Pinky's Book Link

Wednesday, May 14, 2014

Should you comment on someone's weight gain?


I was on my afternoon walk when I happened to overtake an older couple ambling along with their two dogs. 

“Are they Mini-Fox Terriers?” I enquired, staring at the corpulent little spotted bodies .

“Yes, they are!” replied the woman proudly.

“Really? I have a Mini-Foxy at home and she’s a third of the size of them! Like their tucker do they?” I joked.

“Well yes…” replied the woman and quickly added, “But they’re on steroids.”

“Oh,” I continued on my comic roll. “Mental note; never take steroids!” 

They laughed and I walked on. But as I walked away it struck me their laughter had sounded somewhat hollow, empty, forced.

Had I insulted them by insinuating their dogs were fat?
I mean, you wouldn’t say that about somebody’s kid would you?

“How old is your son? Five!!! Cripes my son is five as well but he’s a third of the size of your bruiser! Likes a bit of a chow down, does he? It must cost you a fortune in food to feed that little porker!”

No. You would never say that.

It’s different with babies

You aren’t allowed to make comments like, “Good grief, what an ugly little face your baby has!” or “Would you take a freakin’ look at the ears on that baby. He’ll be able to fly before he can walk!” even if it is the honest truth. 

But you are permitted to squeeze the baby's chubby thighs and make a smart alek remark about how much more appealing cellulite is on a three month old than on a forty-five year old woman.

The mothers love to hear how fat their babies are. It’s a badge of honour for insecure new mums proclaiming to the world what excellent breast feeders/nurturers they are.

I can honestly say I’ve never carelessly informed a person they’ve put on weight.

There have been enough times in my life when I’ve suffered the sharp sting of an insensitive, rude buffoon commenting on my frequent bouts of fatty boombah-ism to know better. 

Most people are quite well aware they've put on a bit of beef. They don't need anyone else to remind them.

But what about telling someone their dog is fat?

My mother, who is never backward in coming forward, becomes highly defensive when I grab a fistful of fat from her Cocker Spaniel’s back and ask her if the dog is eating up my inheritance in dog food.

“She hardly eats a thing! She can't help it. It’s her metabolism.” Mum will declare protectively. Meanwhile this dog, Millie, is afraid of having her photograph taken because of a bad experience when the police took her into custody and took Identikit photos after catching her in the act of stealing the neighbour’s chickens.

                                     Spoilt Mutt.

Perhaps a middle of the road approach is the way to go… diplomacy not judgement.

Something along the lines of-

“Millie is looking so well! The fuller face suits her. Has she been on a holiday cruise or something? Something’s agreeing with her anyway!”

Got to preserve my share of what’s left of the inheritance somehow I suppose.

Has anyone ever told you you've put on weight?

Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace



Tuesday, May 13, 2014

The Day My Gum Went Psycho!


I jumped in my car after a horrible, horrible day; sighed dramatically and with sudden, deep dismay realised I’d accidentally swallowed my gum. 


I could still breathe so thankfully it’d gone down the right hole BUT it felt as though it was still stuck in my throat. You know those photos on the Internet of anacondas that have greedily ingested a large sheep? That's what it felt like.

I spent the twenty-five minute drive home desperately attempting to manufacture saliva, swallowing over and over in an attempt to move it along a bit.

I drove past the hospital and almost swerved off the exit.

 ‘What if it’s irrevocably attached itself to my food pipe?’ I panicked. ‘Will I never be able to swallow anything again? Will the food I eat just keep backing up on top of the gum and I’ll just keep regurgitating it?’

As soon as I arrived home I quaffed a huge hunk of bread and chased it down with a hot cup of coffee making sure to take extra-large gulps. But I could still feel the stubborn ball firmly adhered to my delicate trachea.

I charged full speed upstairs to my trusty laptop and, all in a fluster, typed in “What happens if chewing gum gets caught in your throat?”

The answers Google afforded ranged from things like, “It can’t get stuck because of the slippery mucous membranes in your throat", "It will pass through your stomach and bowels like a corn kernel" to “You’ll be able to blow bubbles out of your clacker.”

The answer that worried me the most though was,
"The only possible complication may be if you happen to have a hairy bum” 

So… it appears there’s only one thing left to do my friend… I’m off to shave my bottom.

Unless, that is, you have another suggestion?

Sunday, May 11, 2014

The One Day Mothers Should Do Nothing!



The request was, my five kids all gather at 12:00 pm and supply lunch for their Mum on Mother’s Day.

Only rule was that I was doing NOTHING!
Thaddeus (24), was the first to arrive with a bottle of Champers tucked under his arm, paying homage to his precious mother on this, her one special day of the year.

Lulu (17), who’d slept here the previous night, had already presented Pinky with a floral arrangement and was busy texting the others to enquire about their tardiness.

“Who’s that on the TV?” asked Thaddeus pointing to the big screen playing music clips.

“Karen Carpenter,” I replied quickly. I love it when I know something they don’t.

“You know… if Mama Cass had shared her sandwich with Karen Carpenter it could have saved two lives!” quipped Thaddeus.

“That’s a terrible thing to say Thaddeus!” I remonstrated. “I never eat ham sandwiches in bed anymore after what happened to poor Mama Cass!”

“You know that’s a myth, Mum,” he continued authoritatively. “She died of a heart attack. It had nothing to do with a ham sandwich.”

“Yes it did!” I argued. “She choked on a ham sandwich!”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you read, Mother,” he remarked.

Ah… I thought. It seems the student has become the master.

We were interrupted by a lanky Hagar (21), sauntering in, plonking himself on the couch, thrusting a bottle of red wine at me and proffering a kiss on the cheek.

We were all starving so Lulu popped some garlic bread in the oven. Where were those other two boys? They were almost an hour late.

Finally Jonah (23), and Padraic (19), arrived and Lulu began to order pizzas on her laptop.

“I can smell garlic bread burning!” I commented quietly, making not a move to retrieve the blackening crusts from the oven. It was my day and I was doing nothing; niente, nada.

No one else made a move except for a reluctant Scotto who was disinclined to leave his self- constructed and recently reinstated Pinball machine in the corner of the lounge.



“Sit down Scotto!” I barked. “I’m not your mother.”

The boys all turned and stared at Lulu.

Did I really raise these chauvinists?

“Lulu put it in the oven. So one of you guys should get it out and serve it! I chastised.

“You should always finish what you start,” drawled Hagar, staring pointedly at Lulu.

We all sat silently sniffing the smouldering garlic bread… a Mediterranean standoff if there ever was one. The boys were motionless, staring at the TV, not blinking… not breathing.


You could have cut the tension with a pizza wheel.

Huffing in exasperation, poor little Lulu snapped the laptop shut and flounced out to the kitchen.

‘Good luck with finding wives you guys,’ I thought to myself.

She then collected their ten buck contributions and floored it up to the pizza shop returning about twenty minutes later laden down with greasy boxes.

Like a float of crocodiles ripping into an unsuspecting wallaby unobtrusively drinking at the riverbank, the claws snapped at the boxes until all that was left were two sad shrivelled slices of barbeque chicken.

Then, before I could say, ‘pan-fried pepperoni’ the boys were standing up feeling in their pockets for their car keys and bidding me a hasty farewell.

Oh well. At least there were no barneys this year. And I actually loved every minute of it. 
But... thank the Lord I had a daughter.

Saturday, May 10, 2014

Will the real Channing please stand up? Please stand up?


It’s Mudder’s Day tomorrow in Australia!

We spent yesterday afternoon in the classroom busily creating loving tributes to Mum… well, my students did, whilst I sat at my desk cutting out pictures of flowers from old Women’s Weekly magazines for them to stick on to their cards. 


I don’t trust them to do it you see. Little Darius or Aloysius, always seeking a cheap thrill, are likely to find a picture of a lingerie model, draw massive nipples on it and go around showing everyone inciting shocked pandemonium in the classroom.

A few of the kids sat staring into space scratching their small heads.

I don’t know what to draw on my Mudder’s Day card Mrs Poinker…” moaned little Persephone.

Well, what does Mum love?” I prompted.

Her eyes lit up.

I know what she really loves! She LOVES Channing Tatum!”

Oh! She loves the movie ‘Grease’? Then maybe you could draw the Pink Ladies!” I liked Rizzo too!

Persephone gave me a strange look. “No, Channing Tatum the hot guy!” she scolded.

Ohhhh… then who was the Pink Lady in Grease? The name 'Tatum Channing' vaguely rang a rusty bell in the cobwebbed confines of my Friday afternoon brain.

Alright then,” I said. “Draw a picture of Tatum Channing.”

Channing Tatum,” she whispered to herself quietly.

When I came home I asked Scotto, “Have you ever heard of Channing Tatum… or maybe a Tatum Channing?

Yeah,” he replied. “Isn't he the bloke in that male stripper movie?

Is it Tatum Channing or Channing Tatum?” I enquired.

Dunno. That’s the stupid thing about when people have two surnames.

It’s true.

Like… Morgan Spurlock and Stirling Mortlock. One’s a documentary maker and the other’s a footballer and I never know which way their names go or which is which.

Anyway, one mum is going to get a lovely drawing of the venerated Tatum Channing/Channing Tatum tomorrow which is more than I’ll probably get. 

I requested the five of my kids get together and all bring lunch, so I'm optimistically anticipating the arrival of a frozen chook and a hot bottle of cheap champagne. That's if I'm lucky.

Happy Mudder’s Day to all you beautiful ladies out there!

                               I suppose he's alright.

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

Why I want to work in an all girls' school!



Miss Waddlington-Dandy,
Summerdayes Girl’s College for Eloquent Young Ladies,
Articulate Road,
Toff Hill.

Dear Miss Waddlington-Dandy,

I am writing to express my ardent interest in successfully applying for a teaching position at your refined and well-designed all-girls’ college.

Please allow me to convey how comfortably and quickly I would acclimatise to teaching placid, sophisticated young ladies as opposed to the fear and shocks of teaching in the confines of a classroom filled with rowdy and overly energetic ten year old boys.

I can easily picture myself wandering through your verdant grounds, reciting Wordsworth, accompanied by a small group of captivated pinafore-wearing ingénues. 


After a long leisurely stroll we would come to rest under an old gum tree and quote our favourite poetic lines from the Romantics at one another until, giggling and delicately perspiring in our white petticoats, we’d settle down to penning sonnets in our embroidered journals.

I cannot imagine even one of the young ladies dropping a ‘silent but deadly’ in the middle of our English lesson producing such an overpowering pong the rest of the class is wildly disrupted; urgently scattering in twenty-five directions with noses pinched and vociferous howls of objection.

The other girls wouldn’t then feel it was necessary to emulate the protagonist by forcing out excess, distasteful wind for the sole purpose of entertaining their fellow students would they?

The joke would not continue after lunch when a select few have refueled their capacity to manufacture the excess wind after eating cheese sandwiches and party pies with tomato sauce would it?

When gliding gracefully into the classroom clutching their satin-ribbon geography books, the Mademoiselles would never put each other in a headlock; tackle their victim to the floor and roll around screaming out things like, “Skylanders rule!” would they?

My charming young pupils would not dream of sneaking a collection of three hundred collector’s cards into their mathematics lesson and play with them under the desk instead of listening to their dedicated tutor waffle on about lines of symmetry I’m sure.They'd be too enthralled in my dulcet tones.

With these matters in mind, I reiterate my desperate plea that you might consider me for the upcoming position of teacher in your highly esteemed institution and I dearly look forward to hearing back from you. 


Please note; I gave birth to and reared four boys of my own. I feel it is time for a reprieve.

Yours Sincerely,

Mrs. Pinky Poinker

The Nuthouse

Bedlam.


Sunday, May 4, 2014

Zombie Invasion in my Suburb!

                                       
The streets here in my suburb are plagued with the living dead. Large groups of raucous, staggering teens walk in a cluster, howling spontaneously with frightening ferocity and causing every dog in the neighbourhood to respond with aggressive objections of their own.

The girlie zombies; with their bum cheeks enjoying the crisp breeze and their flat unspoiled midriffs on display are tripping along with the identically singleted and cargo-short wearing boy zombies. The boys with a beer stubby in hand and the girls a vodka cruiser, are headed in one direction only; their sole purpose… self-annihilation at the music festival down the road.

I can’t say I blame them for the rebel cry. 


It’s tough being a teenager these days. The price of the entrance ticket and drinks are extortionate… they have to get wasted before they get there even though it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning. 

They’ll be searched at the gate by the fascist bastards on security so they’ve stuffed a vodka filled hip flask snuggly amongst the tackle in their jocks.

A few will be there for the music, but many will be there with the sole intention of intoxicating their bodies until they’re so smashed they won’t remember anything about the day. Too bad that a huge proportion are underage; there are plenty of older kids to buy the alcohol for them.

I hate this time of year when I watch my boys transform into driven, obsessive zealots with the single-minded ambition of going bat shite crazy with the other horde of thousands, thumbing their noses at us… the parents, the establishment.

“You don’t have to be stupid with your drinking you know!” I said to my nineteen year old son and his mate as I drove them to a pre-festival gathering.

“Anyone can get drunk. It’s not a skill. Pace yourself. You can stay at a happy level all day and enjoy yourself without ending up in hospital having your stomach pumped believe it or not.”

I may as well have been addressing my sermon to the bottle of sunscreen on the dashboard. I watched him wolf down a Bacon De-luxe from Hungry Jacks, thankful he’d at least put a lining on his stomach.

I love my son; he’s a good boy with a kind heart and a generous nature.

I’ll sit white-knuckled all day wondering what’s going down but in my heart I’ll know he’s okay. 

But, what about the other angry young men fueled up on alcohol, steroids and an overabundance of natural testosterone pumping through their veins? 

The angry young men who don’t really know what they’re angry about.

What is it with the chip on some young men’s’ shoulders? Why are their lives so disappointing they have to mutiny against the tyranny of sensibility and normal society? 

Is it that they live such an instantaneously gratuitous lifestyle they've lost the lust for life which comes from working for what you want?

Are we giving them too much all at once and toll free? 

Are parents making too many excuses for them and not teaching them one of the basic lessons in life… good things are worth waiting and slogging away for and that 'the rules' are there to protect them.

What do you think?

                         John Butler Trio... Good Excuse.




Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Z- is for Zee End at Last!




A to Z April Challenge

So... at last we have come to the end of the A-Z challenge and I'd like to thank both of you for continuing to read my efforts.
Because I love you so much I've decided to dedicate a song written just for you.


And now, the end is here
And so I write my final blog post

My friends, I’ll say it clear
I’ve worked quite hard, to keep you en-grossed

I’ve tried, to make you laugh
I pulled out jokes on every new day
Comic girl, I tried to be
Like Ricky Gervais

Regrets, there’s been a few
But that was just, to get attention
I did what I had to do
Revealing all my anal retention

I planned, from A to Z
Each puerile post, just for this blog hop
But more, much more than this
There was the photoshop.

Yes, there were times, I thought I’d stop

When I was tired... of this blog hop
But through it all, when there was doubt
I typed it up, and churned crap out
I faced my fears and I stood tall

...And there was photoshop

I’ve screamed, I’ve punched the wall
I did a bit, of self abusing
And now, I’d like to ask

You found it lame or quite amusing?

To think... I wrote all that;
And may I say - not in a shy way,
No... not Pinky P,
I did it my way

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Y- is for Yam Stick



A Yam Stick is a sharp pointy stick commonly used by Indigenous Australians to dig out yams and other roots. Which is very interesting because I always thought yams grew on trees, like potatoes.

A Yam Stick may also be used to pick out dog poo from the tread in your joggers and pick up your teenage boy's jocks from the floor of his bedroom.

If you burn one end of the Yam Stick you can poke it in your eye when you aren't satisfied with;

# coming second in something

# coming third in something

# having been given an honorary mention in something

# winning $17 in the $13 million Lotto draw

If you’re thinking Pinky has come to the end of her creative tether in the A to Z April Challenge... you’d be right.

I nearly didn’t post tonight but I thought, rather than re-enact the story of my life (apart from an excellent cross stitch I completed twenty years ago), I might actually keep going.

I promise tomorrow night’s Z post will be better.

Monday, April 28, 2014

X- is for X Rated Pinky!




Pinky's Bodice-Ripper

It was early morning and golden rays of sunlight streamed through the dusty blinds reflecting in a dazzling rainbow along the wall. Pinky bit her plump, ripe, lower lip in deep concentration as her laptop delicately balanced on the silken skin of her knees. 

A diamond bead of perspiration, left over from her last hot flush, wobbled on the cupid’s bow of Pinky's sensual upper lip, threatening to splash down onto her keyboard.

“I’m so hot!” the sultry temptress murmured, elongating her slender ankle and kicking the satin bedclothes away with a soft sigh.

Scotto lay beside her, his musky scent of manhood pervading the bed sheets.“Awweuu…” he groaned with a deep rasping tone. “You’ve slashed my bloody shin with your toenail, Pinky. How long is it since you cut your toenails?”



“Since forever,” smiled the mischievous Pinky, raising her small chin in a trademark gesture of defiance.

“It’s bleeding, you made me BLEED!” scolded Scotto, raising a masculine brow. “For the love of God, Pinky, are there any Bandaids up here in the boudoir?” he pleaded huskily.

“No… but there might be a few downstairs,” the tiny minx retorted playfully, licking her lower lip in coquettish mirth.

“Could you come down and help me find a bandaid?” Scotto leaned towards Pinky, his long lashes blinking lasciviously, speaking in a anguished, desperate tone.



“Nope, sorry, I can't,” Pinky replied, adding a saucy wink. “I’m busy. Sorry.”



“Busy doing what? Surely you can get off the Internet for five minutes to help me look for a bandaid?” Scotto scowled, his puppy dog eyes darkened as a menacing storm brewed in his black irises.



“Nope. I’m in the middle of scrolling my Facebook feed! I couldn’t possibly help you… 'No' means 'no' Scotto...” Pinky trailed off, her finger tenderly but teasingly tracing across her mouse pad, her eyes rivetted to the screen.



“That’s enough, you taunting wench!” Scotto cried out as he sprang from the bed, luxurious black ringlets swirling around his chiseled jaw. 


In three vigorous strides, he reached the modem and jerked it violently from the socket. His long robust flanks glistened in the …. glistening light, and he turned to the mocking enchantress lying prone and susceptible among the glossy sheets.

As sleek as a black panther stalking its prey, he moved lustfully towards the bed.

“I command you woman! Move! I’ll carry you down if you won’t come of your own accord,” Scotto breathed heavily, his top lip curling in arrogant derision.

His gleaming torso bent down towards the bed and, tensing the beefy powerful muscles in his shoulders scooped the porcelain princess from her bed, ignoring her breathy, desperate protestations. 

Suddenly he froze, rooted to the spot on which he stood and gave a swift, sharp cry.

“My back! It’s my compressed disc!” he moaned in agony. “I can’t move, Pinky.”

As his rippling biceps seized, he dropped the writhing, sweaty Pinky like a hot potato to the floor.

He lurched forward on to the bed and fell into the billowing bedclothes, his massive trunk shuddering in relief.



“That’ll teach you to shut off my Internet you brute!” the feisty she-cat spat at him. “No man will ever tame me. Ever! And don’t you forget it!”






Sunday, April 27, 2014

W- is for Why a Ban on Excessive Photoshopping Won't Work

A to Z April Challenge

We had a small gathering at Chez Poinker yesterday as a belated celebration of son Hagar’s twenty-first birthday and as is my custom I heroically sorted through the old photo albums for ‘Hagar paraphernalia’. The violent sneezing fits brought on by layers of dust couldn’t deter me and I managed to unearth his first tooth, ultrasound pictures from the womb and his little newborn ankle bracelet.

I also came across a photo I hadn't seen for decades.



It was of me walking the three eldest boys through Hyde Park in Sydney. Hagar was only about seven months old, Thaddeus four and Jonah about three years of age.

At the time the photo was taken, I distinctly recall hating myself. Giving birth to three kids in four years had taken its toll and I felt fat, hoary, unattractive and at thirty-three years, well past my prime. I was merely a milk machine, a nappy washer and cook.

But this serendipitous little find told me a different story. I didn't look fat or old... or unattractive.

Why then did I believe I was so physically repellent back then?

I wonder why many women allow these festering, terrible self-images to darken their confidence and sense of worth?

How many times have I trundled into the motor registry office to renew my five year driving licence and on seeing the new and disappointing photo (with the inevitable startled, wild-eyed expression) and wished I still looked like the earlier photo…the same one I despised five years ago?

There’s a bit of a hullabaloo in the media about a new bill recently introduced in the US congress ensuring fashion and beauty advertisements don’t promote unlikely and disturbing body images by banning excessive use of photoshopping.

As I ate my Vegemite toast in bed this morning, I listened to a couple of social commentators (whatever the hell a ‘social commentator' is and what qualifies them I’d like to know) discussing the issue on the telly. Their main concern was how photoshopping celebrity goddesses into unrealistically perfect icons might affect the physical and mental well-being of teenagers.

Bugger the bloody teenagers, with their naturally slim hips, dewy skin, post-orthodontist smiles and pert boobies. What about us old chooks? Don’t we have feelings too or are we to be shunted into a corner again with Black Cohosh in one hand and a tube of Estogen gripped in the other?

The only time I ever furtively flick one of those idiotic trash magazines into my shopping trolley is when the headlines scream, “How Celebrities Look without Make-Up!”

                                       
“That’s what your Katy Perry REALLY looks like!” I’ll snidely remark to Scotto, sitting beside me on the couch as I maliciously rifle through the New Weekly.

“Who’s Katy Perry again?” he’ll ask in a weary grunt.

“That young one wearing the weeny, animal skin who sings, Roar!” I’ll snap back in a tone strangled with envy. “You know who she is and don’t pretend you don’t! I’ve seen you looking at her!”

Truth is, I’m old enough to have given birth to the poor girl (and I’m not talking a teen pregnancy here), so why do I find her to be threatening in a sexual-jealousy kind of way? 

It’s ridiculous.

I should be allowing the soft folds of lard to settle on my belly like a comforting life jacket at my age; not squeezing my spare tyre angrily leaving deep, bleeding fingernail marks whilst wailing in anguished torment , “Why am I so freakin’ FAT????”

Why can’t I be happy with the way I look right now? Is it because there are so many glamorous, thin women thrust in our faces via magazines, television, the Internet?

Did my mother have to put up with this crap?

Essentially, I think she did.

There were unquestionably glamorous women in magazines and movies back in the sixties which Mum undoubtedly measured herself up against; women who had stylists, makeup artists, hairdressers, lighting crews, Vaseline on camera lenses and who had their photographs meticulously hand-coloured.

So why is everyone worried about the smoke and mirrors now if women have always been subjected to idealistic comparisons?

Until the notion of beauty as a purely external thing is eradicated altogether, we women will forever suffer constant negative, self-imposed judgements of ourselves.

I look around at my friends sometimes; their voluptuous hips, well fed bellies, relaxed but unmade-up faces and imperfect teeth and I think how fortunate I am to know such stunning and magnificently beautiful women.

I wish I could just get over myself and see the same thing when I look in the mirror.

Banning photoshopping isn’t going change a thing.

Perhaps changing the fundamental idea of where true beauty emanates from and what authentic beauty is may be the only solution.

And in the meantime I’m going to stick that photo of myself on the fridge as a reminder I should be happy with the junk I have in my trunk right now and embrace those jowls and wrinkles... because from this moment on I’ll probably never look better.

Friday, April 25, 2014

V- is for Veuve Clicquot

                 Champagne courtesy of our lovely friend, Mark!


A to Z April Challenge

Some people should not be allowed to drink French champagne and I’m fairly certain I’m one of them… mainly because I don’t pronounce the names properly.

Despite having learnt French at school and having a Francophile father who’s always correcting my gaffs, I still persist in calling Moet & Chandon, Mow-ey, in a distinctly Australian twang (upwards inflection included when I’m asking someone if they’d like one).

Apparently one is supposed to pronounce the ‘T’ in Moet because of the little umlaut which sits on top of the ‘e’. Even though I've spent twenty minutes looking for an umlaut on my laptop keyboard it doesn't appear to be present and I’m not searching through my wing dings for it but…. an umlaut looks like small two dots.

Moet is a word derived from the Dutch and unlike the French they say the Ts at the end of words so yes… you definitely have to sound out the T.

Veuve Clicquot however, is not pronounced Verve Click-ot, because it was named after an actual French man and as you know the French do NOT say the Ts at the end of their words.

It’s all too confusing so I’ve decided I’ll keep on saying “Mow-ey” and “Verve Click-ot” because some people (Scotto) think my uncouth vulgarity is cute.

Another reason I shouldn't be allowed to drink French champagne is that I DO get a hangover from it. 


“Oh! But you can’t get a hangover from good French champagne!” I’ve heard so many times. 

Well, yes you can.

Many years ago, when I was in my twenties, I worked as a sales executive for a hotel chain and one evening my arduous task was to represent the company at a Moet & Chandon product launch.
The bubbles flowed (freely) all night and by the time I’d finished my laborious duties and caught a cab home to my rented terrace house in Woollahra, I was a bit too wobbly to wrestle with our dodgy front door lock.

I hammered loudly on the door in an unproductive attempt to awaken my slumbering flatmates.

After thirty minutes of futile pounding the only thing left to do was sleep in my hatchback parked out the front and wait until daylight.

I woke up sweating like a small pig with the Nissan Pulsar’s gear stick grinding into the small of my back and the piercing sunlight accentuating my blinding headache.

Slowly I extricated myself from the Japanese rotisserie-on-wheels and after glancing both ways down the street to make sure there were no muggers around, resumed my (by now painful) pummeling until finally, both of my livid flatmates thrust open the door.

“What the hell’s wrong, Pinky?” they yelled, one of them standing in his pajamas with a cricket bat in his hand ready to fight off a home invasion.

They didn't believe me that the lock was jammed (probably because I reeked of ethanol urgently escaping my liver via my pores) and consequently neither flatmate spoke to me for the rest of the weekend.

The moral of the story is this; French champagne by any other name still reeks as badly as cheap wine the next morning and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Tastes nicer though.

*Most unfortunately, this is definitely not a sponsored post.

Thursday, April 24, 2014

U- is for Unattainable Dreams



A to Z April Challenge


As I walked my class up the road to the high school today for our ANZAC day assembly, one of my “bubblier” students, who’d only just returned to school after a sick day invigorated with dynamic energy, bounced around beside me. 

“You know what, Mrs Poinker?” he enthused. 

“No, Darius. What?” I asked, glancing back nervously to make sure no-one had slipped down a drain hole or anything.

“I’ve got $75 000 in my bank account now, Mrs Poinker!”

“Really, Darius?” I enthused as genuinely as possible, but realistically thinking it was probably more like $750 since we haven’t even learnt about five digit numbers yet and his mum and dad don't really seem quite that well off.

“Yeah, but I’m not allowed to spend it until I’m TWENTY FIVE!” he bellowed in outrage.

“That’s good. You’d probably just spend it on rubbish before you reached twenty-five don’t you think?” I replied, imagining what my own kids would do with $75 000. It’d all be gone in a week for sure.

“NO I WOULDN’T! I wouldn’t spend it on rubbish!” he bawled back. “I’d spend it on LOLLIES!”

The little girl marching beside me (who is also in possession of a unique brand of unnerving vim and vigour) interrupted.

“My sister’s only got $65 000 in the bank because she spends all her pay on shoes and clothes,” she remarked caustically. “Shoes with high heels, dresses for weddings; spend, spend, spend, she does. She wastes ALL her money. I can’t wait until that one gets married.”

‘I wonder where she’s heard that from.’ I thought to myself in amusement when I suddenly became aware of Darius still prattling on incessantly beside me.

“The ones with pig faces and sheep faces, Mrs Poinker! You know the ones!”

What was he talking about? What pigs? What sheep?

“The LOLLIES with the pig and sheep faces! That’s what I’d buy with me $75 000,” he sighed wistfully and stared off into the distance.

I can still remember when lollies were the most important thing in my life too. And staying up late.

And drinking limitless supplies of Coke. And eating ice-cream until it came out of my eyeballs.

What a pity I still can’t do any of those things. 

Bloody middle-age spread.

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

T- is for The day I ran out of things to blog about!

                                                                  Image credit

A to Z April Challenge
Having reached “T” in the April blogging challenge you would think it’d be easy wouldn’t you?

I could have written about anything really as long as I started the title with the word “The”.

“The day I went to the hairdresser and I walked out liking my haircut!”, “The day I ordered in the drive through at Maccas and they got it right!”, or even “The day I left for work and didn’t have to run back into the house three times to retrieve my sunglasses/lunch/Nicorettes.”

The trouble is none of those things have ever happened to me and as you know I never exaggerate or fabricate.

I suppose I could easily have written a post on, “T- is for Today! The day my students broke every single one of our class rules.”

We only have four rules neatly pinned on the wall in a creatively designed, laminated poster.

Class Rules

1. Listen to the teacher and put your hand up to speak.

2. We pass pencils, rulers and erasers we don’t throw them.

3. We respect each other and treat others as we’d like to be treated.

4. When the teacher rings her bell we stop, look and listen.
I could have written about how little Cedric, whilst playing with his ruler in a reckless fashion flicked it into the ceiling fan whereupon it ricocheted off, narrowly missing my left eyebrow, effectively contravening #Rule 2. Oh how I laughed and laughed at that one.

Or I could have written an amusing little tale about how nine year old Aloysius, yelled in one of the girl’s faces because she daringly touched his lunchbox with her filthy girl-cootie hand and she retaliated by hitting an unassuming Cedric in the head with the same lunch box, violating #Rule 3 in one fell swoop.

It may have been appealing to pen a post about how, despite the fact my two (cough) noisiest students were at home on their sick beds, I stupidly let my guard down for a few minutes and #Rule 1 and 4 were broken simultaneously as I stood at the front of the class fruitlessly tinkling my weeny, little bell watching as a scene from the Attica Prison Riot played out.

Or, if my hands weren't aching so much, I could have written about how I had my angelic students colour in “Twenty Miniscule Poppy Flowers” each, to decorate our class ANZAC day wreath for assembly tomorrow and then realised when they’d gone home I had five hundred and twenty miniature flowers to cut out before I left for the day.

But no… those posts would be far too dreary. Sorry guys, I just cannot think of a thing to blog about today. It’s been a long one.


Tuesday, April 22, 2014

S- is for SEX! Everything You Need to Know!

                                                   Body thanks to Scotto

A to Z April Challenge
Despite threatening Facebook messages from my friend Sinead and plaintive entreaties by my husband Scotto, I decided my “S” post would attract quite a lot more page views if I wrote about sex rather than them.

“Sinead! Everything You Need to Know!”
or 
“Scotto in the Forties and Fifties” just doesn't have that same broad appeal to the masses really does it? 

Let’s face it; sex sells! 
My most popular posts have to date been those with the risqué (albeit misleading) headlines.

Before you start thinking you’re about to be ripped off AGAIN and assume this post is going to have absolutely nothing to do with sex… then you can relax. It is going to be about sex.

And don’t think for one second you’re the only person in the world that can’t resist clicking on this brand of titillating title.

 I can’t either so there’s at least two of us.

Back in the seventies my youngish Auntie Lynn had returned from an overseas holiday and cheekily presented my conservative Nana with a book titled, 

“Sex! Everything You Need to Know!”

Nana was appalled. “You can’t go giving me this!” she objected. “It’s disgraceful! I’m putting it away before anyone sees it!” She trundled off into the bedroom, pursing her lips and holding the lewd and offensive material at arm’s length.

A few minutes later we heard a loud scream and clatter from the bedroom. It had been one of those trick books you see; hollow inside except for a contraption which delivered an electric shock when you opened it. 

Naughty Nana.


‘So what on Earth could you possibly tell us about sex, Pinky?’ I hear you muttering into your Cab Sav. ‘You’re not exactly cougar material anymore! Surely you passed your prime years ago!’

Well yes, that’s true. But not ALL middle-aged women have thrown away the key to the old Cortina and put it up on blocks.

A few years ago, our friends O’Reilly and Mel were about to get married and the Maid of Honour happened to be another rascally friend of ours, Lee-lee.

Lee-lee had organised quite an elaborate Hen’s Party which involved splitting our party of hens into three groups and sending us all out on a Scavenger Hunt. The list of fifteen or so items to be ‘scavenged’ was a mixture of the mildly erotic to a touch lascivious.

Objects such as a set of handcuffs, condoms, erotic movies, lingerie, a copy of the Kama Sutra, battery operated appliances, Playboy centrefolds… you get the drift.

I was put in a team with a bunch of young ones as well as one particular Old Chook who was probably roughly around the same age as myself.

We looked at the list scratching our heads. How were we going to procure all these naughty treasures before the other teams beat us to the restaurant with all their wicked swag?

Suddenly the Old Chook leaned forward and hissed furtively, “Let’s stop by my house first.”

Twenty minutes later the young ‘uns and I stood aghast at the foot of her stairs. She was holding a bag with at least a dozen elements of the required booty in a bag. 

“That’s awesome!” the young girls gushed in passionate admiration. “Who’d have thought the old biddy still had it in her!” 

One quick trip into a servo and we had almost everything on the list!


So my friends, the moral of the story is; some old mares are still kicking that barn door down and you should never think you’re too old for a bit of horsing around. That Old Chook was still pecking around that coop even though the eggs had all been collected much earlier in the day.







…. What????



What are you all staring at?



You think that old chook was me don’t you????

Well I’m here to tell you…under no circumstances, even if hell froze over, not in a million years was that old chook m….



Is that the phone? I’d better answer it. Probably one of the kids…



See you again tomorrow night eh?


Linking up at With Some Grace!





Monday, April 21, 2014

R- is for Rabbiting on with Rubbish.


As a last hurrah before we dropped our Melbournian visitor Mark at the airport today, Scotto and I took him for a drive up Castle Hill; the pink granite behemoth located in the centre of the city area.



There are three different peaks to climb, each of which Pinky; clutching her heart and whinging about the heat, begrudgingly puffed and struggled up tailing her two much fitter companions.

I’m scared of heights and get nervous when I see people standing too close to the edge which is why this guy freaked me out.


And this guy.
                                 Don't worry we managed to talk him down.


There was a really weird statue at the top of the summit which I think is supposed to represent people like me who swoon melodramatically and almost blackout when they look down at the view. 


I've always felt a bit sorry for Castle Hill because it’s only about 60 metres short of being classified a mountain and I can’t see why some of the locals couldn't load up a few wheelbarrows full of rocks and improve its profile to mountain status. Castle Mountain sounds much more prestigious.

I’d been waffling on with quite a bit of obscure and ambiguous information over the last few days and I think our visitor was beginning to question the reliability of the details I’d been sprouting with authority.

“Castle Hill’s real indigenous name is Cutheringa,” I knowledgeably informed our visitor so he could take something interesting back to Melbourne with him.

“Oh?” he queried raising one eyebrow. Clearly Mark suspected this was another of Pinky’s fallacious facts as the previous day I’d blathered on confidently in the back of a taxi about why Magnetic island was named as such, until finally the taxi driver interrupted and slammed my rubbish theory into the ground. Bloody taxi drivers think they know everything.

“And what does ‘Cutheringa’ mean then, Pinky?” quizzed Mark.

“Um…” I stalled, desperately wanting to impress and scanning the horizon for a credible answer. “It means ‘Really, Really High Place’.”

Sounded reasonable to me anyway.





      Thanks for a great Easter and we'll miss you Mark!

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Q- is for Quagmire of Deceit



A to Z April Challenge

Today,Taronga Zoo is presenting bonny Prince George with his very own bilby. So cute and fitting on an Aussie Easter Sunday don’t you agree?

Although, I've been thinking about it and I feel there are a few worrying aspects to be considered.

Firstly, Prince George is only eight months old and since the average life span for the bilby is only six years, who’s going to break the sad news to the devastated six and a half year old Prince George his rare and endangered Antipodean pet is dead, stiff and unresponsive? 

Or will they just tell him it's gone to live at a farm?

Perhaps they'll just keep replacing the bilby with younger versions and hoodwink the young royal much the same way I did when I replaced a Japanese fighting fish over and over many years ago?

But what concerns me is when Prince George becomes a teenager and works out what’s been happening for all those years.

It will suddenly dawn on him that the whole world has been laughing behind his back.

He might get angry. Very, very angry...


Saturday, April 19, 2014

P- is for Perfect Afternoon



A to Z April Challenge

I knew I’d love him when he sent these ahead of our luncheon date on Good Friday. That is class as far as I’m concerned.

Scotto picked him up from his accommodation and I’d just finished scrubbing and spraying the downstairs loo when I heard the car pull up outside.

Within moments of walking in the front door he was demonstrating the five Tibetan Energy Rejuvenation Rites in his self-proclaimed “Lesbian Thongs” (Homypeds) on our back patio.

“It’s helped me to stand taller and suck my gut in,” he enthused. “You guys HAVE to try it.”

“What gut?” I commented drily, scrutinising the slender frame of the man.

“This one!” he replied, sticking his (small) tummy out and arching his back exaggerating the modicum of a ‘gut’.

Scotto and I have tons of gay friends, male and female. 


I love each of them for their mocking, ironic and hilarious humour, superb taste, appreciation of showbiz awards ceremonies, tiaras, neatness, generosity, admirable knowledge of ‘all things outrageous’ and above all their honesty.

But one thing I don’t get is the adoration of a certain ‘Singing Budgie’.

So after a few snorts of effervescent bubbly, Pinky daringly posed the question to her captive luncheon guest.

“What is it you gays see in Kylie Minogue? Why do you all carry on about her all the time?”

I have asked this question of another friend Greigor, who failed to provide me with an adequate answer other than shrieking, “Oh you know Pinky… she’s KYLIE!”

But Mark wasn’t any more helpful really other than to mumble something about her being an underdog having started out on Neighbours or something. 

They don’t like giving away their secrets these gay boys.

I did glean some disturbing information though and it wasn’t about Mark.

“I did the Kylie Quiz on Facebook,” Mark volunteered. “I was the Stock, Aitken and Waterman Kylie!”

There was a moment's pause as I digested the information there was such a quiz.

“I was the Alternate Kylie!” broke in my manly man husband Scotto with great enthusiasm.

And the crickets chirruped.

                                Best company ever!!!!

Thursday, April 17, 2014

O- is for One Day I Sniffed Cheese!



A to Z April Challenge

‘Something’s not right’ I thought when I walked in the front door laden with grocery shopping yesterday. The house stunk of something peculiar, something disturbingly alien… what the hell was it?

The dogs, Celine and Pablo, were nowhere to be seen which was suspiciously atypical. Usually they’d be jumping round madly at my feet, tripping me over as I swore like a navvy and attempted to balance the bags in my arms without losing the lot.

What was that smell? I knew it was something vaguely familiar, but what? 


Suddenly it hit me… Cheezels!


But why was there such a powerful stench. It was as if a hundred boxes of Cheezels had been opened and scattered around the house then stomped on, like grapes in a vat.

“Hello?” I called out nervously.

I’d only just dropped Padraic off to collect his car from the mechanic. I’d seen Lulu working at the Donut Shop just minutes before. Hagar was still in Thailand and Jonah and Thaddeus were at work so I knew it wasn’t any of the kids.


But why would a burglar be eating Cheezels on the job? I could understand if he’d nicked a beer from the fridge while he was robbing me of my big screen telly, but savoury snacks? 

Didn’t sound like a very tough thief.

I made my way tentatively down the hallway ready to slam any intruder in the side of the head with my bag of tinned tomatoes. Surely even I could take down a Cheezel-eating housebreaker?

The dogs were both skulking at the back screen door with tails down, eyes bulging and ears flattened against their enlarged skulls. 

But they weren’t looking frightened. Oh no, they both wore that hang-dog, remorseful expression of shame and guilt as was their custom after committing one of their heinous atrocities.

So it was them! I should have known.

What had they done this time? 

I was used to scenes of carnage; for example the time I came home and they’d completely destroyed twelve toilet rolls and left a blizzard of tissue from one end of the house to the other.

The smell of cheese was stronger in the lounge room so I wandered back in to investigate the probable crime scene.

Then I saw the reason for the pervasive and tangy bouquet of cheesiness. The little mongrels had been into the Parmesan left on the coffee table after the previous night’s spaghetti feast. The container lay on the floor opened and empty but I could feel the gritty remains of whiffy, hard, grated cheese underfoot.


It took ages to clean up and despite my best efforts the first thing Scotto said when he arrived home was, “Bloody hell! Who vomited in here?”

This is not a good turn of events since we have a stylish, classy Melbournian friend Mark, coming for lunch tomorrow.

What will he think of the Poinkers as he reclines on our couch enveloped in the heady aroma of puke?


                                  Pablo the Connoisseur 


# Chihuahua for sale. Going cheap. Please apply below.


Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace