Mystery on the Moops

                                                             Image credit

“A police car just pulled up in our driveway,” observed Scotto dryly, as we were sitting on the couch watching “300 Rise of an Empire” yesterday afternoon.

It’s not the type of movie I would normally enjoy but I’d loved the surreal quality, the cinematic splendor and the artistic integrity of the first “300”; plus the fact it featured more six packs than the refrigerated section at Dan Murphy’s.

The hair on my head stood to attention. 

The kids! Where were all my kids?

I knew Thaddeus (24) was round the corner at my sister Sam’s place. Lulu (17) was working at the Donut shop. Padraic (19) had texted me ten minutes previously to find out what was on the menu Monday night and Hagar (21) had only just walked out the door. Jonah (23) was the only one unaccounted for. 

I began to hyperventilate.

“It’s alright,” Scotto eased my anxiety, “they just used our driveway to turn around.”

As we’re on the cusp of a crescent shaped street people are always corroding our driveway in their efforts to turn around in the street. The surface is falling to bits it’s so ground down. Scotto wants to sue the council.

With a sigh of relief I turned back to the six packs.

Barely minutes later the same police car drove at a crawl past our house again, this time followed by an unmarked detective car. We paused the movie and silently watched as three more police vehicles arrived, jumping the gutter across the road and snaking down towards the riverbank and coming to a stop at the edge of the moops.

The ‘moops’ are what we call the swampy, grassy riverbank (resembling what I presume a moor looks like) extending out towards the actual river. It’s full of snakes, wallabies and itchy, bitey things and personally I’d never venture out there, though lots of people do.

Naturally I did the first thing I always do when anything remotely out of the ordinary happens and immediately took to social media.

I posted on Twitter first.

@pinkypoinker

There are five police cars on the river in front of my place right now.Should I go and ask them, "What's goin down dudes?" Or maybe not?


The response was instantaneous.

One of my favourite blogging pals, Kimberley from Melbourne Mum, was most encouraging. 

Are you wearing a bra? was her cryptic comeback. 

“Get down there without a bra on and you should get some answers, girl!” was her intriguing advice.

Now if I was a hot little mumma like Kimberley, this strategy might have had some viability... and as it happened I wasn’t wearing a bra and the twins were swinging wide and low, like something distasteful you'd find in an issue of National Geographic.

So I sent Scotto out on a reconnaissance mission instead.

But then another vehicle arrived. Two official-looking guys in long sleeved white shirts and ties stepped out. 

It was the coroner. Shite!

Abandoning any sense of modesty I stumbled down to where quite a collection of neighbours had gathered.

“What do you reckon’s goin’ on?” asked the old bloke from two doors up after he’d stared at my chest in dismay for a few seconds.

“A drug bust?” another curious neighbour chimed in. "Could be a crop of mary-juana."

Somehow, I suspected, a drug bust would not necessitate a coroner's presence.

Then we all saw what we’d dreaded. A tarp being thrown around and then four policemen carrying a body up from the riverbed.

We all left the riverbank and wandered back to our homes.

Scotto and I didn’t bother watching the rest of the movie.

There was no crime scene. We assume it was an accidental death or even more likely and sadder; that someone had just found things in this world to be too full of hopelessness and despair and had taken their own life… three hundred metres from our house.

It was somebody’s dad/mother/brother/sister/son/daughter/friend in that zippered bag.

I wish they’d knocked on our door.

We would have bundled them up in a blanket with a warm cup of tea and called for help.

I wish they’d reached out first before taking that irrevocable step.

We are here on this Earth for each other. We should try to remember there’s always someone we can reach out to.

If this post has upset or distressed you in any way, please call Lifeline on 13 11 14, or head to Beyond Blue.

Hey! Geronimo! Hey! Geronimo!

Remember how I used to complain about my teenagers relentlessly nagging me in an excruciatingly annoying, high whining voice simulating a Boeing 747 about to take off?

 "When will dinner be ready?" they'd whinge.  And how my stock answer was always, "Twenty minutes love!"

And how they'd come back an hour later and ask the same question and I'd reply, "Oh... about twenty minutes, sweetpea." 

And how they'd always accept it without question.

They'd just sigh and walk away mumbling about how I loved my blog more than I loved them blah, blah-de-bloody-blah.

Well those teenagers aren't around anymore. Now they're 'independently financial' and have their own wheels, they're off in 'fast food land' with all their mates. 

It's like living with the Phantom. I see a flash of a fluorescent tradie shirt as the front door is slammed, shaking the house to its core, or sometimes a spectre of grubby gym bag flashing past me in the hall, or I sense a whiff of Brittany Spears' perfume as I meander past the bathroom...but other than that, it's as if they don't exist.

But before you imagine my life is blissfully peaceful take a look at this.


This is what I have to contend with at 6:00pm every night and believe me... these guys can tell the time!

My Little Brother

                                             Dogwood Crossing: Video Website

Someone I haven’t mentioned much on my blog is my little bro, Damo. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s a reflection of my jealousy towards him when we were growing up as he was always our mother’s favourite. The ‘Golden Child’ with the ringlets (who set fire to the side of the house and still avoided getting into trouble).

Pinky, seven years older than the little brat, was a horrible older sister. My younger sister Sam and I would lock him out of our bedroom when I was about eleven and he was at that particularly insufferable age of four. 

He lay outside our bedroom door crying like a baby to come in. We just ignored him until, near hysteria and in a feverish lather of sweat, he’d go and dob on us to Mum and I’d cop the blame because I was the eldest. Bloody sook.

When he grew into a tolerable age I was about twenty-two and flew the coop to the big smoke for several years. By the time I returned he too had reached the age where he decided to move away and hasn’t really returned home since.

We’ve seen him every few years but sometimes I regret not having nurtured a closer relationship with him. Your siblings are the closest blood relatives you’ll ever have in this world; closer than your parents and closer than your own children and should never be taken for granted really should they?

I mean… who’s better to donate the odd kidney?

Anyway, the reason I’m bringing up the little terror now is that he seems to have aced me in the adoration stakes once again.

Whilst I’ve been fruitlessly churning out frivolous, inane blog posts for the last eighteen months in the hope that Oprah might ‘discover’ me (whilst surfing the Net beside Stedman in her diamond encrusted nightie) and order a major publishing house to sign me up, Damo has been busy pursuing his own aspirations.

His band, Dogwood Crossing.

The little bugger is the number one, number two and number four on the Triple J Unearthed Chart ???

What the ?

AND Dogwood Crossing are launching their tour in Damo’s home town (my home town too) so I suppose I’ll be obliged to go and support him.

Honestly! The things a big sister has to do.

Expect a phone call because I’ll be organising a posse to come along and support the little monster.

Mrs Poinker and the Lolly Jar

Containing twenty-six exuberant, animated ten year olds in a smallish classroom every day whilst coercing them into the partaking of dreary desk work for five hours isn’t as easy as it sounds.

The kids don’t all magically decide that Mrs Poinker isn’t like Mum and they can’t whinge, squabble, answer back, throw tanties, draw on furniture and shove things up their noses anymore. We teachers are required to set boundaries, establish expectations and provide a safe environment while at the same time remain calm, caring and … calm.

Over the last nine years I’ve employed a failsafe technique in order to ensure a tranquil, pacifying milieu in my classroom.

Captain Silence and the Lolly Jar.

Each day I appoint a select member of the class to be ‘Captain Silence’. The Captain is nominated at several times during the day to coast around the classroom giving the ‘thumbs up’ or ‘thumbs down’ sign dependent on what the recipients are up to at the time. 

Turning around in their seat firing spitballs through an eviscerated ballpoint: thumbs down. 

Working diligently with no annoying humming or poking their neighbour with a thumb tack: thumbs up.

The authoritarian Captain then writes a specially elected student’s name on the board under a smiley face crudely drawn by their artistically inept teacher.

At the end of the day, every lucky candidate with their name lit up in distinguished neon on the whiteboard is rewarded with the holy grail of all peoples under five foot tall… a lolly from the lolly jar. 

Captain Silence also gets to dig his hand in, have a good scrape around for the biggest marshmallow and contribute his own personal breed of bacteria as a reward for his/her work during the day. 

I’ve established a meritocratic society based on sugar.

On occasion, the lofty rank of Captain Silence is abused. For example, sometimes if Captain Silence is a girl there will only be girl’s names up at the end of the day. 

Occasionally I will observe the names on the board are exclusively the names of Captain Silence’s shady amigos who probably didn't warrant accolades at any stage of the day.

But lately, another problem has raised its troubling head.

If Captain Silence is not as silent as his job description defines, then he is instantly demoted to civilian status and Mrs Poinker takes over the commanding position.

Poor little Darius has had three goes at Captain Silence so far this year and has failed to hold down the station past morning tea on any of his distinguished appointments.

“You’re standing on your chair and yelling out the window, Darius. This is the third time I’ve warned you Darius! You can’t be Captain Silence anymore!” I declare in exasperation as he gazes at me with big, brown guiltless eyes.

“Okay,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders. “But can I be Captain Silence tomorrow?”

“No, I’m sorry you can’t Darius.”

“Do I still get a lolly?”

“No, Darius. I’m sorry.”

“Please?”

“No Darius.”

"Pretty please? I'll be good!"

"No Darius. Go back to your seat."


Darius wanders back to desk and Mrs Poinker feels like the most evil, wicked witch in the world. 

Mrs Poinker slips Darius a lolly as he walks out of the room at the end of the day. 

This is why Mrs Poinker failed as a parent.

Would you be jealous of your son's girlfriend?

Scotto and I sat in the near blackness of the cinema waiting for Maleficent to start when I gave a sudden, startled squeal whilst digging around in my bag in search of elusive butterscotch lollies.

The two little girls sitting in front of us turned to look disapprovingly at the silly lady behind them causing a ruckus.

“What is THIS?” I continued, after glaring at the judgmental brats and extricating a long evil-looking orange, plastic coil from my bag. 

“A skipping rope?” I choked in disbelief holding the malevolent object up to the light. “Why does this keep happening to me Scotto?” I pleaded, tears welling in my eyes. “Why? Why?”

The mystery cheese which had bafflingly appeared in my bag on Wednesday had rattled me to my very core. Now this!

“Maybe your bag has become a vortex… you know, and it’s pulling things out of another dimension,” commented my geeky husband.

“What’s more likely, is some smarty pants at work put it in my bag to see how long it would take me to find,” I thought smugly. “I’ll get you my pretties.”

It is strange though, don’t you think?

I don’t mean about the skipping rope in my handbag… I mean that Scotto would accompany me to the movies to watch a little girl’s movie.

Last weekend we sat on the couch together and watched “Frozen”.

I think he liked it even better than I did.

Two Disney movies about princesses in a row…
In his defence he did bring these home from Dan Murphy’s this afternoon just to prove he’s still a bloke.

                            I just hope he doesn't start acting like Homer.

Speaking of blokes; my blokey-bloke son Hagar, won a very special award on Friday night. 

                 Most Outstanding Second Year Electrical Apprentice of the Year

His girlfriend Meggles, sent me the photo from the gala event (which I was not invited to) and apparently he even thanked the sweet girl for all her support in his acceptance speech.

Not that I’m jealous about the fact Meggles got a mention and I, the mother who slaved after him for twenty-one years, failed to come up in any conversations at all.

Remember Mitchell Johnson the cricketer's mother? 

She audaciously stirred up a big fuss in the media because he took his girlfriend to watch him play cricket in England instead of her; the mother who’d dedicated her life to making sure his cricket whites were white and sat around for a zillion hours watching the most eye-gougingly, boring sport ever invented… the very same mother who no doubt sacrificed buying herself nice things in order to pay for his play away games and coaching clinics.

No wonder women end up bitter and twisted.

NB: I speak in jest. I’m very proud of Hagar and I’m thrilled the adorable Meggles has stepped in to wrangle his wild and woolly ways.

It's not like I'm about to curse their first-born or anything...

I'm Changing my Blog!!!

                                   

I need a niche.

My father sent me an email informing me I should stop wasting my time writing about myself because not only is it excruciatingly, mind-numbingly BORING… but Niche Blogs are the only way to make any money (and that is a very important fact of life as far as Dad is concerned).

Apparently niche blogs do better than blogs about… about… stuff like what I write.

So what the hell is a niche anyway?

I looked it up and this is what I found…

-A shallow recess, especially one in a wall to display an ornament or statue.

Why would anyone want to write or read about a hole in the wall?

My sister has a hole in the wall in her kitchen (still waiting to be re-plastered) from when someone, (no-one has ever owned up) had a few too many Christmas drinks and toppled into it… but that’s not very interesting.

I suppose you could write a heap of intriguing posts based on ‘a hole in the wall’, for example;

“Things I’ve seen whilst peering through a hole in the wall.”

“How to fix a sore eye after being poked when you were peering through a hole in the wall.”

“Holes in the Wall - their Personal Stories.”

“Ten Easy Yoga Positions you can do inside your Hole in the Wall.”

“Thirteen Insane (but true) things about Holes in Walls”

“How a Hole in the Wall once Saved the World!”

“Why No-one Talks about Holes in the Walls Anymore.”

“Will Holes in the Wall ever Rule the World?”

“The Eighteen Best ‘Hole in the Wall’ Youtube Videos Ever!”

“Why Holes in the Wall are like the School Bully!”

“Nineteen Ways Holes in the Wall are Completely Overrated!”

"Winter Accessories in the Hole in the Wall"

“Why Holes in the Walls are the Best Things since Sliced Bread!”

“Why Holes in the Wall are Sexy.”

“Twenty Unexpected Uses for Holes in the Wall.”

I think this was the sort of thing Dad was getting at. The options are bloody endless.

What do you think? Could I make a quick buck or should I stick to my lacklustre, narcissistic crap?

Thank you to Content Idea Generator for giving me these brilliant ideas!

Pinky's Mystery Cheese

“Where did this come from?” I wondered out loud, pulling a box of Camembert out of my bag this morning after ferreting around for my reading glasses in the staff room.

My colleagues just stared at it in an uninterested malaise.

“Maybe you just put it in your bag when you were shopping, Pinky,” suggested Kyles, stifling a wearied yawn.

“No... I don’t even buy this brand,” I replied in bewilderment.

“Maybe it’s the menopause… and you just forgot,” said Kaz.

“It’s not the bloody menopause!” I grouched, pulling out my phone to take a photo of the mystery fromage.

“OH!” cried Adriana, one of the Grade One teachers. “Now I see your ploy, Pinky. This is just a set up for your blog. I knew your blog was a fake! Every week I read it and there’s some new sensational bloody drama. You’re just making all that stuff up.”

I couldn’t speak. My blog... a ruse? Me… melodramatic?

I shuffled off to the loo, feeling disembowelled… eviscerated.

“How could anyone possibly think I’d deliberately plant a box of cheese in my handbag for the sole purpose of garnering attention?” I huffed sitting on the toilet, trembling and injured as a baby bluebird with a brutally broken wing.

“Right that’s it! You’re on the blog!” I snapped at the complaining whistle-blower after marching out and taking her photo. ‘That’ll teach her to label me as being obsessively pre-occupied with my own personal agenda,’ I thought.

                                  Yes... you hide your head in shame!

But I still didn’t know where the camembert came from.

I texted Scotto with shaking hands.

No enlightenment there.

I asked Sue the Librarian if she had any insight.

“It’s probably just that you forgot you put it in your bag because of the menopause,” she offered kindly.

“Maybe someone put it in your bag because they thought you might like it to go with your wine, Pinky,” volunteered Alan the P.E. teacher when I grilled him.

‘Really??’ I pondered anxiously. ‘Do that many people know about my drinking habits?’

I sat in the staffroom and debriefed my friend Lyndal, who attempted to comfort me with her wise words,

“I forget lots of things too now I’m at this time of life. It’s just menopause.”

Mmmmm... But despite all of their ageist, bloody attitudes, I know full well I did not shoplift, buy,or even lay eyes before on that damn cheese and I have no idea where it came from. 

If anyone does know can you please put me out of my distressing and shocking suffering?

                           "Ya blog's rigged Pinky!"

And I’m NOT a drama queen!

P.S. Under NO circumstances Google "Mystery Cheese" because you won't like what you find.

Linking up at Grace at With Some Grace!

"Game of Moans"

If you watch Game of Thrones you’ll probably know what the “Moon Door” is.

I’ve been wondering what you all think of the “Moon Door”? 

Have you ever watched as some unfortunate knight who happened to err on the wrong side of Robin Arryn; the whiny, thirteenish year old, breast-feeding demon, is thrown through the Moon Door and hurtles to his death and secretly wished you too had a Moon Door? 

Or is it just me?

These are the objects/persons I would love to mercilessly shove into the yawning abyss and gleefully watch them smash into a million pieces on the rocks below.

1. The guy who walks his two golden retrievers past our house at 5:30 am every Saturday morning triggering my Chihuahua to startle from his dreamy slumber and “BOWROWROWROWROW… BOWROWROWROWROWROW…BOWROWROWROWROW!!!!!!!” loud enough to make me bolt upright in bed, both eardrums spurting blood and heart exploding.

2. My Chihuahua.

3. The student who audaciously calls out loudly, “The cat ate my homework!” when said item is requested on Monday morning causing unnecessary and disruptive mirth in the classroom which takes ten minutes to deactivate. It does not make it an original excuse by replacing ‘dog’ with ‘cat’, nor is it slightly amusing and frankly, I wish the cat would eat him.

4. The two youthful gym guys at the supermarket who accost me at the door every day with their free introductory membership offers. I avert my eyes to the ground; I swerve swiftly around the donut booth, skulking on bended knees to avoid being seen, I pretend to be having an animated conversation on the phone… but they always manage to somehow position their pearly whites up in my face and harangue me until I scamper away clutching the pamphlets and promising earnestly to look over them carefully.

5. The person who decided cheap waxed toilet paper frugally delivered in one sheet rations at a time in workplaces was a practical and economical idea.

6. The people on television cooking shows who carry on like it’s an art form. It’s food! It gets eaten! Gone forever… no art!

7. My lap top when out of the blue it tells me, “He’s dead Jim!” It scares the hell out of me. Who’s Jim? Who’s dead? I just want to hurl the evil machine down the Moon Door!

8. That creepy, disturbing little Robin Arryn. Gosh I hope he goes next!

The Peeved Pescetarian

Poinkers. Meet the Poinkers.
They're the modern Phone age family.
From a town in Queensland,
They're a page right out of history.

Let's ride with the family down the street.
Driving in the muggy, tropic's heat.

When you're with the Poinkers
you'll have a yabba dabba doo time.
A dabba doo time.
You'll have a gay old time.

Now that Pebbles Poinker has her licence she’s finally able to pay us back for all the lifts we gave her over the last seventeen years.

It was the beginning of Fred (Scotto) Poinker’s birthday celebrations yesterday so we grabbed a lift from her into the city. I sat white-knuckled, gripping the back seat as Pebbles took the corners like Michael Andretti careening through the chicanes at the Grand Prix. 

I tried to keep my mouth shut for a change not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I’d like to think she was only driving in such a fashion because she was in a hurry to get rid of us and go see her boyfriend, Bam Bam. But I suspect she always drives like a maniac what with only one point left on her licence and all.

The birthday boy’s first request was that we stop for a pre-lunch drink at the infamous Yacht Club. No sooner had I settled comfortably with a nice glass of wine when suddenly I appeared to be wearing it. 

Fred, with his appalling depth perception had knocked my entire glass all over my shirt.

As I squelched off to the ladies room to wash it out I heard one of the salty barflies quip, “Hope it’s not ya first date mate!” Raucous laughter ensued.

“It’s Fred’s birthday,” I thought gritting my teeth. “Don’t get cranky.”

Then it was time to move on to Fred’s restaurant of choice. Wilma’s shout of course as is the custom on birthdays.

None of those highfalutin eateries for Fred! 

No stupid restaurants that serve unrecognisable, delicate portions on a fancy breadboard for him. Oh no! 

Fred wanted real food.

Brontosaurus ribs were the order of the day. 

No matter that Wilma (Pinky) Poinker is a pescetarian… there’d surely be something on the menu for her.

It didn’t look anywhere as nice as what he was having when it turned up though.

Sometimes I question my own life choices.

I finished mine in three minutes and sat drooling like a dog as he finished his spicy ribs.

After lunch Fred wanted to go visit the Lodge. His day after all.

Wilma’s sabre-tooth lion skin purse was soon emptied whilst Fred ‘yabba dabba dooed’ all the way home after winning forty bucks on the pokies.

I think Fred had a good birthday. 

But I wonder if there are any pescetarian restaurants around here for when it’s my turn.

“Wilmaaaaaaa!!!!!”

Should Pinky Teach Prep?

                                                                     

It’s that time of year when teachers at our school are required to nominate their preferred grade of teaching for 2015.

“Thought I might try out teaching Prep next year,” I commented nonchalantly in the staff room this morning.

My colleagues, Rach and Kyles, stared back at me like a couple of stunned mullets. The silence was palpable.

“You wouldn’t cope,” spluttered Rach.

“You don’t have the patience, Pinky!” squawked Kyles choking on her tea.

“How would you know?” I demanded, outraged they would think I lacked the serenity and fortitude to handle a class of five year olds. The Preps would love me!

Later on I quizzed two of my favourite teacher aides, Donna and Carmen, who’ve both spent a lengthy sentence of incarceration in Prep and might be a bit less judgmental than those other two bitter crones.

“It’s pretty demanding, Pinky,” they both conferred. “They don’t leave you alone for a second.”

“Do they… you know… have accidents?” I enquired cautiously.

Donna and Carmen glanced at each other furtively.

“Not much,” they murmured, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

It seems to be quite a monumental decision to switch from teaching ten year olds, so… I’ve weighed up the pros and cons below.

Pros:

I should be able to handle the mathematical concepts in Prep.

You know... one plus one equals two.

Preps are cute in their own funny little strange way.

I can dress down (even more) for work what with all the finger painting and clay modelling and all.

They’ll have the crusts cut off the sandwiches in their lunch boxes and I love sangers with the crusts cut off.

I’ll be able to join them in their afternoon nap every day.

I will be able to expound my knowledge about things I know nothing of and they won’t remember what I said, dob me in to their parents and make me look like a fool.

They’ll follow me around like I’m Justin Beiber and I’ll feel loved again.

Cons:

There may be some wee and poo accidents involved.

I won’t be able to understand a word they say.

I won’t be able to tell the girls from the boys with their unisex uniforms.

I’ll have to read The Hungry Caterpillar which always makes me hungry.

I’ll have to be nice to them when they hurt themselves instead of saying, “Harden up princess.”

The mums will be the same age as my children.

The kids might call me Grandma.

I don’t like paint or snot.

Apparently Preps don’t have naps anymore.

What do you think? Should I make the move?

Thirteen Ways You Can Survive this Budget

After the recent Budget was delivered last week, it occurred to me that belts need to be tightened around this household.

These are my strategies and I hope you find them useful.

1. Firstly, I’m going to sell my husband’s beloved skateboard collection. He’s not going to miss them if I take one deck off the wall a week and flog it off at Cash Converters. 

Besides, as I've been telling him for ages, he’s too old for that sort of rubbish.

2. We’ll save electricity by not watching the telly anymore. We’ll find something else to do, like throw pebbles into a jar, play hopscotch, or sit on the front lawn and count how many red cars drive past.

3. We’re all going to have to drink more water. It’s very filling so we’ll save unnecessary expenditure on pointless things like food. Although water’s low on fibre, it’s full of fluoride which is excellent for your teeth and bones.

4. Of course we’ll have to live in the dark to save on power bills. Everyone looks more attractive in the dark and as I won’t be able to afford makeup that’s a plus.

5. I’ll steal other people’s lunch at work. Some of those people at work eat far too much anyway. Surely they won’t miss the odd yogurt going missing.

6. Naturally, from now on I’ll only give homemade presents. I've always wanted to get back into knitting anyway.

                                             Image credit

7. I’ll wear a surgical mask because I won't be able to afford to get sick. As a teacher this is paramount; being surrounded by snotty nosed kids all day and all. They’re better off not seeing my facial expressions anyway.

8. Shopping around for the cheapest petrol will save me heaps. My teenagers don’t need to drive around as much as they do... and sharing is caring.

9. We can rent out our walk-in-wardrobe to a University student. Things might get a bit awkward when I go looking for my bra in the morning but I’ll be cool with it if they are.

10. It will be necessary to lower our epicurean standards. If it’s good enough for the dog it’s good enough for us.

11. We’ll look for a cheaper place to live… and save on air conditioning into the bargain.

12. I’ll read our local newspaper for cheap outing ideas. There’s bound to be some wedding/engagement/21st parties we can crash… even the odd wake perhaps.

                                           Image credit

13. It will pay to research all my fringe benefits from work. Toilet paper, sugar, coffee, tea… it’s all there for the taking. 

Except I wish they’d stop buying International Roast (caterer’s blend).

Bloody cheapskates.

How will you save money? Any tips?

Linking up at With Some Grace.

I Love You Too

Scotto and I had a fight last night.

We were watching a movie and I wouldn't shut the hell up from the first scene until the last, about how categorically sh- sh-sh- shoddy it was.

I whinged, I carped, I nit-picked; I disparaged every line of dialogue until he snapped at me to go to sleep and keep my judgmental thoughts to myself because he was enjoying it.

But I wasn't tired... so I lay in bed beside him, flinching in pain at the movie's incompetency, quietly whispering, "Kill me now" at regular intervals and ruined any pleasure Scotto may have gleaned.

How do you know when a movie is not going to deliver what you hope it will?

Is it when you’re cringing under the blankets because of the over-the-top ‘theatre’ acting?

Could it be when an attempt at a 'comical' visual scene leaves you shaking your head from side to side and groaning in empathetic humiliation for the director?

Perhaps it’s when you hear the unrealistic scripted dialogue and suck your cold breath in through your pained teeth then sigh it all out in loud, unreserved disenchantment.

It might be when you can predict the entire plot and denouement ten minutes into the movie because the story line is a carbon copy of hundreds of other much more successfully executed romantic comedies.

One hundred and seven minutes of my life I will NEVER GET BACK!

THINGS MY SISTER PINKY TAUGHT ME.

A guest post from my sister, Sam (with some cautionary footnotes).

We had a little cold spell this week, which means the musty old woollies get dragged from the back of the closet where they spend ten months of every year.

“Just look at this cardie,” I complained to my hubby. “It’ll need a good shave before I can wear it.”

The look of complete confusion on his face made me realise perhaps not everybody uses a razor to get rid of pilling on jumpers, but as my sister showed me long ago, it works a treat. This in turn had me thinking of all the other wondrous and mundane things my darling sister has taught me over the years. (1)

When Pinky and I were much younger the majority of stuff she shared was on the practical side. How to feed our dog my peas under the table (2) and not get caught, how to blame our little brother for anything I might have broken and how to read under the sheet with a torch after bedtime.

Our teenage years though were a very different story.

Pretty much everyone who knows us both has heard the story of Pinky forcing me to take up smoking. She’d just started the habit, and as our mother made her drag me around almost everywhere, she quite rightly worried that I’d dob her in.

“Right,” she insisted. “If you don’t smoke this cigarette now, none of us will talk to you.”

Since these Pinky and her gal pals were the coolest, most worldly beings I knew, I was only too willing. My first cigarette was an Alpine menthol in the toilets at the Odeon Cinema in the city. (3)

I’m sure she soon regretted this as I took to it like a duck to water and spent the next few years pinching them from her hidden packs at every opportunity. (4) (She also taught me how to do a thorough search of our house for secreted objects.)

During our 20’s, Pinky moved on to teaching me more exciting things. How to throw a great party (lots of booze), how to sneak into a concert (over the fence ) (5) and how to convince your boss that you’ve definitely caught a bug not a hangover. 

Are you seeing a trend here? Pinky made quite a fun teacher.

As they say, time waits for no woman, our single days were past and marriage and babies, soon to become toddlers, kids and dreaded teenagers were upon us. Pinky gave lots and lots of advice about all these things, often with an eye-roll and, as anyone who knows her will assume, a very bossy tone. 

I, of course, didn’t always listen, but a better arbiter of whether a bump needed a Bandaid or an X-ray you couldn’t find. I might not have had a village around me but at least with Pinky only a phone call away, my children didn’t grow up with disfigurements.

I like to think I taught my sister a few things too but the only one I could really come up with was patience as I blundered my way through life, but I am sure we learnt a few things together.

Some of my favourites are:-

How not to hold a grudge. (6)

How to bite your tongue when you need to.

How sitting in judgement doesn’t really help anyone.

That you might as well laugh at yourself because everyone else does.

And finally, to always love and appreciate your sister. (7)

Footnotes from Pinky:

(1) Thanks Sam. In one fell swoop you've destroyed my online reputation as (and I quote one of my favourite bloggers, Lee-Anne Walker, in her famous post, "Serious... and other important trivia.")  "a witty minx". 

Now anyone who reads my blog will form a mental picture of a witless Pinky sitting around all day shaving woollen garments like some sad middle-aged weirdo.

(2) Yes... and my scheme worked so well until you pushed the envelope by chucking a cold slab of Mum's steamed choko under the table, the dog refused to eat it, the game was up, I got the blame and we were both sent to bed with no dessert.

(3) I truly am incredibly sorry for that Sam. Especially as it took you twenty-five years longer than me to give the filthy habit away. But in all seriousness, how was I to know you had such an addictive personality?

(4) YOU STOLE MY CIGARETTES??? Do you know how much those things are worth now? When we were kids they were only two bucks a packet... now they cost twenty! You must owe me hundreds of dollars. 

I'll be around on the weekend to collect, and if you don't pay up I'll pin you to the ground and tickle you until you cry just like I did when you were five.

(5) Finally! My credibility is restored. I AM a minx.

(6) I still want the money for those ciggies.

(7) See above.