Pinky Poinker Goes Back to School.

Today was our second day back at school before the Rug Rat Army infiltrates the grounds wearing their spanking new shoes and wrestling with huge cardboard boxes full of books, pencils, and glue sticks for us teachers to spend hours sorting when we’d much rather be horizontal on a couch with a crisp Chardonnay in hand.

What do teachers do when they have no kids to teach?
Sit on chairs designed for three foot hobbits with our lower backs going into violent spasms and suffering the exact same droning lectures we inflict on our students that’s what.

At ten-thirty we plodded up to the staffroom like a herd of weary cattle for a recuperative cup of tea and a snack.

A symphony of twenty cans of tuna snapped open simultaneously; a legacy of too much festive cheer and indulgence over the six week break.

You want to know what we talked about?

The main topic of conversation centred on our Christmas break up party in November and where we should hold it in 2014.

Jaded as it sounds for only our second day back in the trenches, there is a fresh wind of change at school this year. 

My Grade Four cohort has been transformed and Pinky’s long-suffering buddy teacher Rach, has moved into an administrative role. 

O’Reilly’s buddy, Joe the Irish teacher, wisely absconded back to the mother country and has been replaced by the boisterous and dynamic Shazza.

(Placing Shazza and Pinky in the same year level may prove to be slightly dangerous and was possibly an oversight by the bosses but we’ll try to behave ourselves and keep our heads low so they don’t realise their mistake.)

My new buddy teacher is a graduate teacher, fresh from University.

“You’ll scare the poor girl to death!” commented Kaz, when we met the quietly spoken, slender, slip of a girl yesterday.

“No I won’t! I’ll be a great mentor to Gemma!” I retorted with all the confidence of a nonlifejacket-wearing saxophone player on the Titanic.

“Well for a start you can stop calling her ‘Gemma’,” replied Kaz drily, “her name’s Jenna.”

The truth is I’m delighted to be in the position to act as a tutor, supporter and cheer-leader for my new buddy and have compiled a list of important items she may like to take note of;

The Chicken Caesar Salad Wraps at the tuckshop are glorious and very cheap when you compare prices around town.

Never ask Pinky anything about computers, Smart Boards or anything technical because she will just stare at you with her mouth open until she begins to dribble.

Pinky is quite selfish about her Blu Tac and Sticky Dots so don’t bother asking to borrow them. However, she will be very generous with her Smart Board peripheral cable.

Don’t steal Pinky’s special parking spot in the morning. Anne, the office lady, tried it on one day and a bitter feud resulted which lasted for two weeks, until Pinky needed a sick bucket and saw dust sent down from the office after an unfortunate regurgitation by one of the students and was forced to apologise to Anne on the telephone.

Finally, never approach Pinky in her classroom before school as that’s her precious preparation time. Also... because old ladies like Pinky tend to suffer early morning flatulence of the kind that no Glade plug-in air freshener can ever hope to disguise. Just ask Rach!

Tomorrow night, a dear friend of mine, Sinead, will be presenting a guest post in which she tells a few lies and litigious falsifications about how she met Pinky.

My Fatty Boombah Photos

I’m linking my post up to Kirsty from My Home Truths today and the terrifying prompt for the week is an expose of our worst photos.

Cripes! I thought. So many to choose from...

When I turned a certain age ending in a zero, my hubby Scotto made a slide show presentation of my life thus far, and he created a special folder entirely made up of Pinky Poinker images. 

He thoughtfully named the folder, “Pinky Through the Ages”.

Through the fricken ages?? What am I? Seven hundred years old?

Perusing the photos in order to write this post, it suddenly occurred to me that the most unappealing photos of me were taken just prior to giving birth to my five kids. Let’s face it. No one is at their best when they’re at their fattiest boombahish.

It might also be cautiously observed I am no longer married to the photographer concerned.

Just saying.

So here is what I was able to discover among the ruins.

Please do not be alarmed by the beer in one hand and wine glass in the other. This was taken about a week before I gave birth to Jonah and he has just graduated in law, so if you don't believe me that the photo was a joke then at least the child concerned didn't suffer any permanent brain damage. N.B. None that interfered with his academic ability anyway.

This was in the delivery room about an hour before the pugnacious Padraic, pushed his blonde head out into the world. The calm before the storm.

Two days before Thaddeus was born, my face and ankles were puffy and sitting on that hard concrete step made me feel as though my innards were about to fall out, hence the wince. I'd put on twenty kilograms with my first pregnancy through a steady intake of chocolate coated raisins.

And just as a treat I'll finish off with this weird scared little guy expression I'm wearing right after Hagar was born.

Though it just goes to show how photographs lie...

giving birth to my five children were the happiest times in my life.

Pinky's Golden Snow Globe Awards 2013

“Lunching alfresco beside the Fontana Di Trevi!”

“Just saw the cutest squirrel in Central Park”

“Sipping Cosmopolitans at a bar in Manhattan! Lol…”

“Chilling at the Tower of London with ma homies.”

These are the sort of Facebook updates Pinky reads with her sour little puckered up face as she scrolls down her timeline.

Everyone I know has been, or is about to go, on an overseas holiday in 2013... except me.

“Have a great time on your trip,” I jealously comment when they post a status about how they’re just about to board the plane. “Don’t forget to bring me back a snow globe!”

While they’re blissfully cavorting around the globe I’ll sensitively drop a subtle reminder in their message box like… “Hi!...S.G.”

In the last twelve months I’ve been gifted no less than nine treasured S.G.s from the United States, Italy, Ireland, and England which has allowed me to glean a modicum of vicarious pleasure from the travels of my wealthy friends.


I’d like to thank the nominees for the Pinky Golden Snow Globe Awards; Lulu, Jan, Rach, Dolly and Emmsie, however there can only ever be one winner.

And the winner for 2013 is… Emmsie!!!!!

                   Amy and Emma returned from the U.S of A.

Emmsie’s Acceptance Speech.

Thanks for nothing, Pinky!

After dragging these bloody heavy, expensive, annoying things around the United States I forgot to pack them in my suitcase when we were leaving. When I arrived at the airport, security wouldn’t let me take them on as hand luggage and threw them in the damn bin. I fished them out again and after considerable begging on my part they allowed me to pack them in a box and check it in. I nearly missed my flight because of your pain in the ass snow globes, Pinky! Here… take the bloody stupid things. You’re welcome.

Pinky would like to advise nominations are now open for 2014.

Pinky's Last Supper

                                   

Teachers all over Australia are in mourning as the Christmas holidays draw to an untimely close. The kids still have a week left but we teachers are required to front up on Monday for administrative stuff. I don’t know what sort of stuff… I like surprises so I haven’t read the agenda. Dreadfully boring stuff I suppose.

Kyles, our unofficial social planner, organised a lunch yesterday at a newish restaurant, The Lighthouse, to commemorate the end of freedom until the Easter holidays.

“Here she is at last!” called Kyles, as a dishevelled Pinky puffed up to the table of twelve ladies lunching.

“Where do I sit?” I bleated piteously, scanning the long banquet table and noting the lack of spare seats.

“Over there!” they cruelly pointed to a small table for two in the corner.

I always get left out.

The handsome young waiter kindly moved an extra table and chair on to the end and handed me a ticket.

The restaurant, in their wisdom, has developed a system for large parties where each individual is given a numbered ticket so that everyone can pay separately without the usual fuss. What a brilliant idea!

My ticket was number thirteen.

“Does this make me Judas Escariot?” I objected sullenly. “I don’t want to be Judas! I want a different number!”

It was then I had my own brilliant Pinky Punkster idea!

So… after much shuffling of chairs; bossy, shouty orders from Pinky, acrimonious grumbling from various individuals (Shaz, Kaz and Kristen), and stunned disbelief on the face of our waiter, I was finally able to procure the perfect snap!

There was a bit of an argument about who got to be Jesus  but we sorted it out in the end.

            Shaz ,Pinky, Mrs T, Sue the Librarian, Rach, Kristen, Jan, Kyles, Judy, Emmsie, Elle, Nic, Kaz.

                        Please click to enlarge!

I’ll no doubt get into trouble but I am so printing it out and pinning it on the staff room wall.

Thank you to Scotto for his outstanding Photoshop work!

Any suggestions for other iconic photos for next time?

How long has blogging REALLY been around?

Often when you mention the fact you write a blog, people don't have the faintest idea of what you're talking about.

The thing is, women have been 'blogging' and using varied forms of social media to relate aspects of their lives and memories, political views and knowledge...since forever.

Cave paintings

Paleolithic Wife- Cooking Blog.

"Errg's Bites"

Full Moon, 17300 years ago

This is what my husband, Ugg brought back from hunting yesterday. Cooked it over open fire with nuts and berries I gathered. Fed a family of eighteen. Click on link for tasty recipe.

Image Credit

Ancient Roman Graffiti- Political Blogger

"Claudia Reports"

15 March 44 BC

While Brutus was at the Senate meeting I went into the town square and blogged about that right-winged b#stard Julius Caesar. Something has to be done about that misogynist. Women should be citizens!

Image Credit

Ancient Egyptian Heiroglyphics: Journal Blogger

"Pinky Salwasi's Crazy Life!"

Shumo, 3100 BC

It's summer and the kids and I popped down to the Nile Valley for a swim. Nebtawi (hubby) went to the temple all day to pray to the Gods so we had the day to ourselves.Picked up a nice side of gazelle from the markets and just hope teenage sons are home to eat it for a change. Sick of keeping leftovers in the icebox.

Image Credit

Normandy Craft Blogger

Image Credit

"Catherine's Crafty Corner"

Tuesday, 1075.

Well, we are finally up to the 65th metre of the Bayeaux Tapestry! Only 5 more to go! Mathilda's playing a practical joke and embroidering a Where's Wally somewhere in the tapestry. I bet you can't find it! We have free give-aways to the first three readers who comment correctly!

        

Feminist Blogger- Venus of Willendorf

Image Credit

 "Venus Greer and her Eunichs"
 25 000 BC

A Stone Age dissertation on why women should not be judged by their beauty.
I happened upon this when I was out gathering sticks yesterday. The statuette speaks for itself; please note the absence of a face or feet and the 'junk in the trunk'. Just what is the point of this? If I find the guy who carved this I'll hit him over the head with his own club. 


Marie Antoinette's Beauty Blog

Image Credit

"Marie and You"
October 15, 1793

The big trend now girls is powder, powder, powder. I use a swanspuff to apply and you can pick one of these up at Targette for three livre. Make sure you apply plenty of white paint beforehand to cover up the Smallpox scars! Rosewater hides a multitude of sins my lovelies. For example when you haven't taken a bath for eight years! Gotta go darls, someone's knocking very loudly on the door...

Cleopatra- Fashion Blog

Image Credit

"Cleo's Couture" 
11 August 30 BC

In my role as Queen of Egypt, I have to meet up with many diplomats and therefore attend many formal occasions. My secret to looking good on the carpet? Or rolling out of the carpet?
Bling! Some fabulous gold earrings and plonk on a wig... you're good to go. Those upper armbands are rocking it right now too, but I tend to shy away from the snake-shaped bands... they make me feel uneasy for some reason!

Pinky Poinker: When your kids don't need you anymore.

             Last night's Potato Pie and how much was eaten (by Scotto).

The evening meal was the last bastion of family solidarity at Chez Poinker.

For decades the nightly ritual of creating a hot, nutritious meal and placing it on the table in front of each of the five children has assisted Pinky in clinging frantically to the false self-image of a nurturing mother.

It seems even that solitary buttress has finally been smashed into the tiny shards of a broken mirror reflecting the tenuous and unsustainable lie I’ve doggedly attempted to preserve.

Even though twenty-four year old Thaddeus lives with his father and Jonah is currently residing in the big smoke; eighteen year old Padraic, Lulu, and twenty year old Hagar and his girlfriend Meggles, still live with us.

Well... they occasionally sleep here.

Early every evening, Pinky performs the same charade with the same hackneyed script.

“Will you be home for dinner tonight?”

“What is it?”

“Something delicious!”

“Okay… maybe.”

The final wretched scene of the farce however, sees our tragic heroine bitterly shoving leftovers in the fridge aside in order to squeeze in the latest abandoned offering to the Gods.

“Stop cooking for them!” Scotto asserts, while Pinky bleats on and on about wasted food, money and effort.

He doesn’t understand. Once I stop cooking dinner for them they won’t need me anymore.

For anything.

Yesterday, the final nail in the coffin containing the demise of Pinky’s usefulness was hammered in with decisive precision.

Lulu’s father bought her a car.

Now she can drive herself to work, netball games, parties, McDonalds.

I’ll probably never ever see her again.

                         And so the fun begins...

Linking up with Essentially Jess! 
               

A Guest Post by Pinky Poinker's Dad.

                                     

Last night I watched a fireworks show that made Sydney's New Year display look like a walk through a glow-worm cave. All from my front deck and all for free. For two hours or more a thunderstorm raged all around, and all above our house and it was the best lightning show I have ever seen.

There were complex sky-to-sky bolts with patterns that you couldn't dream up and great flashes of sheet lightning, but best of all were the sky-to-ground strikes, especially those that hit some of the tall high-rise buildings on the skyline. And the two that struck high tension powerlines only 300 metres away - wow! What thunder claps. How do I know that it was 300 metres? Well lightning is more-or-less instantaneous and thunder travels at around 300 metres in one second, and the bang was no more than a second after the flash---just ask my dog, if you can coax her out from under the bed.

Hello! All you readers of Pinky Poinker’s daily diatribe. I've been invited to make a contribution for whatever reason I'm not quite sure. It could be to raise the tone of the blog with a bit of quality writing , or then, it could be because I'm Pinky's papa. Anyway this post should help raise the standard to at least Upper-Bogan.

                                        Image Credit

To gain some insight into the usual scope and style of this site I have read some of the past efforts, and it appears to me that the whole thing is supposed to revolve around those five loveable rascals - Pinky's darling little children You know who I mean - the ones who phone me at 12.30 am to ask some inane question, the answer of which could readily be found on Google. The same ones who can make 3 packets of biscuits disappear faster than a politicians promise. The four gentlemen who all managed to crash their first motor vehicle---lovely Lulu hasn't managed that yet, who said that men are better drivers...?

          Little Hagar and Pinky's Dad. Perhaps the boys should have stuck to this                                                               mode of transport.

Pinky, of course, (let me assure you that my surname is not Poinker---that is her married name) is not without fault when it comes to motor vehicles. Has she posted a story about the time that she borrowed my car to go out-on-the-town only to park it in a forbidden zone from whence it was spirited away to an impounding yard? Probably not. That was the same car that she had sold to me when she was working for a car rental company.

What dear Pinky didn't tell me was that this car had been deregistered prior to the sale but that someone had forgotten to hand back the numberplates. In my blissful ignorance I assumed that the vehicle was correctly registered and the ownership properly transferred.

For a whole year I drove around in that unregistered car, and when a rego-renewal form didn't turn up, I made enquiries at the transport department and then had to bluff my way out of a prosecution and a substantial fine. And Pinky thinks her kids are a trial.

      A photo I snapped of Pinky in her uniform after she'd had a big night out.

I was a very thoughtful child, I moved away from my parents home at a relatively young age. I thought that my issued would do the same---and they did. The two girls moved out of our four bedroom house leaving just a son, Pinky's mum and me. So we sold the house and moved into a two bedroom unit. What happened? The girls decided to move back---five of us in a twobedder. So we bought another house and sold the unit. Before we could settle the contract the girls were off again. And this happened with 'regular frequency'. So we did the only thing we could think of and moved 1500 km away---to a mountain---where they didn't want to be. Where all the lightning and thunder happens.

Ciao Readers, Acolytes, Friends or whatever you people out there call yourselves.



Richard Not Poinker.

                                      

How Fathers Influence their Daughters.

This is my favourite photo in the entire world. It’s my father cradling a three week old Pinky, circa 1910.

He was only twenty-five at the time, having married my nineteen year old mother eleven months previously (so they tell me).

Nah… I’m only joking, but apparently my dear old Nana was upset Mum had fallen pregnant so soon after marrying because it ‘didn’t look good’. What would the aunties think? It didn’t help appearances when 6 lb. baby Pinky arrived three weeks early either.

But back to Dad.

It’s his birthday tomorrow and after much determined pestering on my behalf, he finally agreed to write a guest post which will be published on Pinky Poinker in celebration of the special day.

If I was to sum my father up in one word it would be “artist”.

A painter, cartoonist, writer, landscape artist, sculptor, sketch artist, bullshit artist.

                              The coyote finally succeeds!


We grew up in a house filled with Dad’s artwork. Some of it was bloody good, some not so great.

Back in the seventies he decided to build a pool in our backyard. Not just have a pool put in, but actually build a pool. 

Every night after he finished work he would spend hours in the dark sink hole, troweling cement and grouting tiles by the light of a single light bulb, his only company a massive great cane toad. 

Julius, the toad, revelled in the swarms of mosquitoes attracted to the light globe and appeared each night to cheer Dad on. This self-imposed hard labour went on for months.

The result of his monumental effort was a fully tiled swimming pool fed by an elaborate, landscaped waterfall. It was truly a work of art.

My father undertook all of the wall-papering (big in the seventies), tiling, painting, concreting, carpentry and of course electrical work in the house. I don’t think we ever needed to call a tradesman for anything except when our huge umbrella tree grew to mammoth proportions and one day we noticed its guileful root shyly peeking out of the toilet bowl. Council plumbers were needed to dig up every plant infested pipe in the place.

After a few years living in the house Dad decided to build another story on top with a shingled roof; each shingle lovingly hammered in place by our unstoppable father.

They just don’t make men like that anymore.

                               Dad's old Falcon.

One of my earliest most cherished memories of my father was at the age of five. I’d just been awarded honours in a ballet exam and I couldn’t wait for him to arrive home so I could squeak out the exciting news.

I recall with clarity, Dad shouting in excitement and lifting me up in his arms towards the ceiling in elation. We were standing beside the dining room table; Mum laughed at us and the sun shone through a window on our right. The forty-eight year old memory is crystal clear. 

I savoured his praise then and still do now. Daughters need that demonstrative love and appreciation from their fathers.

                       Pinky and little sister Sam with Dad.

Dad is a bit of a human oxymoron; a cultivated Aussie bloke.

He imparted a love for the Fine Arts to us kids by taking us to the ballet, art galleries, museums and the theatre as we were growing up.

My sister and I now invite him to the ballet when the opportunity arises. Not that it does very often because he and Mum have retired to a place over one thousand miles away.

My granddad Bert, was also an artist and an eccentric rascal who taught himself to play the piano in his late eighties.

This is a self-portrait old Bert painted when he was probably in his mid-seventies. 

                         Bert at his ninetieth birthday.

I’m thinking perhaps my father inherited some of his artistic ability from Bert.

At first I think Dad disapproved of my blog, primarily due to the over-abundance of personal information I freely distribute on the World-Wide Web.

When I visited him last year he brought out a plethora of humorous and engaging articles he’d written for a magazine when he was about the same age as I am now. Many of the articles described the antics of every day life enacted by his wife and three kids. 

                                        

And so… father and daughter in the more mature years of their lives are bonding over the written word.

I’m thinking perhaps Pinky may have inherited some of her minimal artistic ability from her father.


Happy birthday my darling father xx

                                     Being a Granddad.

Will My Chihuahua Lose his Swag?

                                                       

Five minutes beforehand, he’d been strutting around the kitchen like a cocky football jock whilst intermittently sniffing his sister, Celine’s bottom, blissfully unaware of what the day had in store for him.

Now, he was a trembling pup, cradled in his daddy’s arms as Scotto backed out of the driveway. I’d say he must have been suspicious something was up by the pleading expression in his mournful, brown eyes.

“You’re going to have to drop Pablo at the vet tomorrow morning,” I announced to hubby Scotto yesterday. “It'll be too hard for me to leave him there. I’d get halfway to the vet and turn the car around and bring him home.”

“It’s not going to be easy for me either!” Scotto reproached me.

We didn’t exactly have a big row about it, but there were a few sulky, manipulative exchanges as to who was going to play the bad guy and do the dirty work.

I won.

Our vet, Chris, is the father of one of Lulu’s best friends and she happened to be staying at their place last night.

“Tell Chris to have an early night because he’s operating on our dog tomorrow morning,” I texted Lulu.

“He said he’s going to drink some extra wine tonight!” she messaged back.

I don’t think he should have been joking about it.

Scotto left at 8:30 this morning to drop my baby off to his ill-fated appointment and I tearily waved him farewell then retreated to my bedroom to sob into my pillow.

After restlessly waiting with bated breath and jangled nerves, the phone finally rang at 9:30 am.

He was alive and well… sans testicles of course… but he survived! The nurse informed me the operation went brilliantly and the tiny patient was now resting quietly.

He’s going to have to avoid strenuous exercise (especially bike riding) for a couple of weeks but apart from rest, aspirin and dressing changes he should be back to himself in no time.

Off I went to buy some ice packs, balloons and flowers for Pablo's homecoming.

 Has he lost his swag now he's been de-nutted? I hear you ask.

Well...  he's now sporting a tattoo and swaggering like a bow-legged sailor as he tenderly winces down the hall so not really.

                              Tattoo on left ear.

I’d better buy some wine and chocolates for Chris the brilliant surgeon as well. 

That guy should be Australian of the Year.

The Thing about Snow!

                                
There was a news journalist on the telly this morning reporting from a sub-zero (-16) Chicago, in the United States. 

All you could see were her little eyes poking out she was so bundled up against the cold. 

Residents have been warned it’s so cold even only a few minutes exposure to the elements will cause hypothermia or frost bite.

At least in this heatwave we Australians can venture outside without fear of losing a finger or toe.

Having been born and bred in the tropics I’ll gladly own up to eschewing freezing cold weather as much as I can.

I’ve only ever been to the snow twice in my life. The first time I was about twenty-five years old and went on a weekend bus trip with a mob of wild ratbags up to the Snowy Mountains.

On the first day I hired a ski jacket but was too much of a cheapskate to fork out for the ski pants. 

“I’ll be fine!” I thought. It was snowing heavily that day and by the time the chair lift had reached the top of Mt Koscieszko my jeans and insufficient woollen gloves had frozen onto my body.

                           


I had no idea how wet (as well as cold) snow was. I don’t know why. It’s not as if I’d never stuck my hand inside a freezer before.

Working at the top of Australia’s highest mountain all day, assisting useless tourists to jump onto a moving chairlift without clumsily hurtling themselves over the summit, probably wouldn’t be the most gratifying job in the world and I remember the guy in charge screaming at me as I dithered in my anaesthetised state and failed to connect my deadened backside to the seat and was nearly shovelled to an early death.

By the time I’d travelled down to the bottom again I could not feel my hands. By ‘not feel them’, I don’t just mean they were numb. I could easily have had them chopped off at the wrist with a guillotine and not noticed any pain.

And then my hands began to thaw out. Apart from a baby ripping its way down the birth canal I don’t believe I’ve ever experienced such pain. I cried tears of agony.

Now, I can’t go into the freezer section of Coles without my hands turning ghostly white and I’m sure it’s a leftover side effect of near frost bite.

It was another twenty or so years before I decided to hazard another trip into territory I feel is best left to White Fang and his pack.

Scotto and I were on holidays in Melbourne staying in the city.

“We should take a drive up to Mt Buller for lunch,” suggested a naïve Pinky, imagining a leisurely drive up the mountain, a cosy fireside lunch and relaxed drive back to the city.

I looked studiously at the map. Mt Buller was only two fingernail lengths away from Melbourne… not far at all.

By the time we eventually made it up the two fingernail lengths of twisting, snaking, steep road it was almost 5:00pm and just on cue, the moment we arrived, heavy snow began to fall.

                               


As George W. Bush once said, “Fool me once, shame on — shame on you. Fool me — you can't get fooled again.”


There I stood for the second time in my life in a snow storm, wearing jeans and inadequate attire while the wind slashed through my clothes as if I was standing there stark naked.

Teeth chattering and freezing to death in my wet canvas shoes we jumped in a shuttle and were dropped at the accommodation booking shack. No one was going back down that mountain tonight and we needed somewhere to stay.

There was only one place left in the resort village with any vacancies and naturally it was the most expensive hotel of all.

At six hundred dollars for the night, on top of whatever we were paying for our apartment back in the city, it proved to be quite an extravagant lunch.


After I’d semi-dried my socks on the heater in the room we slipped and slid across the icy pathway to purchase a couple of Subways for dinner (all we could afford) and spent the evening staring out the window at the suitably attired rich people playing in the snow.

                        

Pinky Poinker Celebrates One Year of Blogging!

                         Thank you to Scotto for the graphic.

Today marks the official end of my first year of blogging.

I've published 153 810 words of inane drivel. Not quite "War and Peace" (560 000 odd words) but if I could just improve the writing style and quality, I may have a book!

Therefore, I thought I’d finish the year with a really self-indulgent, stupid post... so if you’re not in the mood for idiocy I’ll hopefully see you tomorrow when I’ll try to be sensible again.

Pinky's Silly Toilet Humour
There are two more weeks left of the school holidays for us teachers.

I'm very bored now that the festive season is over and Scotto’s gone back to work…

Yesterday, while Scotto and I floated around the pool on blow-up beds escaping the vicious Queensland heatwave, the product Anusol (an ointment recommended for itching, burning haemorrhoids) randomly came into my head. 

I don’t know why, I didn’t have an itchy bottom… but it just did.

“Anus-ol,” I sounded it out slowly.

“Sounds very like anus-hole. Do you think the manufacturers were having a laugh at the public’s expense?” I mused.

Scotto laughed.

I’m always guaranteed a laugh when I say the word ‘anus’ out loud in front of Scotto.

“Poopen Schtinken’s a funny word for it too,” he giggled.

“Where did you hear that? Did you make it up?” I asked curiously, impressed at such an amusing word.

“It’s from a movie,” he replied. “I can’t remember which one…”

This morning, tired of watching infomercials on the telly, I decided to look up “Poopen Schtinken” on Google just to see what I could find.

“Did you mean Schtinken Poopen?” Mr Google replied.

“Okaaaaay… I’ll try anything once,” I thought.

Schtinken Poopen turned out to be the name of a song by an English band called 'Atlases'.

Weirdos.

But I wanted “Poopen Schtinken”.

Did you mean ‘Poop Chicken’? I was rudely interrogated by that know-it-all browser once again.

No. I didn’t. But I had to check it out anyway. It’s not like I had anything else to do…

Poop Chicken (Urban Dictionary)

Similar to playing "chicken" with an opposing car on a road, "poop chicken" begins when you and someone else walk into a public restroom at the same time, both with the intention to take a poop. You go into your separate stalls and then sit there, waiting for the other to leave so that you can do your business in peace. The first person to just get up and leave without pooping loses the game of poop chicken.

Interesting.

Mr Google then suggested I may have meant to type in “Puten Schinken” which most surprisingly turned out to be this… a style of sausage.

There was no link to any movies and even when I put “Poopen Schtinken” into Google Translator it said that the language detected was in actual fact, English.

So there you go. Scotto made up his own special word for bottom hole and he doesn’t even know it.

I know some people hate any discussion about poop whatsoever, so stop reading now if you’re one of those people.

Hello!

…elloooow

…loooow

…oow…

is there an echo in here?

Over the years our family has come up with many pseudonyms for poop.

First there was “Wombat” which was coined by my father when my little brother apparently neglected to flush something the size of a wombat down the toilet.

“Kookaburra” was a name my own kids used for Number Twos and the reason is explained in this funny post!


“A Flynn’s” was the name used by my girlfriend Nettie and myself, after one of us (not Nettie) had a notable incident in the toilets at a local bar of the same name.

I tend to use the term ‘Poodoople’ these days, as in “I need to go poodoople.”

What’s your family name for it? Come on... you know you have one...

Don’t forget about your Best Friend in the Sizzling Australian Heat

While the United States is suffering deadly snowstorms,

Australia is in the midst of a heatwave.

“It’s bloody hot!” are the parrot like words emanating from Pinky’s perspiration-ringed lips every five minutes. Scotto has grounds to commit mariticide, I'm sure.

(It's like I have a form of Tourette's, but no swearing... just constant whinging.)

Scotto and I have spent 80% of our time floating around the pool in order to ward off heat stroke and I can’t imagine what it would be like without air-conditioning when the temperature drops down to a muggy 27 degrees overnight.

As you know, Pinky’s dogs (Borat, Willy, Celine and Pablo) are her substitute babies. They're the loves of my life and I’ve been watching them closely for heat stress.

Watching them lolling around, conserving their energy and panting a lot and I must admit I feel really sorry for the poor mutts.

This is what I’ve been doing to make sure they don’t suffer from the heat.

# Allowing them to come inside the house and chill out under the fan… or at least make sure they have plenty of shade.

                      Me could get used to this!

# Putting ice cubes in their drinking water and frequently checking it’s at an adequate level.

# Hosing them down because dogs can’t sweat

 (Willy runs away and hides behind a pot plant but we still manage to catch him).

                         Rack off mother... I'd rather be hot!

# Taking the smaller ones for a little swim against their wishes.

                              This is animal abuse!

# Feeding them after dark when it’s cooler so their food doesn’t sit in the sun for hours.

We can’t take them to the movies or into air-conditioned shopping centres but at least we’re doing something to make them a little more comfortable.

Hope you’re looking after your best friend.