Marge! Marge! The Rains are Here!

The wet season has finally arrived! We received more rain here yesterday than for the entire February average... and don’t we know it.

The house stinks as either the damp atmosphere is allowing previously disguised smells to emanate out of hidden crevices, OR a skittish Tom cat pissed all over our patio in pernickety avoidance of getting his precious paws wet.

I’ve had two over-enthusiastic motorists almost run up my rear end on the slippery roads and been forced to shake my intimidating fists Vin Deisel-style at them from the aggressive-looking 'Golden Boy'.

Rally driving skills are once again required as potholes the size of the Chicxulub crater re-establish themselves on the sealed-on-the-cheap roads.

Despite whinging about the lack of rain for six months, everyone suddenly begins to say things like, “I wish this bloody rain would go away, I can't get the washing dry.”

But the worst thing is, as soon as there’s a hiatus in the downpour, a menacing cloud of mosquitoes the size of crows appear, siphoning through the window, biting on the bony bits of our toes, making it frustratingly impossible to scratch the itch out.

We happen to live on the upper banks of a river. If you peer closely at this photo (taken from the front of the house) through a magnifying glass, you may be able to make out a trickle in the distance.

A few hundred metres along the path, the salty end of the river widens a bit.

A couple of hundred metres further and you come across the weir, where the fresh rainwaters rush over on their way out to the ocean. The weir only overflows once a year in the wet season.

I love this river. It’s in my blood. I grew up on the other side of it and used to daringly and dangerously ride a bike across the narrow weir wall in the dry season with my twelve year old friend, Lindy. Our mothers never knew.

After I gently pass away at the age of 104, whilst singing a karaoke duet of "I Will Survive" with Scotto at a Euro-trash nightclub in Ibiza; I would like my ashes to be lovingly sprinkled on the banks of this river.

The trouble is; this river has a bit of a bad name. 

The Ross River. 

The very same river the nasty mosquito borne virus, Ross River Fever is named after. 

You know… fever, chills, muscle aches, rash, fatigue, aching tendons, swollen lymph nodes, headache, especially behind the eyes, joint pain, swelling and stiffness.

I’ve known about a dozen people who’ve been debilitated by this disease and every single one of them lived on the banks of Ross River.

Scotto and I, at this very moment, are sitting in our lounge watching My Kitchen Rules whilst being besieged by immoral, winged creatures of the night who’ve casually cruised up from the malevolent, swampy depths of this very same waterway. 

Better get out the Aerogard eh, Marge?

Sometimes I Just Refuse to Swallow!

“Pinky! What’s this?” yelled my mother furiously, as she stood in the toilet pointing down into the bowl. 

I peered in nervously; half knowing what would be there. And sure enough there it was… a brown, multivitamin capsule bobbing around in the water like a tiny, stubborn cork.

Mum worried about how thin my sister and I were as kids and was always forcing appalling thick, dark green, iron tonics upon us. I could tolerate those by holding my nose as it slithered down, but I had a pathological fear of having to swallow a pill. 

I’d pretend to take it by hiding it in the side of my mouth then make a speedy detour into the toilet where I’d spit it out. This particular capsule had declined the invitation of a river cruise through the sewer system out to sea and I’d been sprung.

There seems to be an art in swallowing tablets without carrying on like a pork chop but I’m afraid I’ve never mastered it. 

Usually, I stand at the sink for at least three minutes with a full mouth of water and the tablet swishing around inside… daring myself to just do it. 

Eventually the swallow reflex kicks in but my throat closes up in terror causing the tablet to become stuck halfway. Panicked gagging ensues and the tablet is inevitably sicked up like a cat regurgitating a hair ball. 

It’s not a very nice thing to hear... or witness. The family’s anxious enquiries died off long ago on hearing the awful retching, recognising it’s only Pinky in the kitchen attempting to pop a Panadol.

Imagine my horror when I picked up my prescribed medication on Saturday and espied these monsters, which appear to have been designed to be ingested by some type of equine animal.

                      I put one against the car for perspective.

So far I’ve managed to get one out of six down the cake hole. The first was by crushing it up and unsuccessfully mixing it with a half glass of milk. The crunchy, bitter remnants stuck in my teeth and repeated on me for the next few hours.

I tried mixing a crushed tablet with some crunchy peanut butter in order to disguise the lumps. It was a putrid and abortive exercise.

“Maybe I could stick it down the back of your throat and hold your snout shut until you lick your nose?” suggested an unhelpful Scotto (who has the responsibility of giving the dogs their worm tablets).

I found this site How to Swallow Pills in Twelve Steps which provides swallowing strategies and I intend working my way through them all until I find a solution.

In the meantime, do any of you have any suggestions?

There's More than One Way to Skim a CAT Scan.

                       Scotto helping the cat read Pinky's CAT scan.

Remember my story a couple of months ago regarding my (then) doctor’s suspicion I may have been gestating a kidney stone? Could I Be Carrying my Sixth Baby?

Well... after an inconclusive ultrasound I was sent for a CAT scan.

I was frightened when I read on the Internet they inject you with the contrast dye. In fact I didn’t sleep for the week before my appointment and drove Scotto up the wall with my neurotic, hypochondriac hysterics.

“My friend Nettie’s Aunt went into kidney failure from the dye and now she’s on dialysis for the rest of her life!” 

I spluttered at Scotto on the morning of the procedure.

“How old was she, Pinky?” he demanded.

“Eighty-something… and I admit she only had one kidney to start with… but even so!”

He had to practically push me out the door.

The next day I sat in the doctor’s surgery as she perused the results of the CT scan, attempting to read the expression on her face.

'Was I dying? Was this the end for Pinky?'

The doctor wore a troubled, almost irritated expression; this wasn’t looking good.

“Unfortunately…” she sighed dramatically. Adrenaline shot through my body, my breath quickened in fear and I tasted metal in my mouth.

“Unfortunately… the CT scan isn’t showing us any more detail than the ultrasound. Why didn’t you have the dye injected?” she asked in a slightly edgy tone of voice.

“Um,” relief flooded my body. “The technician said I didn’t HAVE to have it if I didn’t want it.”

The doctor stared at me for a few seconds of intensity and scribbled a note on her pad. She was probably writing something mean about me being an annoying patient or something.

“I’m sending you to a specialist,” the doctor said wiping her hands of me like Pontius Pilate did when he sent a certain Someone to see King Herod. “She’s a Uro-Gynecologist and should be able to sort out all your problems for you.”

So, yesterday I fronted up to my very own Uro-Gynecologist after an apprehensive two month wait.

She didn’t care about me chickening out of the contrast dye. She seemed to be able to read the CT scan perfectly.

“One of your kidneys is slightly enlarged as is the opening to one of your ureters,” she declared. “It could be the result of a few factors; stones, a congenital fault, a kink, or even a foreign body… but that’s unlikely considering your history,” she added whilst quickly scanning my form.

I was prescribed some straight forward tablets and have to schedule another ultrasound in three months. My kidney function is perfectly normal and she didn’t seem at all concerned. I practically skipped out of the surgery in joy.

I’m not dying!

However, one thing continued to puzzle and intrigue me. How could a foreign body possibly get into a ureter and why did the doctor think it was an unlikely scenario for me?

So… I looked it up.

It seems, the most common way is for a foreign body to be poked up into the ureter by the patient themselves!

I read a case of a fifty year old man who had, for autoerotic purposes, rammed a rod up his ureter and when it became stuck then inserted a magnet. That trick also failed so he did what any straight thinking auto-eroticist would do and poked another magnet up to retrieve the first. 

And wouldn’t you know it, the two silly magnets stuck together leaving the gentleman in a spot of bother.

If you think this is more of Pinky’s utter rubbish and I’m making it up, then here's the link. There are even photos for the more quizzical amongst you!

One thing I’m very relieved about however, is that my Uro-Gynecologist (after looking at my history) did not believe Pinky is the type of person who would experiment with her ureter in such an irresponsible manner.

Always the Bride and Never the Bridesmaid.

I’ve never been asked to be a bridesmaid and I’m damn sure it’s not because I look like Jennifer Hawkins and none of my friends wanted to have me outshining them on their special day.

On reflection, it doesn’t say much about my excellent qualities as a friend really, does it? Even my sister Sam, robbed me of the opportunity and highly esteemed title by sneaking off to a registry office and not even inviting me to the event.

I’ve had a lot of close and cherished friends over the years and partook of many a wedding ceremony; but no bride ever thought Pinky quite made the grade sufficiently to ask her to be a bridesmaid. .. and the boat has well and truly sailed, my friend. 

In fact it sunk years ago, was raised from the murky depths and sold for scrap metal to Auscon.

As an aficionado of pink taffeta,(You should really read this post!) this lack of recognition by my friends has always been a bugbear with me.

I was, however, asked to be the God mother of a friend’s child many years ago... which was a bit of an honour. We’d been friends since thirteen years of age and were about twenty at the time.

Then, four years later, we had a major falling out. 

A major falling out. 

We didn’t speak for twenty-eight years.

Twenty-eight years… including three marriages (okay, two of them were Pinky’s), two divorces, the birth of seven more children between us, the caring for and subsequent passing of two parents (my friend’s), and many other major life changing events, not to mention the absence of about a zillion shared wines and coffees, many hideous haircuts (Pinky) and a few hundred kilograms in transit (Pinky).

About a week ago my friend and I serendipitously reconciled. We’d been literally “caught in the rain” together and one shy smile led to another. Last night we spent a girly, sacred few hours drinking wine, eating cheese and catching up on the last twenty-eight years.

It’s funny how you can just pick up where you left off. There were many tears and much laughter as we rehashed old memories and resurrected our friendship. 

The moral of the story is... it's NEVER too late to make peace.

There’s only one thing that worries me deeply about our fortuitous reunion though… I now have a sh#tload of birthday and Christmas cards/presents to catch up on for my thirty-two year old, computer engineer God son.

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's Organisational Tips (Give-away!)

As the five kids grew bigger and smellier, Scotto and I had a crack at instigating some level of order into the chaos. 

Tired of sorting out huge piles of laundry every day we installed pigeon holes in the laundry so that as soon as clothes were carelessly yanked off the line they were to be placed in the appropriate hole until the assigned child took them upstairs to their bedroom to be neatly hung up.

What happened was this.

Then we bought another set of allocated shelves for any school bags/books/clutter belonging to the untidy teens we found lying around the house on a daily basis.

The shelves would inevitably be overstuffed with mud-caked joggers, odd rubber thongs and a plethora of smelly football socks with the odd school lunch rotting in darkness at the back.

We took to placing signs in obvious places reminding the kids about social niceties such as flushing the toilet, not slamming doors and doing their own washing up.

It was the latter which caused the most contention.

“Why don’t you get the dishwasher fixed Mum!” they’d whinge. Lulu even dobbed on me to her grandmother, complaining about having to perform slave labour by doing the washing up because I was too cheap to spring for dishwasher repairs. In those eight years after it broke down, Lulu probably actually did the washing up… let me see… um… oh that’s right… never.

In fact, I could count on one hand the amount of times any of them ever did the washing up.

Why didn’t I bite the bullet and have the bloody thing fixed?

Because I needed a place to hide things from the kids.

Now that the kids have grown up and don’t spend much time at home, I feel it’s finally time to make life easier for Scotto and me. I’m going to buy a brand new dishwasher as I’ve investigated the role of dishwashers and their ability to save energy (electrical and human).

Of course I will have to teach Scotto how to load a dishwasher properly and I foresee the odd clash of opinions but what the heck.

I have a pack of Finish Qantum Power Gel Balls to give away to the first (Australian only sorry) person to leave a comment on this post.

The second comment on the post will win a twelve year old Miele two-drawer dishwasher and this wonderful prize is open to anyone… even if you live in Timbuktu. 

*Conditions Apply



*Conditions
The winner of the Miele dishwasher must come and collect it themselves and clean up all the cockroach poo that’s been collecting underneath it for the last twelve years.

How being a Primary School Teacher can Destroy your Self-Esteem!

                                 

I was on playground duty the other day and a rather candid Grade One-er approached me with her head cocked to one side staring at me from under her long lashes. I smiled at her indulgently. Those little ones are so cute.

“Are you old?” she enquired with all the delicacy of someone slamming a blackboard ruler into my face.

“Apparently,” I replied after a few seconds stunned silence.

There was not much more to say.

I recall a couple of years ago some older girls strolled up to me in the playground. “Excuse us for asking Mrs Poinker… but are you expecting?”

I burnt that dress as soon as I got home… burnt it dead.

“What are these?” asked a curious eight year old one day, as he pressed the bulging veins on my wizened, thin-skinned hands with intense interest. “My Grandma’s got them too!”

Another time a young boy vigilantly ogled me with a wary look on his face the whole time as I read the class a story using my most dramatically expressive voice and facial expression. I thought he was interested in my excellent rendition of Roald Dahl’s “The Twits”.

“You look like Cap’n Jack Sparrow,” he lisped in horrified fascination when I finished the chapter and put the book down.

I was mortified last year when one of my boys greeted me in the morning with his frank, albeit blunt comment, “Are you tired Mrs Poinker? You have really big bags under your eyes! You need to go to bed earlier.”

Then I remembered I used to say the same thing to him when he arrived at school after staying up all night watching the State of Origin with his dad.

I used to be miffed when the kids accidentally called me “Grandma”. Now it doesn’t worry me anywhere near as much as when they accidentally call me “Grandad”.

On another happier note, please note the excellent Avatar my darling husband Scotto, created for me to replace the out of date profile picture I’ve clung to for the last twelve months.

There doesn’t appear to be a jowl, wrinkle or grey hair in sight! I only look about twenty-five! At least someone still thinks I look okay. Those overly forth-right kids know nothing!

The Cats in the Cradle have Silver Spoons in their Mouths.

                  Pinky... so happy to spend time with her scowling kids.

My kids arrived seems like the other day
They came into the world in the usual way
But they cost a lot there were bills to pay

They learned to walk and soon moved away
And they’d smart mouth me back and as they grew
They’d say never gonna be like you Mum
You know I’m never gonna be like you

And the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon
C’mon sing along cos you know the tune
"When you comin’ home son?"
"I don’t know when but it might be close to ten
You know that you're nagging me again."

My son turned nineteen just the other day
He said, “Thanks for the cash now I’m off to play."
"Can I come too?", I asked. "Not today
You’ll cramp my style." I said, "That's ok."
And he walked away but my smile never dimmed
I said, "I'm gonna always love him, yeah
You know I'm gonna always love him"


Well, he came home from Uni just the other day
So much like a man I just had to say
"Son, I'm proud of you, can you sit for a while?"
He shook his head and said with a smile
"What I'd really like, Mum, is to borrow the car keys
See you later, can I have them please?"



(Some things don’t need changing)

I've long since aged, my kids stay away
I called them up just the other day
I said, "I'd like to see you if you don't mind"
They said, "We'd love to, Mum, if we can find the time
If you take us to dinner and you shout us too
Then we might spend time with you, Mum
We sure might spend time with you.

And as I hung up the phone it occurred to me
It’s my only guarantee
My kids' love is not for free.

Linking up at Laugh Link... 

Have A Laugh On Me | Melbourne Mum | Talking Frankly |  

  26 Years and Counting

Bananadrama!

     

Image Credit

                                 

I read in a newspaper recently that General Practitioners are in the firing line because patients take affront when they look things up on Google while the patient is still in the room. I’ve had it happened to me and it didn’t bother me. 

I’d rather they check the medication they’re about to prescribe, than for me to wind up lying on the kitchen floor with my legs twitching in the air like a baited cockroach. As long as he or she wasn’t checking for information on Wikipedia.

However, I would draw the line at my doctor running back and forth from the computer, waving a cold speculum around whilst performing a pap smear on me.

People, even doctors, shouldn’t be expected to know everything.

The same must be said for primary school teachers. Or perhaps I’m speaking for myself.

We’re learning about the subject of plants this term and I thought I’d take the kids for a stroll around the periphery of the oval to look at leaves, roots and other botanical things. Someone picked a flower from a tree and handed it to me.

“When a flower is pollinated this part of the flower swells, the petals fall off and it transforms into a fruit!” I informed them knowledgeably. “Then seeds grow inside the fruit, the fruit drops to the ground and the cycle starts over again.”

I was on a roll with all eyes riveted on me. “Do you know the difference between a fruit and a vegetable?” 

I challenged, knowing this titbit would blow their minds.

“A fruit has seeds whereas a vegetable doesn’t.” I waited for the inevitable discussion about tomatoes.

There was silence. Finally one bright spark raised his hand, “So a banana isn’t a fruit, Mrs Poinker?”

I stared hard at the small boy trying to think of an answer. In my mind’s eye I imagined the pulp of a banana rotting in the soil. Surely a banana is a fruit. But I’d certainly never cracked a tooth on a banana seed.

“Pumpkins have seeds!” added another.

“So do cucumbers and capsicums!” chimed another.

It seemed I was out of my depth. The eight year olds had outwitted me and were circling like hungry hyenas.

As soon as we arrived back in the classroom, I surreptitiously logged on to Mr Google while the kids put their hats away.

“Does a banana have seeds?” I typed, feeling ridiculous.

And guess what? They don’t have seeds. They used to but now, according to Dr Karl, “The internal dark lines and spots inside today's banana are the vestigial remnant of seeds,” and the seeds were bred out of them many years ago for commercial purposes. But they’re still a fruit.

As for all those other vegetables the kids were throwing at me (not literally)… they’re technically fruits as well, but from a culinary perspective they aren’t sweet so they’re vegetables.

Google came in handy this morning too when a student came in rubbing her throat and complaining her cat had scratched her. “I was asleep,” she whispered confidentially to me. “You know how cats think you’re dead when you’re asleep and try to eat you? Well my cat tried to eat me.”

I was fairly sure this wasn’t true but I Googled it just to make sure.

This is what I found!

A cat will begin eating a human body just a few hours after death. Even if the cat has plenty of food.

* This FACT about cats was brought up during a presentation of crime scene photos by a homicide detective at Eastern Michigan University. He said that it was common for cats to do this. He mentioned he has never seen a dog eat human flesh, but it probably would too if it got hungry enough.

Cat's just like fresh meat a lot more.

I knew it! (I'm not going to credit my source because my cat's looking over my shoulder licking its lips.)

                                     

Who Decides on Who has Real Talent Anyway?

It makes me really, freakin cranky when I see sub-standard crap being praised on the media/internet whilst clearly talented musicians, writers, actors, artists are consistently overlooked most often due to nepotism, contacts and hype.

Scotto went into paroxysms of gladness this arvo because the sultry North Queensland sky finally decided to open its retentive bladder and provide us with some long lusted after rain!

“Let’s go to the Riverside Tavern and watch the water falling from the sky!” he enthused like a true ex-Melburnian.

So off we went to sit by the river and savour a couple of cold ales staring at each other in boredom with nothing to discuss but what level of overflowing our pool would be at.

Imagine my delighted surprise when the afternoon’s entertainment proved to be the acoustic guitar playing genius and undiscovered talent of Jeremy Romeo. 

“Here we go…” I thought as we sashayed in and I saw the ginger in rubber thongs and a singlet. 

“We’ll be in for some off-key renditions of Cold Chisel and rubbish of the like.”

I couldn’t have been more wrong if I’d said NAPLAN would be phased out by 2014… (Bloody stupid thing should be...)

My point is… this boy blew us away with his appealing tonal quality, his understated demeanor and his ability to make us put our glasses down and listen the f%#k up.

It worries me that there is much raw, unbridled talent out there in the world that’ll never see the light of day!

I watch the big stars playing live on Sunrise and frankly they sound like a bunch of sh#t. They can't actually sing unless they're produced to buggery! Then you listen to an unknown guy playing his itty-bitty guitar, singing like a nightingale and not hitting one bung note. Who has the talent I ask you?

So please take a look at this twenty-two year old’s work and tell me he’s not bloody awesome!

Jeremy's Youtube Channel :)

Like his page and support these jewels amongst our midst!

Jeremy Romeo! 

Apparently there IS a CYCLONE coming after all.

Cyclone Dylan

I was in a spot of bother the other day on Twitter when I announced to my followers (some awesome people, some unidentified bots and numerous cats and dogs) that a cyclone was ominously hurtling towards us. 

A physics professor from the local university chipped me (and rightly so) about sending out alarming and non-factual information… so I deleted the tweet immediately.

Now, it seems that there IS a cyclone heading towards us and it is predicted to make landfall about 100 kms south of our city early tomorrow morning. As I gaze out the window it does appear to be a bit windy outside and spitting lightly, but nothing to write home about yet. 

Yet.

That’s the trouble with cyclones. They’re quite unpredictable. They can spin around, head back to sea and come back with a vengeance. Or they can change track, build in intensity and cause massive tide surges and devastating floods.

The big question however is… will school be cancelled tomorrow?

“You must be hoping so, Pinky!” I hear you jeering.

The truth is, no, I don’t want school to be cancelled.

The announcement won’t be broadcast until 6:00 am tomorrow morning and if I have to haul my menopausal body out of bed at that ungodly hour (after feverishly waking every hour bathed in sweat, on the hour, every hour) to check the Internet for notifications, I may as well get up, have a shower and go to bloody work.

That’s the only reason I dislike work at all in the first place. 

Getting out of bed in the morning.

It’s only three days into the school year but I can already tell I have a delightful class this year. One of my little nine year old students walked past me in the playground yesterday and lisped, “I love you Mrs. Poinker!” How could anyone resist that superstar adulation?

My class is a captive audience for me to practise my jokes on, expound my deep knowledge on various frivolous subjects to and entertain with my side-splitting anecdotes with added clowning tricks. They’re an adoring crowd… as opposed to my own kids who ceased listening to their asinine mother many years ago.

So… despite the rampant media sensationalism (by reporters who always seem to congregate in Cairns for some reason), I’m fairly certain and dearly hope Cyclone Dylan will prove to be another dud and we’ll all wake up unscathed and secure in our beds tomorrow morning. 

Stay safe everyone!

In Praise of the Rubber Thong

In patriotic jubilation, yesterday (Australia Day) was spent at a family gathering hosted by my sister Sam and her husband Pedro. There was a backyard pool, a barbeque, lots of snags and lamb chops and the odd cool, refreshing beverage.

But it was what lay beneath the table that arrested Pinky’s attention and a quick spot check revealed just how Australian we all are. There was no official dress code, no requirement expressed on the invitation decorously sent via text message and yet we all chose to attend suitably and identically attired.

WE WERE ALL WEARING THONGS! 

Pinky's Thongs*

                         

                                                       
                                                        Uncle Pedro's Thongs*

                                

                                  Sinead's Thongs*

According to my go-to source of up to the minute information, Wikipedia, the ‘thong’ has been around since Egyptian times when they were made from papyrus leaves; but I beg to differ. 

They were invented and embraced by Queenslanders as more than just an iconic form of footwear. They belong to us and us alone... we have a myriad of uses for them!

                                                  

                                               Scotto's Thongs*

1. They are ideal for leaving outside the front door for the convenience of slipping on when you need to walk across the front lawn to take the wheelie bin out. It negates the mandate to run the gauntlet of vicious spiky weeds invoking what’s known as the “Bindi-Eye Dance”. The best thing is the cane toads can’t hide inside providing the unsuspecting candidate with a slippery surprise.

2. Rubber thongs have the perfect aerodynamics for hurling at the wall when out of the corner of your eye you spot a flaming big cockroach tentatively making its way up the lounge room wall while you’re eating the dinner precariously balanced on your lap and watching Border Patrol.

3. Ever step in dog poo in rubber thongs? No problem. But have you ever tried to get dog poo out of the corrugated sole of your jogger? Found a small stick in the garden or a random ballpoint pen and attempted to gouge the excrement out bit by bit? Just when you think you’ve got it all you turn the shoe over and realise it’s soaked into the fabric. Rubber thongs can be hosed off… or just thrown out for that matter. They only cost two dollars at Coles.

                                Sister Sam's Thongs*

4. Rubber thongs save lives. My friend’s auntie’s sister-in-law’s cleaning lady was ironing when she received an electric shock and the only thing that saved her was the insulation from the RUBBER THONGS SHE WAS WEARING!

                              Greigor's Thongs*

5. Rubber thongs are perfect for our tropical climate cancelling out sweaty feet and invalidating nasty fungal infections like Tropical Toe. And when it gets too cold you can always wear them with socks!

6. Thongs are a social status equaliser. I once walked into a doctor’s surgery and guess who was wearing thongs? 

Me. But I wouldn’t have been put off it was the doctor.

7. Scotto has been known to chuck the odd thong at Ibis’s stealing the cat’s food, the television when Tony Abbott comes on the screen and our longstanding residents, the Mynah Birds, when they poop all over our patio table after he’s only just hosed it.

8. Personally I find rubber thongs to be the most versatile apparel in my wardrobe. Black thongs for good wear, white thongs for any time before Labor Day and pink for when I’m feeling flirtatious.

9. Top Tip: If your workplace health and safety people insist on you wearing closed in shoes my advice is to simply wear a bandage around one toe and you’ll beat the system for at least a week.



Anyone have any other uses I haven’t thought of?

*I may have accidentally mixed up some of the photos.

Posting at With Some Grace!... for FYBF

An Immigrant's Guide to Australian Slang

Way back in 1947 my paternal grandparents arrived in Australia with their three young sons as ‘Ten Pound Poms’ which I suppose makes me a first generation Australian, on one side of the family anyway.

This is a newspaper from 1947. My grandmother is front row third on the right.

Thank God my grandparents made the decision to emigrate using the assisted passage scheme along with over a million others between 1945 and 1972 or I’d never have been born and that would have been a particularly disappointing outcome (for me anyway).

Excluding our First Australians, our Indigenous population (roughly 690 000 people), we’re all immigrants to Australia or the descendants of immigrants really, aren’t we?

It doesn’t mean any of us aren’t Australians... whether we arrived last year or with the First Fleet back in 1788.

I’ve never felt more Australian than the times I’ve travelled overseas.

Travelling around Ireland with five kids under eleven years of age and my then husband, was one time my antipodean identity was truly brought home to me.

* Mind you, Britain is our antipodes when you think about it.

I recall my five ravenous kids noisily spilling out of our ‘people mover’ in order to infiltrate a fish and chip shop somewhere in rural County Fiddle-ee-dee in 2000.

The patrons and staff fell silent, staring at us as if we’d just landed a flying saucer and emerged in lizard suits; especially as soon as the kids opened their mouths to speak.

“Or’ll have fish ‘n chips with termarda sauce, Mum!” they drawled in their Australian accents, scuffing their rubber thongs or bare feet on the floor of the shop. I examined the tanned faces and sun streaked hair of my tiny Aussies; a result of hours spent in our backyard pool and realised how alien we must all have looked and sounded.

When we finally touched down in Cairns after a month in Europe, the pilot announced our arrival in a typical Aussie twang but as we hadn’t heard it for a month it sounded as if he was taking the mickey.

“Why does he sound so Australian, Mum?” asked a puzzled nine year old Jonah.

A teacher once told me the Australian accent developed because there were so many flies and the English and Irish had to learn to speak without opening their mouths and letting the flies in. 

Try to speak in an English accent without opening your mouth very much… see!

It must be confusing for new Aussies to understand our accents let alone some of the words and sayings we have, so I’ve made a list of translations.

Dickhead: Anyone who cuts you off in traffic, burns off ahead of you at the traffic light in a souped up Commodore with a Chevvy badge or drives a Ute and has red P plates. On Australia Day they can be spotted with yellow and green zinc creamed faces wearing only a pair of budgie smugglers and a flag.

Bloody Dickhead: Same as above but gets really drunk and starts yelling at anyone who looks vaguely ethnic about how they should go back to their own country.

Bastard: Someone you can’t stand because they’ve slighted you in some diabolical way in the past.

Bloody Bastard: Someone you love because they’re a rascally rogue eg; “How are you, ya bloody bastard?”

Sanger: A sandwich usually containing corned beef and pickles or curried egg.

Sausage Sanger: A cheap form of food consisting of one piece of bread rolled around a sausage and can be bought outside a hardware shop on Saturday mornings. Found in abundance on Australia Day.

A Stephen Bradbury: When you win something by default. For example; when you’re playing Monopoly on Australia Day and everyone else loses interest and leaves the game to sleep off their sausage sangers and you’re the only one left.

Togs: Lycra sausage casings you squeeze into and attempt to hide behind a towel until the last possible second before you’re able to conceal your over-inflated torso in the swimming pool.

Are there bones in that?: What you say to someone who is choking on the coconut on their Lamington.


Pavlova: An ultra-sweet dessert used to throw at people on Australia Day when they cheat at Monopoly or do cannonballs in the swimming pool splashing chlorinated water in your plastic cup of Chardonnay.

Happy Australia Day you bloody bastards!

Sinead's Poignant Ballad: Nothing Compares to Pinky.

As promised, tonight's post is a guest post by one of our dearest family friends, Sinead (not O'Connor or the one from Bananarama). She's one of the most acerbic, witty and annoying people I know and I'm sure you will find her waffling to be very entertaining.

               

Good evening readers (feel free to apply your own time zone, I care not a jot),

As those most loyal and faithful amongst you would know, I am Sinead - sidekick to Sister Sam (the Baldrick to her Blackadder, the Laurie to her Fry, the French to her Saunders etc ad nauseum).

Please note that my real name is not "Sinead". I threatened to sue the pants off Her Poinkerness if she used my real name...which is actually Geoff.

I have known and loved the extended Poinker clan for two decades - which is almost twenty years when you think about it. Sam and I first bonded when she would pop into the video store where I loitered behind the counter, Tarantino-style...just waiting for someone to read my manuscripts. She expressed a deep and abiding fondness for the written word (just what I wanted to hear, trying to flog videos and whatnot!) and I knew how to read so we formed our own little Book Club founded on a mutual adoration for John Irving's "A Prayer For Owen Meany"...cheers, John.

Perhaps our relationship would have maintained this vague customer/client status had it not been for the intervention of Sam's husband, the legendary Uncle Pedro. At the time, he was a rarely seen, formidable, grunting figure whose suburban reputation preceded him as a local bruiser/boozer/businessman with whom one did not f**k.

One November morning he bellied up to the counter and said. "You're coming 'round for a drink for my wife's birthday. She likes you."
(Nawwwww)
"Well, thank you so much but I couldn't possibly. You se.."
"You. Are. Coming. Round. For.My. Wife's. Birthday."

It was like a Jedi mind trick with more oomph.

Consequently, I meekly turned up with a bottle of something cheap, fizzy and vaguely celebratory...and I never left.

Pedro and Sam made me part of their family. Their generosity and kindness to me have been boundless. They have let me share the joy of their three kids as if they were my own. They loved and supported me through my father's long battle with cancer...Pedro even paid for his wake!

(Not sure what the old man would have thought about the night ending at a strip club but surely naked chicks make everything better?)

We've laughed, cried, sang, fought and loved each other regardless. We have drunk an unseemly amount of booze and often danced like nobody was watching...I hope nobody was. We dyed the dog green on St Patrick's Day and ceremoniously buried the cat when she passed all too soon. To be fair, I was only invited to the funeral because I could lay my hands on a shovel and wield it more efficaciously than a bread knife but that is incidental.

And that is the back story.

(Note from Blog Host: Here comes the important part.)

I met Pinky fairly early in the relationship. Sam is the quintessential "middle child" (quiet, unobtrusive, insular, weird) and has grown up with a certain degree of respect and deference for her older sister. If you have read earlier blogs, a healthy sense of fear for her own physical well-being may have factored into it. How I tried to kill sister Sam.

I cannot recall exactly the circumstances of our first encounter, but it was before Pinky fell pregnant with the delightful Lulu (aka "please let this one be a girl and maybe she'll stop!"). Sam prepped me for the meeting like it was going to be a mid-term at MIT - what to say, what not to say "please don't try and be funny because not everyone thinks you're as funny as you do".....I get that a lot.

So. Pinky pulled up to Sam's place one afternoon and the entire brood tumbled out of an unfeasibly small vehicle (Ringling Bros had nothing on them) and proceeded to wreak havoc while Pinky issued motherly warnings and karate chops in equal measure.

                                 

After initial pleasantries, Pinky gave me a quick "up and down" (she has a knack) and, apropos of very little said, "Ok, Sinead - who do you think is prettier... Me or Sam?"

Imagine, if you will, the horrible, slow, sitcom-esque moment in which I realised she wasn't hinting at some obscure family in-joke...

Sophie had an easier choice (apologies, Ms Streep)!!

I took the coward's way out and shot myself in the foot. Far less painful.

But seriously folks - along with Sam, I have been a Pinky fan waaaaayyy before this blog made it fashionable. I have attended her performances in amateur local dramatic productions (no Deidre was ever more sorrowful, to be sure, to be sure), I have applauded from the sidelines as she made the lunatic decision to strike out on her own with five kids in tow. I have cheered as she went back to university and studied her arse off to achieve her teaching degree (five kids still in tow). I snickered behind my hand when she started chatting to some geeky dude on the interweb...I believe you all know him as "Scotto" (I'm sure she'll tell him about the five kids one day).

I didn't have the good fortune to be raised with sisters, But now, thanks to Sam and Pinky, I feel that I am blessed with two - both younger and much, MUCH prettier.