Deceased Estate

Last week our hare, Mixy, died. Scotto found her in the hutch. We don’t know what happened… possibly a heart attack because we just found out that hares are prone to heart attacks (which goes to show what eating too much kale will do to you). 

The highly expensive enclosure and hutch we bought for her, now stand empty and forlorn.

My neighbour, Mrs Nutty, suggested I put it on Airbnb because it’s barely been used.

Here’s my ad… 

Luxury Gold Coast Hinterland Cottage

· Stunning views over the Gold Coast hinterland

· sleeps two (relatively short-statured) people in a large, loft style, open, upstairs bedroom

· pets are welcome

· although there are no kitchen and laundry facilities, Wi Fi access is a possibility

· fully air-conditioned, well-ventilated and fully treated for fleas

· only 40 minutes to Surfers Paradise and 20 minutes to Dreamworld

· No microwave, VCR or TV but battery operated CD player on request

· Open-air style bathing in fresh rainwater

· Innovative and state of the art rooster-themed wake up service

. highly rated, ingratiating hosts who are committed to providing great stays for guests no matter what your species or gender preference

· one recent guest has said that this home was sparkling clean

· luxurious and healthy breakfast provided 

. Quiet surrounds with the sounds of frogs, crickets, cicadas, magpies, kookaburras, wasps, geckos, falling branches, possums, fornicating koalas, the next-door neighbour's Harley as he leaves for work at 4:30am, and the resilient neighbour who refuses to accept his lawnmower has died in the arse.

NB: No parties or events 

       No smoking



One review

Mixy     

Pinky’s cottage is comfortable and has fantastic views. Pinky was also welcoming and helpful, however, I felt that her host description was a bit misleading as it sounded like she was the only one in the adjoining house, and when I arrived, I discovered four dogs, a cat and twelve chickens. It was only when I saw the toys and bones all around the garden and asked her if she had a dog that she said yes. Having said all this, the bedroom was comfortable, and the views are amazing. Wait… I already said that didn’t I?… Oh well, the location is also very convenient, close to the beach, the tram and the centre of Surfers, so I would still recommend it – even though I’m a hare and I couldn’t go to any of those places because I didn’t have transport, which sucked balls big time. Anyway, have to go now. Must have eaten something that didn't agree with me... lol.

Jokes aside... R.I.P. My darling Mixy xxx

All Animals are Equal...

Scotto is away for a few days in Melbourne. He went to his niece’s wedding. She held her wedding midweek... just like her sister did, and I’m beginning to suspect his family hates me and doesn’t want me attending family ceremonies and thus plan their weddings around my work schedule. 

Hmmm.

Anyway, I’ve been stuck here with the eighteen animals while Scotto is gallumphing around in the big smoke.

Juggling parent teacher interviews after school and making it home before dark to feed the menagerie, has been a challenge. 

One evening, just on dusk, I arrived home to find twelve chickens standing resolutely at the back door, pecking ravenously at the glass and staring at me with an evil gimlet eye. It was like a scene from The Birds. 

The twelve psychotic chickens at the back window were framed by the silhouettes of my insatiable German Shepherd (think a starving Cujo) and the Silky Terrier (think a very angry Benji). Their tongues slobbered onto the veranda in menacing anticipation of meat.

The usually resentful and elusive hare, Mixy, somersaulted around in her cage like an expert aerial performer in Circus de Soleil in an attempt to get my attention. The Chihuahua and Fox Terrier yipped around my feet whilst the cat clawed a chunk out of my ankles as I rushed past her in a desperate stagger towards the pantry and the canned food.

With trembling hands, I dithered about who to feed first, but quickly elected to appease the German Shepherd at once (in case he lost his Teutonic composure and tore my bloody arm off in a ravenous fit of savagery... or attacked an emotional  chicken).

Amidst a cacophony of cackling, crowing, barking, yipping and caterwauling, I somehow sated the crazed feeding frenzy without any of them eating each other… or me.

Just so you know… they all get fed breakfast.

One morning before work, I walked down the yard to let the chickens out of the coops and I saw about eight alien chickens foraging in the garden. The neighbours’ chickens had clearly heard rumours about the cushy conditions at our place and found a hole in the fence.

Pablo, the Chihuahua, immediately recognised the intruders weren’t ‘of our flock’ and chased them back through the hole, scoring some delicious plumage in his muzzle.

I wasn’t even positive they weren’t our chickens at first. They looked exactly the same. They were black with feathers… so I don’t know how the Chihuahua could tell.

Intra-species racism? Next he'll be building a wall.

Anyway, it's all been chaotic and I will be glad when Scotto returns home because I’m frightened it’s turned into Animal Farm here.

You know what I mean… all animals are equal but some animals are more equal than humans.

Free-Balling

Driving along in my car to my walking destination, I suddenly became aware of the fact that although I’d remembered my Nicorettes, asthma inhaler and sun visor, I’d forgotten to wear a bra.

I was three quarters of the way there already so I screeched to a halt and weighed up my titillating situation.

Do I waste petrol and go back home or do I air the girls in public in the nonchalant manner of a truly progressive, enlightened woman?

After peering down and acknowledging the twins were reasonably disguised by a black t-shirt with a large, all-encompassing chicken decal, I decided to save the petrol and free-ball it.

Every time I passed another jogger/walker, I pretended to scratch my opposite ear which provided a decent barrier between my nipples and probing eyes and also steadied any overt jiggle-jiggle. 

Nobody would even know!

Can I say the experience was liberating in the extreme? The cool breeze, the lack of diaphragmatic restriction and the absence of an errant bra strap slipping down my shoulder requiring constant adjustment produced a much more comfortable walking event.

At one point, a family of tourists pulled up beside me.

“Excuse me,” enquired a lady in the front passenger seat. “Can you give us directions to Main Street?”

I began to scratch my left ear with my right hand.

After the initial thrill of being tagged as a local (the lack of a bra probably helped), I delivered some complicated directions involving complex turns, knotty loops and obscure landmarks.

They smiled in a baffled manner and thanked me before driving off.

I felt proud of the fact that after two years living here, I finally felt confident to help tourists find their way around the byzantine roads of the maze-like mountain.

I felt proud that I did it without wearing a bra.

I felt proud for about three minutes, until it dawned on me that the road I’d set them off on with such self-assurance, actually led down and off the mountain and nowhere near Main Street.

I figured it would take them twenty minutes to realise and another twenty to get back up the mountain to find me and abuse the shit out of me so… I skulked back to my car, dodging from shrubbery to shrubbery and taking shelter behind large ferns.

You can never play it too safe can you?



Ever been out without a bra?

When a Man Gets a New Toy...

Golden Boy (my ex-Suzuki Sport) is sold... and all credit goes to Scotto, who vacuumed/polished and cleaned him up, arranged for the dint to be fixed and basically did all the Gumtree stuff I didn’t know and didn’t WANT to know about.

Scotto’s commission for the sale of this treasured car, was a Nerf Gun in order to fire at the chickens when they start eating our plants, as they do, frequently and annoyingly.

Sadly, due to the Weapons Act of 1991, there are no Nerf guns to be found in any toy store in Australia. I was very pleased at this because I assumed Scotto would just forget about it and I wouldn’t have to spend money on frivolous, silly things like ammunitions against poultry.

“Look!” I exhaled impatiently one day when I had returned from yet another fruitless attempt at buying a missile-like weapon from the two dollar shops. “I can only find water pistols. They’re the same as the hose as far as effectiveness in scaring off chickens goes. How about you look for a drone and then you can swoop on the unsuspecting victims from above.”

I never thought or even suspected Scotto would recall this conversation. I thought, well that’s the end of that then!



Today, even though I had long forgotten about my extravagant and insincere offer, Scotto came home with a drone.

He was clearly exhilarated, overly excited, intoxicated with a Bruce Willis type of innocent, inner aggression, and stood in the backyard with his mouth gaping like a six year old boy finally allowed to shoot his Grandpa's shotgun.

The Fox Terrier was so excited by the strange, electronic, flying object, she fell off the deck (she's okay).The Chihuahua, the German Shepherd and the Silky Terrier couldn’t have given a small shit about the whizzing machinery, and the chickens… well frankly they didn’t even notice it.

But Scotto… I probs won’t even see him until after winter.

Shopping with Pinky

New Boots!

“I need a new pair of jeans for winter,” I said to Scotto last weekend.

“Well, do you think you can buy a pair that actually fit you for once?” Scotto arched his eyebrows at me.

He knows I usually buy clothes about one to two sizes too big because I’m too lazy to go into change rooms so I round up to the nearest five kilograms when buying clothes off the rack.

It was with Scotto’s specific directive that I embarked on a shopping expedition with my mother yesterday morning. I needed to purchase a pair of 'sexy jeans', not a pair of grandma jeans with a slowly descending crotch that sometimes falls to my knees when I walk too quickly.

First we had to stop at the library. My mother loves the library.

The Gold Coast is currently hosting the Commonwealth Games and naturally the baton relay was taking place in the library car park as we pulled in. Some harried looking security officer kept yelling at all the elderly library patrons (including me) because they were parking in the wrong place. I’d hoped to avoid this scenario by a self-prohibition of driving down to the coast during the games.

Inside the library were a lot of very old people. While I waited for my mother to choose her books, I decided to read some New Scientist magazines but all the oldies had taken any available seating.

I waited until a ninety-eight year old man left his seat to dodder off for another newspaper then cleverly snaked into his deserted chair before he returned. Hmmmpf. I’m almost a senior too.

Mother came to fetch me soon after and we arrived at the mall soon after I’d managed to knock over several witches hats in the library car park on the way out.

As well as desperately requiring jeans, I needed boots, ballet flats and an asthma puffer.

I’m allergic to the hare. 

I know… that’d be bloody right, huh? I’m still keeping her though. I’ll just use my puffer when I my breathing hole closes up. It's not a drama.

After a carefully orchestrated operation involving the purposeful scouring of every single shoe store in the Robina Town Centre, I found a pair of cheap, suede ankle boots which are guaranteed to antagonise my bunion and elicit quite a lot of complaining during the winter months. 

They look nice though.

Finally, we reached the clothing store where I hoped to discover a pair of jeans which would ignite the lusty fire in Scotto’s loins and which I would not be able to just pull up over my hips without undoing them because they’re so baggy. (This does save time in the toilet, I must point out.)



“Oh, how gorgeous,” exclaimed my mother, holding up a highly desirous item she’d pulled off a rack.

I scanned the price tag. It seemed to be in my parsimonious range.

“Do you think the style is a bit young for me?” I asked, hoping she would say no.

“Well it’s too young for me but you could probably get away with it,” Mother assured me, rubbing the soft material against her face in admiration of the fabric.

She shrugged and tottered off to the back of the store to look for tea towels with chickens on them.

My mind struggled against its natural penchant towards frugality. I hate spending money on clothing.

Eventually, visions of my forlorn, empty wardrobe defeated the alarmed screaming from my inner penny-pinching muse and I tentatively made my way to the counter; wallet open and credit card clutched in my trembling fingers. 

I was going in, baby.

Soooo… this is me in my new outfit. 

What do you think? Do you think Scotto will like it?