planned an emergency exit in the dead of night from their tinder wood lodgings. 


I worry about a lot of things really... but two dangers which hadn’t occurred to me were starvation and accidental poisoning.

Padraic, my nineteen year old who’s moved into a rundown death trap with three of his mates, was over for dinner on Monday night.

“Can you put some spag bol into a container for me to take home please Mamma Bear?”

“Sure, Padraic,” I answered. “How’s the money situation going?” 

Sometimes I wonder how he’s existing living out of home on a first year apprentice wage.

“I have eight bucks until I get paid on Thursday,” he sighed with a small degree of pathos added.
As I said, it was only Monday.
I ferreted around the kitchen, packing up various items of foodstuffs for him. I didn't want to hand out money to him. 

That’s no way to teach him to budget is it?

“Can I have a toilet roll?” he asked as we sashayed past the bathroom.

“Here you go,” I said, plonking toilet rolls into his burdened down arms. “Take three, sir.”

“Can I have four please, Mamma Bear?”
I fretted about him all night as I tossed and turned in bed.

On Tuesday after work, I called into the supermarket. Things were clearly desperate on Bachelor Avenue. I loaded up the trolley with fruit, two minute noodles, bread, milk, cereal, ham, cheese, soap and toothpaste and paid a surprise visit on 'Ric, Neil, Mike and Adrian at Codrington Road, Bristol'.



The Young Ones


When I arrived, Padraic and his mate Ben, were hefting a queen sized plastic clad mattress and bed frame into Padraic’s bedroom.

“Where did that come from?” I asked.

“A-Mart! Only cost me $350 Mamma Bear!”

Oh, I thought. That explains why he has no money for food. His priorities lean more towards enticing the ladies into his den of iniquity rather than spending his cash on the essentials of life… like food and toot paper.
On Thursday night (payday), I received a call from Padraic requesting advice on how to cook a curry. He’d bought a tray of stir fry beef strips and a curry kit I’d recommended (which is a cinch to cook if you follow the simple instructions).


Very authentic curry!

Padraic and his housemates were stuck on step one.


“Mamma Bear! I need to know how to brown the meat. Do I cook the black thing with the meat?”

What black thing? I thought.

“You know Mamma Bear… the black pouch under the meat on the tray.”

“NO!!!” I screamed down the phone. “That’s just the pad to soak up the blood! Why the hell would you cook that, Padraic? It’s plastic! You’d poison yourselves!”


“I thought it was sauce, Mamma Bear.”



Anyway, he managed to cook a meal for himself and his housemates and I don’t think anyone was hospitalised as a result.

Text message from baby son.

I, on the other hand, had to take a tranquiliser and stiff drink or two to calm myself down.


I just hope to hell those boys don’t have a gas stove because I really don’t want to know about it if they do.


Have you taught your kids how to cook?
Has Pinky failed as a mother?

Monday, November 10, 2014

Bluetooth Blues

Cornelia Frances

I was flying along the motorway this morning with my greying locks drying in the blast of the air con, when my karaoke accompaniment to the Eagles’ Hotel California on the radio was suddenly interrupted by the overbearing crone who lives in my dashboard.

CLICK “You’ve have a text message from… A. Scotto. Hubby,” she interjected in her patronising tone.

“Do you want to read it? Or ignore it?”

I really can’t stand the woman in my Blue Tooth. She sounds like a toffee-nosed mixture of Cornelia Frances and Penelope Keith.


Penelope Keith

Not that I have anything against Penelope and Cornelia. In fact for a long time I thought they were the same person. But I don’t like the sound of the bossy, stuck up piece of work who lives in my dashboard.

Scotto’s Bluetooth lady is much more sultry; she has a sexy, lilting Caribbean accent. I imagine her to look like a Bond girl or something. In fact sometimes I feel a bit jealous when I hear her flirting with him in the car.

“Read it!” I yelled, as a suicidal motorbike overtook me on the left and I very nearly accidentally took him out.

I was shocked. Normally the bia-tch makes me say “Read it!” at least five fudging times before she stops pretending not to understand my Aussie accent.

She read the message, CLICK “Do you need your school laptop?”

“Fudge!” I shrieked. I never take my laptop home because if I do I always forget to bring it back to school… like I just did today. I can’t survive a school day without my laptop. It has EVERYTHING on it.

CLICK “Do you want to reply or are you done?” she asked with her imaginary eyebrow arched in contempt.



“Reply!” I shouted.

CLICK “What is your message?” she asked in an almost pleasant tone.

“If it’s not too much trouble could you please drop it out to the school?” I said which extreme care and clarity in my articulation. 

It was a bit of a hike out into Woop Woop land for Scotto but I was desperate. All my reports and gradings were on the laptop.

Penelope/Cornelia repeated my message perfectly. 

I was in shock. This had never happened before. It was unprecedented. I’d never gone this far in a conversation with Penelope/Cornelia before. Usually I lose my temper with having to repeat things over and over and scream obscenities at her until she hangs up on me.

CLICK “Do you want to send it or change it?”

I smiled at the dashboard. Maybe she wasn’t such a vicious, snotty bitch after all.

“Send,” I chirruped gaily.

There was a pause.

CLICK “I’m sorry, did you say send or change it?”

I squinted suspiciously at the panel. “Send!” I repeated in a slightly louder voice.

CLICK “I’m sorry, did you say send or change?”

I tried it in a more natural voice.

“Send,” I stated, with a pinch of carefree nonchalance.

CLICK “I’m sorry, did you say send or change it?”

You’re not sorry you sly old bat, I thought. I detected a supercilious attitude in her tone this time.

“SEND!” I screamed one more time.

There was a pause and for a few seconds I suspected I might have broken it.

CLICK “I’m sorry, did you say send or change?” the voice repeated again.

“Fudge you! You stupid, moronic piece of bullsh$t! I said SEND! SEND! SEND! SEND! Are you an idiot or just pretending to be stupid? FUDGE OFF!”

CLICK “I’m sorry, did you say send or change?”

I didn’t make a peep; just glowered at the console. I heard her gently hang up on me.



When I arrived at school I rang Scotto ‘old school’ style and he obligingly brought out my laptop so all ended well.



But I’m going to get that bia-tch back one day.

How do you feel about Bluetooth?

Linking up with Jess at www.essentiallyjess.com for #IBOT

Sunday, November 9, 2014

Pinky's Report Card



It’s school reports time again, hip hip hooray! Don’t worry though… I have it all in hand. I only have twenty-six to write this year instead of the outrageously unworkable twenty-seven I had to write last year.

I had it all worked out for this weekend. I was intending to party hard on Saturday and clean the entire bottom level of the house and start on my report writing on Sunday.

I definitely partied hard on Saturday; lunch at the Leagues Club with the other golf widows, Kyles and Rona at 12:30 sharp, followed by drinks in the afternoon for my sister Sam’s birthday. 


I know it sounds like quite a lot of drinking but this old chook knows how to pace herself. I’m a child of the Eighties. I have a liver of stainless steel.

Anyway… It seems I must have caught a bug or eaten a bad prawn because I woke up this morning with a pulsating headache and feeling as though a cockatoo had done its business in my mouth. Every time I stood up I’d be gripped by a wave of nausea and feel as if I was about to faint. My fox terrier kept sidling up to me on the couch and sniffing around my heart area.

“I think the dog is trying to tell me I’m about to die,” I bleated to Scotto. He was living through his own personal self-inflicted hell and barely grunted in response.

All this meant I was unable to clean anything at all except the mystery drawer under the goldfish area. We haven’t had a goldfish for at least eight years but a goldfish once lived there so we still call it the goldfish area.

Mystery Drawer


The main reason I so urgently needed to clean out the mystery drawer is because I also needed to clean out the ‘plastic container’ drawer underneath as this little poopette...

Hagar at 4... how bloody cute.

...is moving out with his delightful girlfriend, Meggles on Tuesday and I wanted her to be able to find all her Tupperware.

Yes, you heard correctly. Hagar, my third son is moving out, close on the tail of his younger brother, Padraic. Now there will only be one little Poinker left in the Poinker mansion.

I will no longer have anything to write about so you can expect a lot more posts about Chihuahuas and Miniature Fox Terriers.

And I achieved nothing in the report writing department except this:

Pinky is an easily distracted and restless student who doesn't seem to be capable of applying herself. Her organisational skills need improvement and she is still learning to use self-control in the classroom. She is a popular student in her own mind but irritates others at times with constant chatting and leaving her seat. Pinky’s sense of humour lacks originality and it is hoped she will grow in maturity and try harder next year. I wish Pinky a happy Christmas holiday period and good luck in 2015.




Do you have a mystery drawer?

Monday, November 3, 2014

Pinky's Melbourne Cup Day Tip!

Mmmm... Pinky's Spaghetti!


“Why are they talking like that? Like… in those high voices?” asked Lulu as she sat slurping up her spaghetti whilst sitting on the floor in the lounge room tonight. 


We were watching some jockeys on the telly talking about the Melbourne Cup, which takes place tomorrow (in case you’ve been hiding under a rock or you don't live in Australia).

“They have high voices because they’re small and they have small vocal cords,” I answered knowledgeably. “They have small everything.”

Scotto sniggered.

“What?” I stared at him.

“I meant hands!” said Scotto. “They have small hands. Maybe they have helium balloons off stage they keep sucking on.”

This is very politically incorrect I know. My friend Kyles will be up in arms about this post. 

It’s... ‘shortist’.

Look… I’m not criticising small people. My uncle was a jockey. My mother’s side of the family are all notoriously under five footers. There’s a famous family story about my 'four foot eleven' Granddad Jo, slipping into a sideshow at the local agricultural show in the fifties and all the ‘pygmies’ (gawd knows what appallingly politically incorrect sideshows they had going on then) halting their act to stop and stare at him, gawking at his unusual lack of height. They aggressively pointed their spears at him and began to yell in hysterical, accusatory tones… they had to bustle him out, so the story goes.

I’m a good five foot six inches tall, at least five inches on my diminutive mother... and my own kids eclipsed me in the height stakes years ago. 

What the hell’s happening? Each generation is overtaking the last. And it’s not a new thing. Try going into a house made in the seventeenth century. You’ll scone yourself on the door frames. The beds were so short you’d have to saw off your feet to get a cramp-free night’s sleep.

I mean… just how tall is the human race going to get?

And who will be the jockeys then?

They’ll have to invent really big horses or something.

My tip for the Melbourne Cup?

Mutual Regard!

Protectionist

What's your tip?

Sunday, November 2, 2014

Am I a Vain, Narcissistic Blogger?



When I look back at some of my posts over the last (almost) two years I wonder what opinion you've all formed of me.

Vain? Self-promoting and big-headed? 

After all, almost every post features a photograph of Pinky in some form or another; my grinning dial Photoshopped onto someone else's body by my ultra clever husband, Scotto.


Barbie Pinky


Devil Pinky


Leprechaun Pinky


Pinkerella


X-Rated Pinky


Pamela Pinky

Pinky of the Damned

Pinky McGonagall

Ellen Pinky

Catwoman Pinky


But along with those glamorous Photoshops are some fairly unflattering ones.



Humpty Pinky

South Park Pinky

Buried Alive Pinky


Dame Pinky

Wilma Pinky



Pinky and Kel

Cranky Pinky

Pablo Pinky


Porky Pinky


Pinknocchio

Don Draper's Bride- Pinky

If you're bored and you'd like to see a silly lip-sync video Scotto and Pinky made about Jon Hamm aka Don Draper click  here if you dare!

Santa Pinky



Fairy Godmother Pinky


Aged Pinky


How Pinky's students see her!

Really Old Pinky.
Whistler's Mother Pinky





These are just a few of Scotto's Photoshops and if you look closely most of them have used the same one or two photos.

 I'm sure you'll agree... the man needs a round of applause.



So... am I a narcissist or just a crazy nutcase?

Saturday, November 1, 2014

Halloween or Hallowwhine?



The standard horde of vampires, werewolves, ghosts and ghouls descended on Poinkerville last night scaring the dogs shiteless and providing a welcome interruption to our usual Friday night feast of garbage reality twat on the telly.

I had the lollies prepared already. 

Halloween lollies!

I’m not one of those whiny, whingey, pain in the arse people who say, “Oh, but it’s an American thing! Why should we celebrate it?”

Seriously, who gives a rat’s bum if it’s an American tradition? Cute kids come to your door and you hand out a few cheap lollipops. If you can’t get with it just go out or put a sign on your door and shut the hell up.

My kids never did it because I don’t think it had become the done thing back then but if that’s the way the world’s going I think I can live with it. I think there are far worse things to get irate about, don’t you? At least it gives us a short reprieve from the Christmas stuff coming out in October!

People are too ready to complain these days.

One thing I will say, is that every single kid who knocked on our door was exceptionally polite and well spoken. One of the boys even shook Scotto’s hand after he’d had a bit of a chat about photography with him after admiring Scotto’s camera.

“It’s not about how expensive the camera is,” quipped Yoda Scotto. “It’s about the person behind it.”

There was only one awkward moment when I brazenly asked one young boy what he’d do if I opted for trick instead of treat.

“Come back and kill you,” he replied with a convincing snarl.

I gave him an extra chocolate frog just in case his name was Jason.

We asked permission from the accompanying parents if I could publish the photos on my blog and they were all quite agreeable.

No one asked me what my blog was.

Just saying…

Anyway, here are the photos and remember… however grumpy you think Pinky is, I would never begrudge kids a bit of fun.














In fact next year we might dress the dogs up and take them trick or treating! I wonder if they sell Cujo costumes on eBay?

And where were all my kids? Over on Magnetic Island at the Full Moon party imbibing in lollies of a liquid kind of course.

Sigh.

Thursday, October 30, 2014

Feed the Man Meat!



Padraic, my nineteen year old boy who recently moved into a bachelor pad with some mates was over on Tuesday with one of his housies. He was wearing the glow in the dark contact lenses he’s planning on wearing to the Full Moon party he’s going to on Friday night.

“You look weird Padraic!” I snapped. “And you’re too skinny!” I added channelling Marie Barone. “Come home tomorrow night for dinner. I’ll cook your favourite…tacos with the works.”

“Can I come too?” asked Brandon, his bulky, professional footy- playing mate.

“Of course you can Brandon,” I replied with a nervous swallow wondering how much this boy would need to fill him up. Several kilograms of mince would be required, surely.

I read somewhere you should try to feed your teenage kids’ friends and it’s the one piece of parental advice I’ve managed to tenuously cling to and follow through with; unlike the one about not yelling and screaming at them like an unrestrained mental patient in the middle of a psychotic episode.

Later on Tuesday night I received a text from the Golden Child.

“Can Ben come for dinner too Mum?”

Ben is another flatmate and I like Ben because he gives me a hug and shakes Scotto’s hand whenever he comes over. It's amazing how teenage boys can totally suck me in by simple things like that.

“Yes he can,” I texted back. Ben is a six foot plus behemoth and probably had the appetite of a starved piranha so I began mentally calculating if I had a large enough pot to cook the chilli in.

It was Wednesday afternoon and there’d been no news to the contrary so I went shopping after work and bought out Coles in mince, tomatoes, kidney beans, cheese, sour cream, lettuce, chilli and taco shells.

“What time do you want us there?” came Padraic’s text at 5:30pm.

Elated they hadn’t cancelled I replied that 6:30pm would be perfect thank you sir.

At 6:30 there was no sign of Padraic’s ute crunching into our driveway. I began to panic. I’d even chopped fudging carrots and that extra touch rarely makes it into the taco menu. If the boys let me down Scotto would be eating tacos for the next six weeks.

But then I received a reassuring text.

“Be there in five Mum!” Happy dance.

I’d cooked enough food to feed the entire fudging Cowboys Under 20 team and I would have been pissed off in the extreme if they’d changed their mind at the last minute.

I was in the kitchen, adeptly ladling out steaming chilli and thirty-six taco shells on to plates when they arrived.

Padraic stood in the kitchen doorway with a quite pleasant-looking but decidedly slight, young lad. In fact if I'd sighed too hard he may have blown away in the breeze.

“This is my other flatmate, Charlie,” said Padraic.

“Hi Charlie!” I shrilled, squinting past them at nothing... no-one, an empty hallway.

“Where are the other boys?” I asked in a frightened voice.

“Oh… they already ate Mum so they’re not coming.”


This really happened.

What would you have done?