Pinky Crosses that Bridge.

Hanging in a kind of limbo as I wait to go to my call back appointment at the Breastscreen clinic tomorrow must be making me a bit nostalgic because instead of taking my usual circuit around the river this afternoon, I strolled across the footbridge and walked through the streets finding myself heading towards the house I grew up in for seventeen years or so.

Walking along the street towards the old house was a strange mix of familiarity and reminiscence. I must have walked that street thousands of times after catching the bus home from school, staring at the ground, counting my dreary steps in boredom. It seems so small now; such a short street of only about a dozen houses.

I wanted a photo of the house and fortunately when I arrived at the front there were two teenage girls playing Frisbee out the front.

They stared at the weirdly gawping woman as their Boxer hurled itself against the fence barking menacingly.

“I used to live here when I was a little girl,” I croaked, possibly coming across as the type of suspicious, peculiar old hag whose presence they should immediately alert their mother to… which of course they did.

I apologetically repeated my mantra to the mother when she came out to the gate. I’d clearly interrupted her dinner preparations.

“Were you from the Poinker family?” she enquired pleasantly.

“Yes! I was a Poinker!” I replied, happy that she knew the name of the very first owners of this house and that even though she may have lived here for twenty years it was really still OUR house.

“I dream about this house all the time!” I rabbited on. “That was my bedroom when I was a little girl.”

If some wild-eyed stranger rocked up to my front door and told me they’d once lived in my house I’d probably smile, say ‘That must have been nice for you!’ and close the door in their face; especially if I was in the middle of cooking dinner. 

But fortunately for Pinky not everyone is that grumpy and the affable Sue, invited me in to have a sticky beak around.

Everything inside the shell of the house has been completely renovated, retiled and remodelled. There was no trace of anything familiar; even Dad’s masterpiece of a pool had been renovated.

But that bedroom window I sat at staring out of hour upon hour, hoping to catch my boyfriend doing a drive-by, was still in the same spot. 

The bedroom window my sister Sam and I precariously hung out of while smoking Benson and Hedges and trying not to get caught was still in situ. 

It was the very same window sill I sat on when I was seven, waiting for my father to pull up in his work utility every night so that I’d be the first one to greet him. 

The same windows all my Daryl Braithwaite and Sherbet posters were sticky taped onto.

Then I saw another forgotten window which brought a deeply buried memory flooding back. 

                              There was no screen back in the day!

When I was about twenty years old, I arrived home after having been out partying all night. I was a horrible, selfishly thoughtless young lady and my parents, fed up with my inconsiderate ways had deliberately locked me out and gone shopping. 

My jittery hangover didn’t stop me shimmying up the drain pipe though. Hoisting myself onto the roof and squeezing my body through Mum’s bathroom window like a cockroach I managed to infiltrate the lockout.

Mum hit the roof when she arrived home and found me lying on the couch lethargically eating coffee ice cream out of the tub. 

Then, after she discovered how I’d broken in, she was incredulous.

“It’s a wonder you didn’t kill yourself, Pinky Poinker!” she fumed, with a badly disguised undercurrent of disappointment in her voice.

Hagar has broken into our house many times in a similar way over the years. Now I understand in hindsight, where he inherited his break and enter tendencies from.

So thank you to Sue for welcoming a Nosey Parker she didn't know from squat into her house and for not thinking I was casing the joint when I took photos of her bathroom window with the easy access. 

It brought back some precious memories.

Do you ever dream about the house you grew up in?

Pinky gets a Recall after her Mammogram

Remember last week's post about my devious procrastination of phoning to book an appointment for a bi-annual mammogram and the story of how the Breastscreen nurse had diligently pursued me and locked me into an appointment on Monday?

Well since that fateful rendezvous, I’ve been watching my phone much like a small grey mouse watching a cobra that’s reared up, hood spread and about to strike. 

Every time the phone malevolently ‘hissed’ at me, adrenaline shot through my entire body as I desperately feared it was Breastscreen Queensland calling to deliver bad news.

I found myself ‘forgetting’ to take my phone with me to school or leaving it on silent and only checking it sporadically, breathing a sigh of relief after summoning the courage to peer at the screen and discovering there were no missed calls or messages.

By Friday I’d heard nothing and relaxed, enjoying the weekend, assuming all would be fine.

“Surely they’d have called by now if there was anything wrong,” I bleated piteously to Scotto on Sunday.

So it was with heart thumping wildly in my chest and hands shaking that I answered a private number via Bluetooth as I drove to work at 7:30 this morning.

The nurse’s dulcet tones ominously came over the phone informing me the doctors had reviewed my x-rays and need to see me again… for a few hour of testing… at the hospital... in three days’ time.

Damn! I’d thought I was out of the Neurotic Woods and joyously sprinting towards the sunny clearing.

The voice I used when speaking to the nurse didn’t seem to be coming from my own body. The terror I felt surging through every nerve wasn’t evident in the weirdly chirpy responses shrilling from my tense throat. 

After she hung up the phone I felt as though I’d been in a dream.

I wanted to pull over to the side of the road and call Scotto to hear his comforting voice and reassurances but there was a dirty big semi-trailer tailgating me on the motorway so I breathed deeply and endeavoured to remember what the statistics were for getting a recall.

Was it nine in ten… or one in ten? I hoped it was the former but highly doubted it.

“It’s probably just a cyst!” said my ultra-supportive Deputy Principal when I explained my situation and requested Thursday off.

“It’s probably nothing at all! Just a loose bit of skin or something.” quipped my close friend, Kyles.

Of course I had to ask Sue the Librarian for her thoughts on the matter because librarians know pretty much everything. School librarians are like Yoda.

“Well Pinky,” she said, “The thing with mammograms is that even if it’s the worst case scenario… (you know what she meant; that blood-curdling C word) then a mammogram usually picks it up when it’s at an extremely early stage.”

Therefore, as a believer in self-affirmations, I’ve compiled a ready reckoner of reasons it is nothing to worry about.

1. The recall wasn’t urgent.

2. Nine out of ten recalls after routine mammograms turn out to be nothing.

3. I had a mammogram just over the recommended two years ago so I haven’t left it for too long.

4. It could be a silly old cyst or some other simple, benign annoyance.

5. It could simply be they didn’t get a very good image because Pinky, being a bit of a sook, flinched when the flash bulb went off.

I do recall teetering on one instep with my hand on one hip burlesque style and the opposite boob clamped painfully in a waffle iron. I may have wobbled slightly.

Anyway, there’s no point in worrying is there? There’s nothing I can do to change the prognosis so I may as well stop stressing.

I would like to hear any stories you have though. Have any of you ever had the dreaded recall? Please share.

Pinky the Clairvoyant’s Electrifying Reading Just for You!

Have you ever seen those clairvoyants on the telly preying on the grief and desperation of the recently bereaved? 

 I reckon I could do what they do hanging upside down with a large carrot stuffed in my gob.

How about I do a reading for you using my ‘spirit guides’ and please let me know how good I am…

I have three people coming through to me right now. I feel one of these people is a lady who passed away. Do you know the lady I may be talking about? Her name starts with a vowel, it could be an A?

No? Then it must be one of the others.

Am I right? 

No?

Another letter? I thought so. Who is it?

Ah… your Grandma!

So, she’s holding something up to show me.

Is it an earring? No?

A necklace… some piece of jewellery… it’s round… could it be a tennis ball? Yes it definitely looks like a tennis ball.

Ah! So Grandma played tennis. No?

Did she ever watch tennis on the telly? 

Cricket? 

Was there ever a tennis ball or any type of ball in the same room as your Grandma? 

Yes? Great! It’s definitely Grandma then.

She’s giving me a message for a friend of yours. The friend’s name starts with a T. No?

An S or an M? 

Middle name? 

Maybe a P?

Peter! You have a friend called Peter. Great!

Okay, she has a message for Peter. The message has something to do with the house he lives in and how he can save money. 

I see the number of the house has a 6 in it… or a 9. Six and nine can be turned upside down you see. 

No?

What about 3? Six and nine are multiples of three. 

No? 

It’s definitely an odd number… or an even? 

Yes? Great!

She’s holding up a letter… an electricity bill. She says to tell Peter to pay it during the discount period and he’ll save some money…

How’d I go? Pretty accurate?

Well… we certainly didn’t need a clairvoyant to tell us our electricity bills were going to skyrocket this quarter. The Poinker’s bill came in alarmingly close to $1300 and we’re seriously thinking of going Amish.

This was despite switching to low tariff, changing all the light bulbs to LED, using remote control power point switcher off-er-ers , purchasing a new energy efficient fridge and applying rigid, Stalinesque guidelines regarding the teenagers’ use of air-conditioning during the day.

            Padlock on the power box preventing banned Air Con being turned back on by                                               rebellious teens who don't pay board.

We know what the culprit is. It’s the bloody pool filter. I’ve a good mind to fill the pool with cement and build a green house on the top of it. Or empty it and transform it into a windowless, very hot granny flat for when the Mother-in-Law comes to visit (jokes Joan!).

I know… first world problems; but enough is enough. 

When is North Queensland going to get alternative electricity suppliers to Ergon? South-East Queensland has them as well as the other metropolitan areas… why not us?


How shocking (pun) was your electricity bill? What strategies do you use to save electricity we haven’t thought of? 

*And please don’t suggest ‘better birth control’ because the horse has well and truly bolted on that one.

Pinkypedia! Facts You Don't Really Need to Know!

There are many questions in life we all need to be answered so I thought I might start my own online encyclopaedia.

Please feel free to add any questions you have in the comments.

How long is a piece of string?

Double half its length. [1]

Why do dogs look like their owners?

This is a fallacy and it never happens. [2]

What came first, the chicken or the egg?

Neither, it was the kid on the box of cornflakes holding the box with the photo of himself holding a box with a photo of himself holding a box with a photo of himself…. [3]

Why does the moon look so big in the sky sometimes?

It’s an optical illusion. When it’s close to the horizon you’re probably on your third of the evening's Chardy/Sav Blanc and it just appears to look bigger. [4]

Why does the weekend go so fast?

Seriously? The working week goes for five days and the weekend goes for only two. Five take away two is … hang on… seven take away two is… it‘s just not as long okay! [5]

Why is it so hard to lose weight?

Basically, it’s because food and wine are so bloody lovely. [6]

Why won’t my eyebrows grow back?

They’re afraid after what you did to them back in the late seventies. [7]

Why can’t I make a bowel movement?

Cheese on biscuits. [8]

Why is the sky blue?

Because it recently lost its job, had a baby and was disappointed when Breaking Bad finished. [9]

Why is my poop green?

Too many green cocktails at the St Paddy’s Day party. [10]

Why am I always tired?

Life. [11]

Why is my dog throwing up?

It ate four pig’s ears; its own and three belonging to the other dogs. [12]

How can I make my hair grow faster?

Go on school camp where you can’t shave your legs. [13]

Why do I always see the same time on the clock when I wake up in the middle of the night?

Your clock is broken. [14]

What is the smallest unit of life?

A mouse. Or maybe a flea [15]

Who is the most powerful Jedi?

Mr Spock because he was extremely logical. [16]

Why isn’t my wife talking to me?

Because she is busy writing rubbish on her blog and you should never disturb a genius. [17]

When is Pinky going to stop writing this utter garbage?

Now. [18]



Notes: [1] O’Reilly “Musings of a Male Primary Teacher” [2] Pinky Poinker “Living in Denial” [3] Pinky Poinker “Who’s Old Enough to Remember This?” [4] Pinky Poinker “A Brief History of Moon Facts”[5] Pinky Poinker “The Time Traveller's in Strife” [6] Pinky Poinker “Body for Fun” [7]Pinky Poinker “Raised Eyebrows” [8] Pinky Poinker “The Irritable Bowel and You” [9] Pinky Poinker “Popular Astrology  Astronomy [10] "Pinky Poinker [“The Irritable Bowel and You Part Two” [11] Pinky Poinker “Burning the Incense Stick at Both Ends” [12] Pablo the Chihuahua “The Hog Whisperer” [13] Pinky Poinker “ One Time on Band Camp” [14] Pinky Poinker “The Poinkerville Horror” [15] Pinky Poinker “The Voyage of the Beagle Chihuahua” [16] Pinky Poinker “The Star Wars Killajoy” [17] Pinky Poinker “It’s Probs Time to Cook Dinner” [18] Scotto  "About to Eat the Crutch From a Low Flying Crow”.

Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace for FYBF

Parent/Teacher Interviews! The Day After.

                                                                     
Before I begin, please forgive me for my croaky voice today but I spent four hours straight gibbering on at parent/teacher interviews last night and even my vocal cords have their limit. It was a long day yesterday and I really hoped today would be relatively uneventful.

When I arrived at the shelter shed to collect my class this morning one of my little girls ran up to me in distress, “Mrs Poinker! Octavian is crying and he won’t tell us what’s wrong!”

Sure enough, Octavian sat in the line with small face buried in hands and shoulders shuddering dramatically.

“What’s the matter, Octavian?” I enquired gently as we all walked to the classroom.

“When I went out to see my dog this morning he had a big, bleeding cut right across here,” he sobbed, slicing his finger down his face.

“That’s no good! Did you take him to the vet? Is he alright?” I asked with genuine concern.

“I don’t know Mrs Poinker,” he choked. “Mrs Poinker… Do you know what mythical creatures are?”

“Yes…” I responded, thinking what a strange turn of conversation had just occurred.

“I think some mythical creatures did it to him because he’s a Bandog!” he declared passionately.

“What’s a Bandog, Octavian?” I’d never heard of this breed before. Must be some new exotic type, I thought.

“You know… a Bandog! The ones you’re not allowed to have. The ones you take pig hunting!”

Oooooh…. a “banned dog”, I deduced.

“Octavian, mythical creatures don’t actually exist, mythical means …,” I stopped myself before I went too far when I realised perhaps this was a line his parents had fed him and “mythical creatures” were a pseudonym for “disgruntled neighbours”.

Fortuitously, relief was at hand when we arrived at the classroom door as little Velveteen and her mother were standing there with a cage containing a couple of portly rodents. (I’d agreed she could bring them for show and tell a couple of weeks ago on the promise her Mum would stay and take the squealing creatures home after it was over.)

My class shrieked in joy; even Octavian who seemed to instantly forget the current state of his incapacitated hunting dog.

“Shoosh!” I cautioned. “Guinea Pigs are very sensitive animals.” I didn’t want any fatalities in the classroom today thank you very much.

The students formed a circle with fifty-two saucer like eyes staring at the cage in anticipation.

“Can I pass it around the circle?” asked Velveteen as she dragged the horrified beast from its cage. It had burrowed tightly at the back and was gripping on to the bars of the cage with the tenacity of a prisoner on death row about to be dragged off to the electric chair and I don’t blame it one bit.

“I don’t think that would be very nice for it, Velveteen. You just take it around and let everyone give it a very LIGHT pat,” I said, hoping to protect the animal from having its innards squeezed out of its ear holes like cream cheese out the sides of a cracker.

                             "This can't be going to end well..."

I politely declined Velveteen's kind offer of ‘a hold’ and in order to add an educational element to the occasion asked the class if they knew why guinea pigs were called guinea pigs. Naturally, no one knew, even me, but I thought I’d have a stab in the dark anyway.

“Maybe it’s because they look like pigs and come from New Guinea,” I postulated bravely, then noticed the dubious expression on Velveteen’s mother's face and thought I’d better just shut the hell up.

Eventually the (quite uninspiring) pet was placed back in its cage (still alive) and we all waved it a teary, overemotional farewell.

Incidentally, I looked it up on Pinkypedia and Guinea Pigs do not come from New Guinea. 

I wasn’t even close.

Why do you think they're called Guinea Pigs? No cheating!

Pinky's Boob-Boo.

             Scotto didn't Photoshop this at all! These are actually my boobs!

In late December I received that letter. 

Some of you will know it. It’s from the government reminding you you’re due to book an appointment for a mammogram. 

Naturally, the letter was left sitting on the kitchen counter watching my every move like a resentful husband when he discovers you’ve ‘accidentally’ thrown out his favourite old t-shirt. Every time I walked past it I could feel its glowering stare and sense its urgent desire to miraculously flutter up and inflict a vicious paper cut across my throat.

The letter sat there all the way through January until all of a sudden it was the beginning of the school year.

'It’s too late now,' thought a deliberately dawdling Pinky. 'I’ll book an appointment during the next round of school holidays in April.'

But… procrastinating Pinky underestimated the determination and true grit of BreastScreen Queensland didn’t she. In mid-February they tracked me down like a lily-livered fugitive and entrapped me in my own web of self-deceit. 

It was a private number calling… I had to answer the call; it could have been the lottery ringing with exciting news.

“We’ll book you in on March 11, Pinky,” said the steely-resolved nurse on the other end of the line.

I agreed to her terms, feeling somewhat coerced but highly impressed at the unwavering doggedness of BreastScreen Queensland in looking after the health of women. Besides, it was still another four weeks away. There was plenty of time to work myself into a neurotic lather in the days leading up so I could relax for at least three weeks.

Suddenly, as if a time warp had encircled the Earth, it was March 9. It was with deep regret that yesterday I realised I couldn’t make the longstanding appointment and I rang them this morning to postpone, possibly buying myself another few weeks of shirking the responsibility of my own health maintenance.

“I’m so sorry I have to cancel, but I just realised I have parent/teacher interviews tomorrow afternoon,” I whined on the phone to the health nurse during my lunch break.

“Oh you poor thing!” the lovely nurse gushed. “Is that when you aren’t allowed to tell parents what their kids are really like? You can’t say anything negative and have to lie through your teeth?”

I coughed lightly, “Your words not mine.”

I looked up at the two small miscreants sitting in my classroom on lunchtime detention and wondered if this nurse had seen the light at some stage and switched careers.

‘She sounds very chirpy considering my tardiness at cancelling the appointment,’ I thought.

“Well… you’re in luck, Pinky! I have an appointment free this afternoon!” she trumped.

I had one last desperate card to play.

“I had a CAT scan two months ago. Won’t that be too much radiation?” I pleaded.

“Nah… you’d probably get more radiation on a long-haul flight.”

So, with no agonising lead-up time, no time to think up elaborate excuses, I fronted up to the clinic this afternoon and allowed the radiographer to clamp and squeeze my boob-a-loobies in an ice cold, torturous sandwich press whilst taking some cheeky holiday snaps.

And I didn’t cry at all.

Okay… there may have been a whimper or two, but at least it’s over for another two years.

Get in there for your mammograms girls!

Pinky Blows Her Whistle.

                                     Whistler's Mother

Check out the very famous portrait by James Whistler which he painted in his London flat (1879) where he’d recently bustled his Irish model-mistress out to make room for the impending visit from his pious, prim mamma bear, Mrs Whistler.

A bit of a rebel, James had been kicked out of school for his appalling grades then fired from his job in the war office and had gallivanted off to Europe where he incorrectly assumed he’d completely cut the apron strings and could live a Bohemian existence with all the hedonistic benefits.

He was wrong.

Like all fretting, concerned mothers, Mrs Whistler hunted her son down, sailed across the Atlantic and stymied his hedonistic life style by her very presence alone.

What was going on in her head as she sat posing for those long hours I wonder?

You know, Mrs Whistler and I have a bit in common as she too gave birth to four sons and a daughter. 

That mildly sour expression on her face is one I’ve spotted many times as I’ve glimpsed my strained reflection in the shiny, Smart Phone screen when about to call one of my five pleasure-seeking mavericks.

Sitting tensely, staring at a blank wall/window with my fists, jaw and thighs clenched tightly enough to crack a walnut whilst waiting for one of the renegades to arrive home is exactly how I appear on any given weekend.

This weekend was a particularly Whistlery weekend as seventeen year old daughter Lulu, decided to go on a road trip 400 kilometres north of here with her girlfriend.

“But you’re both still on red P plates!” I beseeched. “You’ve only been driving for a couple of months!”

“We’re going mother,” she pouted defiantly.

“You won’t be able to book accommodation anywhere because you’re both under eighteen!” I cautioned passionately.

“Already booked a very nice hotel thanks,” Lulu smirked.

“What if you break down in the middle of nowhere?” I needled, tears running down my cheeks.

“Roadside assistance,” she flipped back confidently.

Then there was the threat of a cyclone hanging ominously off the coastline. What if they couldn’t get back because of floodwaters… or worse still, attempted to drive back in the rain?

I rang my parents hoping they’d have some guiding words of wisdom for me.

“We wouldn’t have been able to stop you from doing that at seventeen, Pinky,” offered my father unhelpfully.

So I sat like cranky Mrs Whistler for the greater part of this weekend waiting for the promised hourly texts which never materialised and visualising every possible tragic scenario befalling my only daughter in my mentally twisted head.



The girls are back now, safe and sound. But next time I might do what the canny Mrs Whistler did and drive up myself and check in to the room next door to them. 

That’d spoil their bloody weekend wouldn't it now?

                    Thanks to Scotto for the excellent Photoshopping!

What Defines a Bully?

                                We do put sunscreen on his nose every day.

Our lovely man had just arrived to clean up the jungle in our back yard and I asked him if he’d like me to put Borat, our woolly mammoth of a German Shepherd, in the pool area to allow him easy access through the side gate so he could lug various palm fronds out to his trailer without disturbance.

Willy the terrier, an aficionado of escapism antics, was also in the forefront of my mind so I decided he would have to be locked away for his own safety as well. 

As I let the big boys onto the back patio an uncompromising Chihuahua by the name of Pablo Escobark tore out of the house with misplaced vengeance and aggressively fronted all up in Borat’s grill, barking violently in the shepherd’s snout,

“You theenk you’re so tough Holmes? What you goieeng to dooo?? Huh? Huh? Come on... fight me you seeesy!"

The gigantic shepherd turned away like the defendant who’s been well tutored by his lawyer. But onward the belligerent Mexican midget relentlessly harangued,

“Just because you the beegest doesn’t mean you da boss! I will cut you Esay! I will cut you beeg time!”

Suddenly the Shepherd, tired of the taunts, snapped and cornered the nasty little Latino against the water feature.

Pinky stood in frozen horror as her two fur babies recreated a scene from a terrifying Stephen King movie.

Little Pablo was trapped, screaming in distress and agony, but his screams were drowned out by a performance a la Pinky which would make Sarah Michelle Geller cringe in shame. 

Hearing Pinky's hysterical shrieks,the gardener came running and he witnessed her desperately attempting to wrestle the tiny parcel of South American Chilli Dog from the giant Beowulf's salivating jaws.

Eventually the Shepherd let go and Pablo hobbled whimpering and damaged into the house. Pinky locked the huge, murderous hound in the pool area and went to seek out the injured victim, frightened at what she’d find.

A bloody pulp of Chihuahua necessitating an urgent trip to the emergency weekend vet, perhaps? The thought was sickening.

Astoundingly, Pablo was intact. Not one single abrasion. Not a hair out of place, in fact.

My first instinct was the Shepherd must go. We’d find a nice home for him. We couldn’t possibly have such an aggressive animal in situ at Chez Poinker. What if children came to visit and the same thing happened to a child… but worse?

Then I thought about it more closely. Borat could have easily snapped Pablo’s neck if he’d chosen. One assertive bite from his jaws would have been a decisive finale to the Chihuahua’s short but hostile existence.

Instead, my beautiful German Shepherd decided to give the little b#stard a bit of a fright, teach him a lesson about respect and let the little sh#t live.

I know who the true bully was.

                                    Pablo Escobark

I love my German Shepherd.

The Nocturnal Dreams of a Silly Old Woman

                                      The Bondi Vet

In Freudian dream analysis, content is both the manifest and latent content in a dream, that is, the dream itself as it is remembered, and the hidden meaning of the dream.

Nothing inspires my blood pressure to significantly drop triggering compulsive and rude yawning than when someone starts telling me about the dream they had the preceding night. It might be fascinating to the dreamer but is excruciatingly mind-numbing for the unfortunate addressee.

With that in mind... I’ll try to keep this brief.

There are a few recurring dreams which disturb Pinky’s beauty sleep and I love nothing more than to try to deconstruct and analyse them.

Whilst I don’t have the classic “Naked” dream I often experience its cousin; the “Wearing No Underpants” dream. In this particular nightmare I’m always wearing a t-shirt in which I walk around in public desperately and unsuccessfully attempting to cover my ‘Republic of Labia’ by stretching the garment downwards and over.

Clearly, this dream is a subconscious revelation about Pinky’s reluctance to display private facts about her secret lifestyle. Things like the fact she scrapes gravy off her plate with her little finger and licks it off or that she wears a Velcro hair roller in her fringe every morning.

In another horrible and oft repeated nightmare, I awaken trembling, sweating and gasping. It’s the one where many years ago I apparently buried scores of dead bodies under the house and the police are doing an investigation and are about to start an excavation exposing my heinous crimes.

Do I have to explain how I interpret that little gem? 

Personally I don’t think I’ve done that many things to be guilty about but according to Freud the subconscious mind never lies.

Of course, I also have that old chestnut where my front teeth fall out and I put that down to the guilt I shoulder when I’ve been too lazy to clean my teeth before bed.

However, last night’s dream was especially difficult to decipher.

I was working at a food booth at a school fete and working at another booth beside me was none other than celebrity, the “Bondi Vet”. 

The Bondi Vet kept staring at me with his unsettling blue eyes and after a while a middle-aged Sri Lankan lady (who bore a striking resemblance to my Uro-Gynaecologist) approached me and informed me quite passionately that the Bondi Vet wouldn’t stop talking about me and was indeed, completely in love with Pinky. 

I was very flattered even though I didn’t fancy him back (despite my admiration of his large chiselled jaw)... and then I woke up.

I fleetingly thought about shaking Scotto awake and regaling him with the details of my brush with fame but immediately had second thoughts. I didn’t want Scotto to be jealous of the Bondi Vet.

Why? Why? Why? Why did the Bondi Vet find me to be so alluring?

I gradually nutted the pieces of my previous day together and it all began to make sense.

1. Daughter Lulu, had come home yesterday and told me how she’d handed in six resumes to various veterinarian surgeries around town seeking a job to fill in her gap year.

2. I’d spent some time last night looking at photographs of a storm approaching Bondi Beach.

3. I’d spent 40 minutes talking to my parents on the phone about my trip to the Uro-Gynaecologist.

Bingo!

And as far as the Bondi Vet and I go… it would never have worked out.

Firstly I’m happily married to Scotto and secondly, if the B.V. and I went out in public, people would mistake me for his elder sister and I really couldn’t stand the snide remarks.

What about you? Do you ever have recurring dreams?

Linking up with Grace, at With Some Grace!

Why Teachers Deserve Oscars

                                          

I have a collection of elaborate and contrived facial expressions I use in my classroom which are designed to express my displeasure... while at the same time save my vocal cords from a fate worse than Christopher Walken.

Firstly, there’s the refined, “Why are you using your Smiggles scissors to cut the Smiggle’s eraser your mother paid an outrageous amount for into twenty pieces?” look.

Every second day, it seems to be the “Get that poor, wretched grasshopper/cricket/moth you found on the oval and is currently imprisoned in your grass-filled lunch box out of the room as it’s distracting every other child in the class” face.

There’s also the subtle but effective, “Please don’t 'pick your nose/swing dangerously on your chair/poke the Smiggles pencil in your ear' when I’m reading the class a story. I can still see you because I know how to read using eye contact” look.

Sometimes I pull the “I wish you’d stop loudly calling out ‘Bugger!’ every time you break the lead in your pencil. I know you probably picked it up from Mum but it’s not really appropriate” look.

Occasionally I stand staring at the back wall with my quietly threatening, “You guys don’t know it but I REALLY hate standing in the frickin hot sun at Thursday afternoon sport and if you don’t shut the hell up we’ll all be sitting in the classroom when Thursday comes around learning about 3D shapes, so go ahead make my day” look.

And very, very rarely I give the psycho-killer look. 

The evil countenance where my eyes roll back in my head as if to say, “I just gave an explicit instruction, I role played it, I wrote it on the board, I had you repeat it twice, I played Hangman to reinforce it, I wrote a song about it and sang and danced it, I designed a board game about it and hung up bunting and made a cake to celebrate it… so, if you are standing here with that cute confused look on your face asking me ‘what are we supposed to be doing Mrs Poinker?’ you’d best ask someone else in the classroom if you ever want to see your mother again.”

This is why Botox injections should be tax deductible for teachers.

Are You an Attention Seeker?

When I was about eight years old, my little sister Sam caught Scarlet Fever, which you don’t hear much about these days but basically it’s a Strep infection gone silly. 

Before the discovery of antibiotics it often caused death via kidney or heart disease but because of the vivid red rash all over her body, Sam’s illness was quickly diagnosed and she received the appropriate treatment. 

I recall deeply resenting the extra attention conferred on Sam and spent a lot of time silently drifting around the house seething with jealousy.

I shared a bedroom with Sam but never developed a rash of any description so seemingly escaped infection. It didn’t stop me complaining to my mother how I felt unwell and kept getting a burning sensation all over my body, though.

Two weeks after Sam’s rash disappeared her feet and hands began to peel as a result of the high fevers. Strangely, little Pinky’s extremities began to do the same thing. A few weeks later every cut I had developed into a festering boil and eventually I was taken to the doctor who immediately ordered blood tests.

I’d had Scarlet Fever at the same time as Sam but no one knew and I’d consequently developed kidney disease. My blood was filthy; full of sediment and I was sent to hospital for three weeks of complete bed rest (not even toilet privileges), a restricted diet and medication via three injections in my pin- cushion butt every day.

I didn’t feel sick at all and I was in the children’s ward with about five other kids. It was Pinky’s dream come true having my (guilt-ridden) parents fussing over me for a change, instead of my little sister getting all the attention.

The other kids in the ward weren’t drastically ill either so they spent a lot of time on my bed playing cards and board games. One kid had a patch on her eye after having a fish hook flicked into it. Another girl’s arm had been badly broken after becoming caught in a wringer and another boy had been stung by a box jellyfish.

One day, Dad brought up the best present I’d ever received in my life; a transistor radio with earplugs and everything! 

I had a bed by the window and could see my parents crossing the road armed with grapes, toys and letters from my class whenever they diligently paid little Pinky a visit. I’d urgently shoo the other kids off my bed and assume a melancholy, despondent position with my back to door and desperately try to summon up a miserable tear or two for dramatic effect whenever I saw them coming.

                         This was the window to the children's ward.

This was my show and I had to milk the attention for all it was worth.

My theatrical ruse was discovered one day when Dad came up to talk to the matron and caught me laughing, playing and eating prohibited lollies with the fish hook kid.

Fortunately, or unfortunately for Pinky (whichever way you choose to look at it), the miraculous benefits of Penicillin cured my kidney ailment and I was sent home from hospital.

The first night home I recall my shock and outrage at being treated normally again. I feigned a headache and wouldn’t leave my bed, refusing dinner and crying non-stop. I could hear them all outside watching television and enjoying themselves while I wallowed in self-pity.

I have another vivid memory from when I was about six years old and we were at my parent’s friend’s house for dinner. Aunty Betty (as we called her) had made some delicious parfaits for dessert. Parfaits consisting of layers of cake, jelly, custard and cream and served in big glasses were very big in the sixties.

For some inexplicable reason I decided not to accept the offer of dessert. I really, really wanted it; I craved it, but enjoyed the attention I received by refusing it even more. When the adults eventually grew tired of trying to coerce me into eating it, I hid under the table to garner more of a response.

Meanwhile, little Sam sat at the table spooning the delicious dessert into her small mouth enjoying every bite as her tragic sister huddled under the table like a whiny victim of her own making.

Do the words; martyr, needy, unpleasant, and melodramatic come to mind?

I don’t know why I was such an attention-seeking brat and I sometimes question if my irritating, childhood personality flaw has disappeared or still hangs around my neurotic psyche?

I tend to play the martyr card in many situations and it never ends well.

When I separated from my first husband I decided to stop eating for a few years. Was I subconsciously bleating for attention… “Look at how thin I am, somebody come to my rescue” or merely taking of control of the one area of my life I could; eating? Maybe a bit of both, but the day I stepped on the scales and they registered 43 kilograms I frightened myself into eating again.

When I have a fight with Scotto, the first thing I do is chuck my dinner down the insinkerator. Using food as a manipulative tool maybe?

When Lulu was rushed to hospital with a burst appendix I neglected to eat for the three days she was in hospital; self-punishment born from guilt at not getting her to a doctor sooner, perhaps?

Whatever the reasons for the use of my self-deprivation, I think I’ve finally realised it hurts no-one but myself. Time to grow up and be the first in line to ask for my just ‘dessert’ I think.

Have you clung on to any bad traits from your childhood?

Pinky's Panties

“I keep feeling a cool draught when I use this towel,” muttered Scotto, as he shaved in front of the mirror this morning.

Wondering what the hell he was talking about I poked my head around the bathroom door.

                     Photo has been blurred. Scotto's not really a Ken doll.

“Oh! I see what you mean…" I gasped, "maybe we should call in to Kmart this morning and buy some new towels,” 

I acknowledged, staring at what could loosely be labelled a 'thread-bare towel' draped around Scotto’s waist which unexpectedly revealed a pair of cheeky buns.

I’d only just peered into my undie drawer and was dismayed to discover the only pair of clean knickers left were a hot pink lacy number which my seventeen year old daughter Lulu had given me at Christmas.

You know the type… nasty little French things with the propensity to sneak up your butt giving you a wedgie with every single step you take.

“I need to buy some new undies and bras as well so we may as well go out this morning and brave the walking dead at Kmart together,” I decided.

So there we were, dodging the zombie mob at the shops; Scotto leading the way with Pinky trailing behind sporadically checking over her shoulder each time she needed to pick her panties out of her bottom.

Ten years (and five kilograms) ago, back in the heady days when Scotto and I first met, we’d often call into a little, specialty lingerie shop where I bought all my underwear. We eventually had to stop going because it became uncomfortable when the girls behind the counter began to know us by name.

“What about this?” Scotto would grin holding up a naughty nurse ensemble.

“Maybe…” I’d reply. “But only if you promise to mow the lawn this afternoon.”

“Or this policewoman outfit?” he’d beg.

“Sure thing,” I’d promise. “As soon as you hang those pictures up in the hall.”

(I know it sounds like emotional blackmail but it works a treat girls.)

But as I said, that was ten years ago and things are different now.

Comfort and security are the name of the game when selecting my underwear now.

Not quite Bridget Jones’ grannie pants but somewhere between what you’d expect Jessica Rabbit and Marge Simpson might wear; closer to Marge if I’m being truthful.

Beige, cotton, dependable and a size larger than I need so as not to feel restricting are what I seek out. The baggy bum does make me resemble an over-sized toddler who needs their nappy/diaper changed but nevertheless they’re exceedingly comfy.

I bought six pairs.

“One for each day of the week and on the seventh day I can just turn one pair inside out!” I joked to Scotto.

“Or you could go commando!” he winked back.

Seems all is not lost...

P.S. If you think I’m a terrible wife for posting the photo above, I did ask Scotto if I could put it on my blog and he gave a definitive ‘thumbs down’.

“Why not?” I asked, expecting protestations regarding over sharing and modesty.

“Because I look fat,” he complained resentfully.

What about you? Do you go for comfort or glamour when buying underwear?

Some Things You Really Don't Want to Know!

                               

Some time ago my sister Sam told me about a website I’d never heard of before. I may be late to the party and you and every man and his bone has already heard of it… but maybe not.

“It’s awful,” Sam cringed, “you type in the country you live in, your parents’ ages and the average amount of times you see them a year.”

“Yeah… and what? It tells you what a slack arse daughter you are?” I asked swallowing in guilt, trying to recall the last time I called the oldies.

“No,” she murmured in a hushed tone. “It tells you how many more times you’re likely to see them before they die. It’s worked out using national statistics and life expectancy.”

‘A bit morbid,’ I thought. ‘I’ll be steering clear of that gloomy harbinger.”

But just like the curious box that allured the wayward Pandora, the site of macabre mystery beckoned me and before I knew it I was typing the details into the text box on the site.

I can’t reveal the actual figure it displayed as occasionally my father reads this blog (only to provide him with further evidence his eldest daughter is indeed an idiotic time-waster) so let’s just think of an arbitrary figure.

Imagine the result was eight times; I’d see my parents eight more times before they drove the grey nomad trailer up to the stars towards a celestial eternity of lawn bowls, All Bran and bickering over the speed limit.

Eight more times certainly doesn’t seem like much does it? 

But what are you supposed to do? You can’t suddenly start dropping in on them all the time. If you decided to visit them once a month instead of the usual annual trip you’d dramatically cut their life expectancy by years. 

I don’t think they’d be too impressed with that.

I guess you could leave the eighth visit as an undetermined mythological date in the future thus ensuring your parents lived forever… but then you’d never see them again anyway.

Or you could space out the visits to every five years guaranteeing them both living well into their one hundred and thirties. But isn’t that defeating the purpose of the site i.e., encouraging progeny to be more attentive towards their elderly parents in their dotage.

Whatever the solution is, I don’t know.

But if my father does read this post I’m pretty sure his next Google search will be,

“How many more times do I have to see my brainless daughter, Pinky again before I finally find peace in perpetuity?”

See Your Folks

Pinky's Wild Side!

I wonder if people who live overseas really do think we have kangaroos hopping around in the streets and crocodiles in our backyard pool here in Australia?

The thing is…. they really wouldn’t be that far off the mark. Even though the Poinkers reside in the heart of suburbia in a city of almost 200 000 people, because we live on the banks of a large river we often spot wallabies and kangaroos hopping cheerily across our front lawn. 

Even more bizarre... the council put a sign up about eighteen months ago three hundred metres from our front door step warning of a saltwater crocodile sighting in the area. The fear of a crocodile possibly lunging at me from the grassy riverbed forced me to take the Chihuahua out for a walk as accompaniment so I had something to offer as bait other than my torso.

I’ve seen huge flocks of enormous pelicans floating on the river and even a little echidna creeping out of a thick clump of grass one dusky evening.

My sister Sam, who lives around the corner, has a sassy family of possums who visit the back patio each night and allow her to hand feed them.

My parents, who used to live in the same suburb, found a dead Taipan in their backyard and there’ve been more than a few times I’ve been stopped on the path whilst on my walk around the river by someone lethargically cautioning me, “There’s a bloody snake up ahead, watch out.”

I have a friend on Twitter by the thought-provoking name of Slow Country Cowboy (“Slow” for short).

Slow hails from Nashville… home of country music, the Grand Ole Opry, Honky Tonk bars; and according to him he saw some very interesting wildlife when he was grocery shopping one day.

Recently, I tweeted I’d seen kangaroos swimming around in my backyard during the recent downpour and I’m not sure Slow believed me so… on my walk today I braved the insidious plague of blood-sucking mozzies and stood on the river bank for as long as I could stand it in search of the elusive wallaby or two.

As you can see by this photo I was successful and have since tweeted him the photo.

Now it’s Slow’s turn.

I want to see the proof of Slow’s alleged sighting of Nashville’s very own wildlife… Keith Urban shopping at the Piggly Wiggly.

Pinky Discovers Familiarity Breeds Contempt!

                                           

The word “blog” is a truncated version of “web log”. A log is a journal… a diary of thoughts, events and disclosure. It’s for this reason, despite some hesitance; I feel it is perfectly okay to write about a surprising and unwelcome revelation regarding myself that has recently and decisively come to light.

I’m tactless, insensitive, brash and oblivious to the feelings of and subjective injury I inflict on others.

Many years ago when I worked as a Sales Executive for a hotel chain I befriended Cathy, a secretary to the Banquet Manager. 

We’d been casual friends for about a year and it was commonplace for me to pop downstairs to her desk and engage her in comical banter, to-ing and fro-ing as you do. As her birthday was coming up I thought it might be a nice gesture to buy her a birthday card and present it to her with my best wishes.

The card I chose was a droll but comical one with a picture of a wild eyed, outrageously overdone drag queen on the front blowing out a candle. It had “Happy Birthday You Crazy Bitch” on the front which I found to be mildly hilarious and I wrote a nice message inside the card and popped in a chocolate.

Leaving it on her desk in her absence I went on my merry way hoping she’d appreciate what I believed was a thoughtful gesture.

I couldn’t have been more wrong if I’d presented a birthday card to Martin Luther King Jnr with a photo of the Ku Klux Klan blowing out candles on a cake in the shape of a noose.

“Pinky I need to talk to you urgently,” hissed the Banquet Manager closing the door to his office firmly.

Apparently Cathy had found what I thought was an innocently silly card to be distastefully offensive and had put in a formal complaint about me. I was severely rapped over the knuckles for my odious choice of birthday greeting and Cathy never spoke to me again averting her eyes whenever I walked into the room.

Now many of you may be nodding in agreement right now and questioning whether or not you should be reading the blog of such an inappropriate and hateful person such as Pinky, but to be honest, at the time I was reeling in shock, hurt and bewilderment.

It was a freaking joke for Pete’s sake. A playful humorous joke and no more.

Just recently I found myself in the exact same situation. It seems for the last few months Pinky has been making what she thought were light-hearted comments to someone she thought she was close to. It seems she was wrong again and instead of the recipient believing my jokey comments were all in the name of good humour, the victim of my verbosity has been silently stewing in resentment until the coffee percolator finally blew its lid and scalding liquid has spewed forth blistering Pinky’s sense of reality.

Despite attempts at an apology Pinky has once again been given a serve and is now questioning whether she should ever speak out loud again… to anyone.

How do I know if I’m being overly familiar? Invasive? Impolite? Inappropriate?

Am I suffering some sort of deficiency in conversational subtlety? Just like an immature child, or someone on the Autism Spectrum am I incapable of discerning other people’s feelings adequately?

Or is it that some people need to grow a thicker skin?

What do you think?