Pinky's Versatile Bloggers Awards!

It occurred to me some time ago you’re all sick and tired of hearing about Pinky and her trifling insecurities and humdrum recreational activities, so it was with a mixed sense of exultation and trepidation when my blogging friend Louise, from Louise Allan. Life from the attic., nominated me for a Versatile Blogger award yesterday. 

As the recipient of said nomination it is my duty to relate “Seven Things You Might Not Know About Me” and then nominate fifteen other bloggers (which is the easy part) for the award and set task.

I’m fairly certain you would all much rather read, “Seven Things Leading to Pinky’s Decision to Cease Writing her Blog” but I’m afraid this is my mandate and I must obey.

Firstly, thank you Louise for your kind-hearted nomination. Louise is a mother, doctor and writer (and self-confessed Pepsi Max addict). She is completing her first novel, “Ida’s Children” which grew out of a short story she wrote in 2010. I thoroughly enjoy Louise’s insightful book reviews and am greatly looking forward to reading her book.

As Louise is a real-life, ridgy didge medico, I’ve decided to work my seven revelations around the theme of 

‘Pinky’s Medical Peculiarities’ which I’m positive she will be riveted by and has been dying to hear all about.

1. I have an extra ‘lobe’ on my right kidney. At first the specialist thought something was blocking my apparently dilated organ but subsequent scans revealed it was just an extra bit chucked on by Mother Nature. 

While this is all well and good, I would much rather have preferred an extra ‘lobe’ on my liver to assist in processing my excess Chardonnay consumption. Scotto, mentioned in passing, an extra ‘lobe’ on my brain might not have gone amiss. “It’s quite normal,” insisted my Uro-gynecologist. “Just like having an extra finger!”

I don’t know how you feel, but having an extra finger isn’t really all that normal is it? I have a deep seated fear that perhaps I ate my twin in utero. If they find a tooth in that extra ‘lobe’ I’ll be pretty upset.

2. I have Arcus Senilis, which is a milky ring around the iris and you’re only supposed to get it when you’re in your eighties or thereabouts. 

I’ve had it since I was thirty seven. 

It can be a sign of high cholesterol which I don’t have. I’m convinced it’s insidiously linked to the Chardonnay.

3. I had all four wisdom teeth removed when I was eighteen. At the time, I was working as a dental nurse for a partnership of dentists. 

One of the partners disliked me intensely and I thought if I entrusted him to pull out my wisdom teeth he might start to like me a bit. My plan worked and I retained my job. 

As reckless and foolish as this story sounds, it’s very true. It also probably explains a lot.

4. I’ve never broken a bone due to the over-protective instincts of my mother, who didn't allow me to play contact sport or have a bike. I used to go to my friend Lindy’s place to dangerously and precariously ride her sister’s bike all over the city in heavy traffic, unbeknownst to my mother.

5. My large bunion (aptly named ‘Paul’) which I wrote about last year, is becoming a bit of a celebrity. Foot fetish devotees all over the world are using search terms like “I like bunions” and are flocking to my post in considerable numbers. I know you hope I jest, but sadly I do not.

6. I get asthma from eating pickled onions. When I was a kid I’d knowingly eat them from the jar in large quantities then approach my mother, wheezing in a death-rattle-esque manner and say, “Listen to my breathing, MUM!” 

She would tell me to go away and to stop being silly. It was years before I clicked as to what was happening. I also get asthma from Bundy Rum, Kahlua, certain brands of orange juice and from laughing too much.

7. I am very light boned and have a tiny head which means I can’t weigh as much as what normal people my height do ( I’m 165cm tall) or I look like a pin head. 

Everything on my body is small leading to minor annoyances such as never being able to find a hat that fits. Small ear canals, skinny fingers, fine hair, skinny legs… let your imagination run wild. Everything is small except my nose and stomach. And apparently my right kidney.

Now… enough of my dribble.

My fifteen nominees are as follows- (This is optional girls and you may have already done it.)

Lee-Anne from Is it just me?

Susan from Susan Lattwein

Kathy from 50 Shades of Age

Mumabs at Mumabulous

Kimberley at Melbourne Mum

Kat from Mammas Vida

Emily from Have a Laugh on Me

Liz from Laws of Gravity

Sarah from Surely Sarah

Louisa from My Midlife Mayhem

Alana from House Goes Home

Robomum from Robomum

Denise from Denise Mooney

Deb from DebbishDotCom

Mark from Full Half Glass

Rebecca from The Plumbette

Please send me your link in the comments if you would like me to add you :)

Linking up with Emily at Laugh Linkup

What medical peculiarities do you have?

Pinky the Accidental Art Critic

My son Thaddeus and I padded around the Art Gallery of New South Wales in Sydney, soaking up the familiar works of Tom Roberts, Sidney Nolan, Fred McCubbin, Arthur Streeton, William Dobell, Russell Drysdale and the like, attempting to ignore the disdainful glares from the security guards. 

There were paintings I’d only ever seen in my grade twelve art text book and my father’s coffee table books.

                         "The Golden Fleece" by Tom Roberts

And then I came upon this.

At first I thought the painting was hiding behind a black screen... so it was with not a small measure of dismay I realised that no… this was the painting. 

At least I think so. 

Someone please correct me if I’m wrong.

Have you ever read the ‘Emperor’s New Clothes’? 

Feeling like the lone little boy who shouted out to the naked Emperor that he was, indeed, walking around in the nuddy, I dragged Thaddeus over and directed his gaze to the abstract piece.

“Are they ‘aving a lend of us?” I challenged Thaddeus. “This is where Australian taxpayer’s money is going? Can somebody really justify this as a piece of art?”

It made me recall a play I read one time. It was about a gallery janitor who accidentally left his apple core on an empty pedestal. The next day the art appreciators arrived and on seeing the ‘new sculpture’, milled around it; analysing the line and features and praising the innate symbolism. 

Even now, as I write this, I’m still not positive the painting wasn't just hidden behind a screen...

At Thaddeus’ request, he and I had spent the morning ploughing up and down King St in Newtown. The natives were a different genre to that in the heart of Sydney. There were no suits and blonde bobs, but more vintage cardigans, chunky black boots and hipster apparel. 

The tempo was slower as well, unlike for example, the congested pedestrian traffic necessitating moving around as if you’re in a game of Frogger every time you cross the road.

“I feel like I’m in the middle of a Whitlams’ song,” commented Thaddeus as we walked up the trendy inner city suburb’s road.

There was a mother and teenage son standing in front of us at the lights. Mum was clearly coming down from something or other as she stood slapping the cross walk button hard and sharp for the full five minutes the lights took to turn green, shouting, “F#$k, f#$k, f#$k, f#$k, f#$k!!!!” the entire time. Her son looked bemused but a bit embarrassed at the same time.

“See!” I shoved Thaddeus in the ribs. “You could have done worse than Pinky as a Mum.”

“Can we go to check out King’s Cross?” he asked. 

I agreed since it was the middle of the day and it was unlikely either of us might be unfortunate enough to cop a ‘coward punch’. 

Not that there’s all that much to see in the Cross except a lot of exceptionally weird and wonderful characters, an iconic fountain, a soft drink sign,

 and a few select folk walking around with obvious symptoms of delirium tremens.

Thaddeus stood on a corner checking out Google on his phone trying to source the name of the nightclub which hosted Todd Carney’s recent shenanigans. 

I think he wanted a photograph of the signage to post on Facebook. I stood beside him on the corner as a couple of cops pulled up at the lights. “Look!” I undiplomatically pointed at the cops. “They’ll probably think I’m a hooker and you’re my pimp!”

Thaddeus turned around to look and the cops stared back with a glimmer of interest…  then drove on ignoring us.

‘I’m probably too old to be mistaken as a hooker anyway,’ I thought in minor disenchantment.

We saw a girl in a Marilyn Monroe wig, a white bejewelled ball gown and twelve inch heels walking up and down the street. There was another older lady in a fluorescent spray jacket screaming her head off and doing a slow striptease across the road. It was quite a show for a couple of country hicks such as us.

We’d been out until midnight the previous night watching Strictly Ballroom at the Lyric Theatre.  As we’d been walking around all day it was nice to sit quietly sipping a Shiraz, people-watching from a bar in the middle of King’s Cross and discussing which movie we’d go to see that night.

Then it suddenly occurred to me how bloody lucky I am to have a twenty-four year old son who is such damn good company. He’s worldly and amenable, flexible and considerate and an all-round delightful travelling companion.

I must have done something right in my parenting after all.

Don’t feel sad about your kids growing up. It’s just as nice if not better when they do.

Country Blogger Meets City Blogger!

“Do I look okay?” I asked my son Thaddeus, for the seventeen billionth time as we sat in the shuddering train between Town Hall station and our destination in Sydney’s South. We’d flown down to the big smoke the previous night and were on our way to meet my favourite, highly-esteemed blogging buddy, Lee-Anne from Is it just me?

I’d never met a real live blogger before and was beside myself with manic anticipation.

About an hour beforehand I’d stood in the middle of the Pitt St Mall staring up and down in unsuccessful bids to catch a glimpse of the Myer’s sign, haranguing a strained Thaddeus to find it on his phone’s GPS.

“If I’d been with your sister, Lulu, she’d have found it immediately by using her special brand of quantum mechanics. She can use her subatomic vision to spot shopping centres using the Earth’s magnetic field,” I sniffed impatiently.

At last I espied the familiar logo in the distance and we lumbered towards it; entered it’s hallowed doors, ignored the snooty perfume reps spraying us with a mist of eye-stinging fragrance, sailed up a terrifying number of escalators, were pushed aside by grumpy shoppers for daring to stand not run on the moving stairs and finally unearthed the ideal gift for my blogging amigo.

We then stood on the station platform gawking uselessly at the screen of destinations unable to find Lee-Anne’s suburb. I really didn’t want to reveal myself as a straw-chewing yokel at this early stage, but I was forced to text her for a repeated set of instructions.

Bogans from whoop-whoop cain’t read this here timetable proper. Please help! or something like that anyway.

Lee-Anne was most patient, assuring us it wasn’t our fault and that we weren’t country bumpkins at all, but I felt quite the graceless, unsophisticated simpleton.

But now we were on the train which erratically shunted into HER station and I frenetically combed my flat hair, the fatality of a morning wash in hotel supplied shampoo and conditioner, in the hope of injecting some oomph into it.

‘Use your posh voice, Pinky,’ I reminded myself. ‘Get that North Queensland twang out of your vernacular.’

“Try not to swear, Thaddeus,” I warned, whilst waving a comb towards his beatnik locks which he brushed away quickly before I managed to make any beneficial contact. “Lee-Anne might not like swearing.”

We left the train and stood on the edge of an exceedingly pretty, leafy park waiting for Lee-Anne to walk down to meet us. I felt ridiculously nervous. It was almost like meeting a Matchmaker.com date you’d been emailing for months and knew there was a connection and hoped like hell your instincts were right.

“Do you know what Lee-Anne looks like?” queried Thaddeus.

“Well,” I replied anxiously, “I’ve seen one photo but she said that it was taken five years ago and she looks nothing like that now.”

Thaddeus lit a cigarette. “And don’t smoke in front of Lee-Anne!” I shrilled. “She might not like it.”

I noticed a large, blonde lady dressed in militant attire and head-kicking Doc Martens heading towards us.

“This must be her,” I thought in mild astonishment. “Gosh… she’s changed quite a bit in five years.”

But no. The slightly intimidating Kelly Osbourne emulation passed by without slowing her stride and I’m ashamed to admit I breathed a teeny sigh of relief.

“Is that her across the road waving at you?” pointed Thaddeus with his Holiday.

A diminutive, stylish replica of the photo I’d seen for the last six months or so was indeed waving enthusiastically and running across the road towards us.

I immediately felt like a daggy old bag lady with my drab, moth-eaten Winter outfit, but it didn’t matter as in a few seconds we were embracing like long lost friends, giggling and gabbling over the top of each other while Thaddeus looked on in amusement.

As we walked back to Lee-Anne’s elegant and picture perfect house we bumped into a couple of her neighbours.

“Hello! Gawd, you’re all dolled up!” they smilingly remarked. “Don’t usually see you looking so glamorous Lee-Anne!”

Reassured I wasn’t the only one wanting to create a good impression I laughed out loud. “That’s soooo going on the blog!”

The three hours Thaddeus and I spent sitting in Lee-Anne’s verdant, country-style garden surrounded by her chickens and puppies, sipping on wine and chatting without hiatus, went by far too quickly and I felt so sad when we had to say goodbye.

Her warmth, generosity, humour and vivacity were a complete reflection of the person I’ve grown to know, purely through her eloquent, funny and insightful words.

Did you happen to have a penpal when you were a kid, back when letters were de rigueur and there was no email/Facebook/SMS?

Because I’m here to tell you… blogging pals are so much better.

                  Pinky and Lee-Anne arguing about whose hair was flatter.

                               Thaddeus and Lee-Anne 

                               Chilling out in Lee-Anne's "Gaze-bo!"

           Lee-Anne, Nate (the devil dog), Pinky and Blossom (the Minx).

Thank you so much Lee-Anne. It was such a lovely afternoon and I was thrilled to meet you xx

Linking up with Sonia Styling!

Pinky's Guide to How to Eat a Banana.

                                      

It was the last day of school yesterday and I sat in the staffroom ten minutes before the first bell, wishing the day was already over and pontificating about bananas.

We see a lot of bananas (and cans of tuna) in the staffroom because everyone pretends to be on a diet.

They’ll eat their can of tuna with crackers and their lonely, bruised bananas… then they raid the fridge for leftover cheesecake pretending those calories don’t count because they didn’t come from home.

“I cleaned up the half banana you left on the table yesterday, Pinky,” commented my colleague, Rach with a disapproving tone in her voice.

“It’s not my fault, I'm tired. Besides, I can’t eat a whole banana,” I declared. “They’re too big these days.”

Eyebrows were raised. Teachers become open to dirty connotations at the end of term after being sledged for ten weeks by maliciously clever, ten year old rapscallions. 

We’re worn down. 

Depleted of cunning comebacks. 

We descend into a low form of toiletty, Benny Hill type of humour.

“I hate bananas to tell the truth. They are a common sort of food, no class,” I added superciliously. 

“People look ridiculous when they’re eating bananas. It’s something about the chomping away on a mushy thing with the peeled skin dangling down,” I continued, dicing with death considering the stony stares emanating from the bulging eyeballs of my co-workers.

“Actually, you all look like a bunch of monkeys when you're eating them!” Pinky daringly broadcasted.

Pinky's colleagues stared at her in silence. She’d blatantly slighted them by comparing their eating habits to the insulting image of a bunch of hairy apes squatting inelegantly, scratching their heads and dribbling over a pointy banana.

Sooo… it was with no small amount of astonishment I happened upon this in the staff room at morning tea.

                                   Kyles the Music Teacher

See! People do sit up and take notice of Pinky… occasionally! About bloody time I say.

Happy school holidays everyone! 

What do you think about eating bananas in public?

Linking up with the girls at Laugh Link
Have a Laugh on Me

Melbourne Mum

Talking Frankly and

26 Years and Counting!

Why I Write

                                                   

There sat little Pinky; balancing her lap top on her knees, delicately eating an afternoon tea banana and chortling her head off at another highly amusing post by the razor-witted, Mumabulous, when she suddenly noticed the wickedly sassy blogging princess had tagged her and Louisa from My Midlife Mayhem, in the (rapidly proliferating) “Why I Write” Blog Hop.


Despite what you think, I really don’t like to write about myself. I’m an introvert, diffident, fearful of attention, reticent and… well, full of false humility and bulls#*&.

I tossed the now obsolete banana over my shoulder and immediately began to tap out my response to the prompt.

How does my writing differ from others in my genre?

When I was a kid my ABC loving, higher-order-thinking father, banned my siblings and I from watching commercial television (in his presence) which meant I grew up on a nourishing diet of ‘Monty Python’, ‘Fawlty Towers’, ‘The Goodies’ and ‘The Young Ones’, which has resulted in my writing an overabundance of what some would describe as a pile of silly twaddle.

For example, posts about subjects as inane as; my very large bunion, whether or not I should have my sons neutered, how I did an interview on myself and another with my parrot.

Many of my colleagues dislike this type of absurd and frivolous writing intensely and have made sure to inform me of this fact when they see me the next morning at work. They seem to forget that Pinky has feelings too.
I’m a primary school teacher which provides me with plenty of unusual fodder, most of which must be handled with a great deal of care and discretion, especially considering two Deputy Principals at my school often check in to read what fallacious exaggerations the Pinkster has posted this time.

Why do I write?

One day a friend sat patiently, tapping her fingers on the table and pretending to listen, as I blustered on about the latest outrageous exploits and adventures enacted by my four teenage sons (and the resulting fallout which was costing me large sums of money)… again.

“You should write a book, Pinky,” she yawned, openly.

I could have taken this in the true sense it was meant and realised she wanted me to shut the hell up and get lost. But what I heard was, “You should write a book.”

Now, anyone who has read Pinky Poinker knows what a lazy so and so she is and there is no way she possesses the mental fortitude, resilience or commitment to write a book, edit, edit again, edit one more time, send it to a publisher and then withstand anything unpleasant such as brutal rejection.

So I did what I thought would be a lazy way out and decided to just write a little bit every day. Not a book, but something to save me from earbashing unsuspecting victims caught in my bitter spider’s web of grievances and whinge-fests.

Once that was all out of my system I realised I enjoyed playing around with this writing business and rapidly became dependent on that giddy rush when I clicked the publish button on a post.

How does my writing process work?

Angles are more important to me than subject matter. Coming up with an unexpected approach which is entertaining and scaffolds a post that's able to ‘stand alone’ is what I strive to achieve.

In case you haven’t noticed my mixed tenses, superfluous adverbs, disgraceful abuse of tautology, crass metaphors and inappropriate adjectives sourced from the Thesaurus, this blog is not about high quality literature.

It’s about shallow, inconsequential trivia presented in the most engaging way I’m capable of delivering… solely written for your enjoyment my dear reader.

After writing and publishing a post, I sit in nail-biting dread, suspecting that this one, this obscure and pathetic piece of tripe will be the lead balloon that fails to take off, tumbling down to the ground and shattering my fragile ego into a zillion pieces. But it only takes one person to ‘like’, comment or ‘favourite’ the post and I miraculously re-inflate, knowing there is at least one person in the world who ‘got’ it… ‘got’ me.

Insecure narcissism is not an oxymoron.

What I’m working on.

Apart from having recently finished writing twenty-six school reports I’m not working on anything at all. However, a certain ‘someone’ is gently urging me to write a book. A light hearted mystery novel is what I’d like to dip my nib into. 

I’m thinking of hanging around the magistrates court in the school holidays in the hope of gathering inspiration but I’m slightly nervous I’ll see someone I know and they’ll think I’m up on drink-driving charges… again (jokes).

The time has now come to pass the baton to two other bloggers in this blog tag.

I would love to introduce you to two of my favourite bloggers;

Is It Just Me?

                             

                                      and

Denise Mooney

Both of these clever ladies excel in their very different genres and personally, I can’t wait to read what they have to say.

Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace

My Husband's Mistress.

                                                  

The alarm bells rang with piercing disharmony last Thursday evening as we sat on the couch together watching the telly.

Scotto's phone rang. He looked at the number and stood up nervously.

“I’ll take this outside,” he said quickly, wearing a guilt-ridden expression. “I don’t want to interrupt you watching Masterchef.”

The fact he wanted to slink out to the garage to take this phone call was fishy to begin with, but Scotto knows I hate Masterchef with a vengeance and only watch it because there’s nothing else on and I like to ridicule the fancy food which I could never cook.

I waited, seething with jealous suspicion.

Ten minutes later, I crept to the garage door. Just as I pushed the door open I heard his cruel laugh.

“Well the wife’s just informed me she’s going away with her girlfriends this weekend so I’ll drop by on Saturday,” he snickered.

His words sliced through my body in a shock wave effect and I silently shuffled away like a kicked puppy.

“I should have been more alert to the earlier signs,” I thought in agony later, as I lay on my bed staring at the black ceiling. “Why was I so blind? Was it just denial?”
I recalled our trip to the shops last weekend. Her name kept coming up in the conversation. No matter how many times I tried to change the subject, he persisted in bringing up her maddening name over and over. 

It was almost as though he was a man obsessed.

Then there was the inexplicable, but familiar scent I’d smell wafting around his person when he arrived home (late) from work.

The receipt I picked up from the floor last week was surely a sign I’d dismissed too easily. I noticed the large sum… a figure in the hundreds. He snatched it from my hand before I could see where it was from and urgently stuffed it in his pocket.

“What was that?” I enquired, innocently.

“Nothing,” he snarled cagily, turning away from me to avoid my plaintive gaze.

So… after all of these harbingers of marital doom, like any dedicated psychopath would do, I set a clever trap. 

Instead of going for my walk at 5:00pm as is my usual routine, I sat on the couch waiting for my treacherous husband to come home in order to spring the rat by surprise.

Hearing the crunch of tyres in the driveway I stalked out bravely to confront him once and for all… and there she was... my arch nemesis, standing in the garage in all her steely glory.

She taunted me; bejewelled and adorned with new expensive trinkets, as my husband proudly gazed down on his adored beloved mistress.

Newly recoloured wheels, red highlighted front lips and side skirts, coloured wheel nuts and brand new personalised plates.

Then, suddenly the dawn of realisation settled around me like the comforting, luxurious, expensive velour car seat covers in my husband’s Hyundai Veloster Turbo.

My husband doesn’t love his car more than he loves me!

My husband is Batman!!!

Happy Wedding Anniversary Husband xx

Is your partner obsessed with anything?

Linked with Kelly at A Life Less Frantic. Maxabella Loves
Life Love and Hiccups and Sonia Styling for the Weekend Rewind!

Ermahgerd! I'm on Mrs Woog!

                           Pinky and Kaz (Worse selfie ever taken according to Kaz.)

I was champing at the bit in excitement last Monday when I received an email from one of Australia’s top bloggers, the hugely popular Mrs Woog, informing me that one of my posts was to be published on her blog the following Sunday.

I was so thrilled I didn’t tell anyone in case I jinxed it.

I was so overwrought with titillated anticipation that when I reread my submitted post for the nine hundred and seventeeth time and noticed an alarming and conspicuous spelling mistake, I was too scared to email Mrs Woog and ask her if she could please correct it for me in case she decided I should be put in the too hard basket and cancel the whole shebang.

Here is the link to click on… Woogsworld

I was over at Magnetic Island with the inimitable Buzz Club all weekend and forced all the girls to check out my guest post on their phones.

“I’m going to be FAMOUS!” I shrilled.

“But hang on Pinky,” cautioned Kaz, as she screwed her nose up at the screen. 

“This post is by someone called Pinky POINTER. You’re Pinky Poinker with a "k" aren’t you?”

I snatched the phone from her hand and stared at it in dismay. The story of my life flashing up in my face; the countless disappointments of people getting my name wrong, the forgotten invitations, the bittersweet, successive runner-up ribbons and participation awards I've received over the last few decades.

Mrs Woog, my idol, had called me Pinky Pointer.

“Poinker is a stupid name anyway, Pinky!” scowled Kaz. “You do realise ‘Poinker’ means ‘dickhead’ in Russian.”

                                    My Russian translator, Kaz.
Normally, I would pay no heed to any of the rubbish that comes out of Kaz’s mouth, but rumour has it, she’s part of the Croatian Mafia so she’s probably correct in this instance.

Anyway… I DON’T CARE! 

If the Gorgeous Mrs Woog wants to call me Pinky Pointer she can…and that’s all there is to it.

Please leave a comment on Woogsworld to make me seem more popular than I am... even if it's just to point out my spelling mistake.

Linking up with Emily at Have a Laugh on me! for Laughlink!

Are You Mentally Strong?

                                         Pinky Starkers!!!

According to the Mind Unleashed website, one thing mentally strong people don’t do is expect immediate results.

“Whether they are working on improving their health or getting a new business off the ground, mentally strong people don’t expect immediate results. Instead, they apply their skills and time to the best of their ability and understand that real change takes time.”

With that piece of advice in mind I’ve come to the thunderously sinking realisation… my mental fortitude is as weak as a weak little kitty-kat kitten.

Of course I bloody well expect immediate results!

If I order a Game of Thrones t-shirt from the United States online, I expect it to be here within 24 hours... max.

I did such an outlandish thing a month ago and waited… and waited… and waited for it to arrive.

It was to be sent to hubby, Scotto’s work place, as there is never anyone home here (except for a huge, savage, unrestrained German Shepherd in case you’re a burglar who’s happened to chance upon this blog and is still reading… although I doubt you’d still be reading because you probably have 'places to case', or you’d be bored already, or trying on ski masks you’d purchased online… if they’d ever turned up in the damn mail that is).

Anyway… in my anxious wait for the much lusted after t-shirt to arrive, I’d violently spear tackle Scotto every time he walked in the door demanding, “Did it arrive yet? Huh? Huh?”

At which he would shake his head sadly in the negative (after picking himself off the floor, popping his shoulder back in its socket and spitting out a bloodied molar or two.)

I mean… COME ON PEEPS!

We live in the age of aeronautical transport. I’ve flown to the United States in a day, why did it take my t-shirt a whole MONTH to get here.

“Can’t you track it like you track the stupid computer parts you order?” I challenged Scotto.

“It’s only a t-shirt, Pinky. It cost twenty bucks. It’s coming via surface mail. You can’t track that,” he replied huffily.

I was desperate. I wanted to wear it when I went over to my sister Sam’s place because she’s in the Lannister Camp and I am clearly out and proud, “Camp Stark”.

Now the fourth season of Game of Thrones is finished on the telly, I’m very anxious about the health and well-being of its genius author, George R. R. Martin.

In fact, I’ve never been so anxious about the welfare of any American author in my entire life. 

The guy is sixty-six and still has two books of the series to write and I’m sorry to be the one to say this but he’s not looking the picture of robust health.

                                  No offence George.

Put it this way, I’m pretty sure he doesn't follow a vegan diet and run 10 km a day followed by yoga/meditation and a wheat grass shot.

What if he… you know, doesn't get to finish the books? What will we all do?

Why can’t he just… write the bloody things. I want to know what happens next, NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW! NOW!

Have you ever waited for an inordinately long time for something you bought online?

Are Teachers Lizard People?

I’m sure some kids think their teachers are a species of alien life form. Whenever I run into one of the little munchkins in the shopping centre they look as shocked and alarmed as if they’d just spotted Big Foot loping down the aisle with a packet of Rice Bubbles under his arm.

They hide behind their mother’s skirt and grimace nervously as I greet them, probably wondering if I’ve furtively escaped from the school where I surely must abide in the lonely evenings; bundled up in a cobwebbed pod in the corner of the dark classroom like a horrible, giant spider.

Or maybe it’s just me they react to in such a way.

I accidentally scratched a cut on my arm one day and made it bleed.

“Look! You’re bleeding blood, Mrs Poinker!” they screamed in revulsion, eyes popping out of their small sockets. Anyone would have thought I was oozing green plasma the way they carried on. 

What? Do they think teachers are bloodless, inhuman, anaemic creatures akin to White Walkers?

Or perhaps it’s just me.

Today, I was sitting checking my emails as the class was finishing off a task and I leaned back in my chair and sighed deeply. 

I felt it immediately. 

The slow, annoying fly which had been buzzing around my head had spontaneously resolved to investigate the back of my throat.

At precisely the very next second, little Pontius stepped up to my desk, pleasantly proffering his book work for me to check.

I gave one sharp cough and the fly flew out in triumph, relieved at having escaped an imminent death via my esophagus.

Pontius stared, the whites of his eyes showing and his bottom lip noticeably trembling. 

"Was that a fly, Mrs Poinker?" he whispered in dread.

"Yes, Pontius," I murmured grumpily.“It was just a fly. Now give me your book.”

As I said, it’s probably just me.

What do you think?





Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace

Things Our Kids Have Missed Out On!

                                          
If I could sum up my childhood in one word it would be… BORING. So much has changed in our world for the better but after hearing of the imminent demise of our postal system this week it started to concern me what things my grand kids will never have experienced.

Indeed, there are certain things which stand out in my mind I’m sure my own kids are ignorant of which may have been… challenging, fun, character building aspects of life assisting them in their later development which they'll never even know existed.

For example:

Making prank calls from a public phone when there was no caller ID and only the police could trace calls and that was only if you stayed on the phone for a really long time. Remember the old chestnut, “Is that the Wall residence?” "What? You mean there are no Walls living there? How is your house standing up then?" Hang up giggling and running away.

Or ringing the number which told you the time just because you were bored.

Or ringing the free call directory assistance number just to annoy them with questions like, “Do you know who won the Melbourne Cup in 1967?”

How sorry I am they don't know about going to the movies and having to stand for “God Save the Queen” before the first movie commenced. There were always two movies featured and the first one was a guaranteed shocker.

What about being the first up when the milk man delivered bottled, unhomogenised milk to your door every weekday? I was always first up and would pour the creamy bit on my cereal leaving the bland, watery whey for everyone else. Dad would crack a mental.

How sad they missed out on when really friendly young guys would come out at the petrol station, fill your car up, clean your windscreen and check the oil.

Or when you could buy 20 cents worth of lollies and they’d last all afternoon.

Or when the naughty boys who mucked up in class would be sent to the office and come back crying with “the cuts” marks on their hands and were well-behaved for the rest of the year.

Or when the school tuckshop sold “Cream Horns” which were delicious and decadent and no-one thought to make a dirty connotation out of it and nobody got fat because we all walked or rode to school.

Or when we would all spend fifteen minutes repacking our Cuisenaire Rods back into the boxes in Infant School… back when it was called Infant School.

Or when you had to have your shoes properly fitted with one of those medical-looking metal contraptions at the beginning of every school year. You couldn't just pick a pair of Nikes from the shelf.

                                                   

Or when television didn’t start until 4:00pm and there were only two channels anyway but you’d still sit and stare patiently at the test pattern waiting for it.

Or when at eleven o’clock at night the telly would close down and God Save the Queen and the test pattern would come up.

Or when every local television station had an afternoon show hosted by a pretty young woman and a clown and you wouldn’t miss it for quids.

Or when the highlight of the year was when “The Show” came to town and you’d get a new outfit and money to spend on Sample Bags that cost two dollars and had actual ‘samples’ in them not cheap confectionery from China.

Or when your father wouldn’t let you go out with boys who owned a Panel Van even if they came in to the house and shook your father’s hand.

Or when smoking an Alpine cigarette on the way home from school was de rigueur but in the holidays you’d keep the packet in your school bag until next term when they’d be stale but you couldn’t afford to buy a new packet even though they only cost $1.80 so you’d cough your way through them anyway to impress your friends.

Or when you could buy a brand new release 45 single for $1:00 and an LP for $6:00.

Or when your stay at home Mum would pour herself a Bacardi and Coke at 6:00pm and put lipstick on because your Dad was coming home soon.

Or when you’d spend Saturday night listening to the local radio station and request songs for your twelve year old girlfriends and you’d have to sit with your finger in the last number’s hole and patiently wait for the right second on your rotary dial phone to get through.

Or when a treat was to eat last night’s leftover rice with sugar and milk or to eat Milo out of the tin whenever your Mum went out and left you for ten minutes.

Or when your rite of passage was to have your ears pierced when you turned twelve not a sleeve tattoo when you turned eighteen.

Honestly… I could keep going with my trip down memory lane but I think the ambulance has arrived to take me away to the old people’s home.



Is there anything you remember you think your kids need to know about?

Linking up with Sonia at Life Love and Hiccups.

Why I Love the United States

I had an American boyfriend once. He was a Major in the U.S. army and had been sent to our garrison city for twelve months on a kind of swap deal with an Australian Major or something.

In truth, I think my main attraction to him was his American accent, which was mid-western so he told me. All I know is that he sounded like Weird Al Yankovic and that turned me on.

He was an engineer and extremely introverted as many engineers are…you know, looked at his feet a lot, but it was fun to quiz him about his life in the States.

But it’s not just the accent I love about Americans… there are other things.

I love the fact they have free speech over there.

I love the fact that even though they RUN the Oscars they still usually give many of the accolades to the Poms and Aussies.

I love their sense of humour; the smart talk, the Jewish humour, the unexpected.

I love the fact that their idea of a slice of pizza is the equivalent to half one of our large pizzas.

But more than anything I love the fact that they sometimes get Australia and Austria confused.

I travelled to the United States with my then-husband back in the late Eighties. We flew directly from our city in North Queensland to New York. It was a long, long flight... against the turn of the Earth and we arrived at 6:00 am.

I’d recently given up smoking and was in a foul, evil, pugnacious mood, whinging and complaining about anything and everything. 

Thinking we’d have a couple of hours sleep and hit the sidewalk for some tourist shenanigans at about midday was the unlikely plan.

At 11:00 am we woke up, showered and lugged ourselves downstairs. Within minutes the jetlag hit me like a Boeing 747. It felt as though I’d been poisoned and I immediately spun round on my heels angrily and staggered back up the elevator and into bed. When I awoke it was midnight. Our first day of a three day visit in the Big Apple we had spent sleeping in a musty hotel room.

We ventured out in the city they say 'never sleeps' and found a little Irish bar. We sat there for a few hours making friends with the barman, who bizarrely had an aunt who was a Catholic nun who lived on an island just north of our Queensland home town.

I remember walking around that night with the surreal feeling I was about to fall off the world. It was something about having arrived at pretty much the other side of the planet in such a short time.

At one stage in Time Square we became disoriented whilst looking for Little Italy. Naturally, in my nicotine withdrawal rage, I blamed my then husband. There was a police station set up in Time Square back in the Eighties.

“Go in and ask the cops where it is!” I ordered my then-husband, Ralphie.

“No, you go!” he cringed.

So up I marched to the (very good looking) NYPD cop behind the counter and using my most flirtatious toothy smiled enquired, “Excuse me but could you give us directions to Little Italy?”

I can’t remember what he said but I do recall he wasn’t very impressed with the Austrian tourist who dared to ask such a bloody stupid question when he was urgently dealing with murders and heinous crimes on Fifth Avenue or wherever they happen. We were smartly sent on our way.

Ralphie’s Australian accent was so strong no-one in the United States could understand him.

I’d listen to him on the phone ordering room service with a sense of growing irritation.

Me, getting irritated with him, that is.

“Ken oi ev a cup a tay en a hairm sairn-widge?”

“Oi sed, ken oi ev a cup a tay en a hairm sairn-widge?

This would go on for ten minutes until he’d finally give up and hand the phone to me.

“Can he have a cup of tea and a ham sandwich?” I’d snap, squinting my eyes threateningly at Ralphie. “Right! Room 504 then… thanks.”

I’d glare at him disparagingly… why couldn’t he speak properly?

We fought our way around the country, arguing publicly on the tourist bus in Washington DC… much to the amusement of the other passengers.

We had a fight in New Orleans when I realised I couldn’t buy Nicorettes in the United States without a doctor’s prescription .

We had a huge barney on a visit to the Smithsonian Museum and a massive, explosive hostile situation in San Francisco when he accidentally drove on the wrong side of the road.

Disneyland put me in a vicious mood when I realised I could not purchase a glass of wine on the premises for love nor money and then we had a few harsh words after I found a long black hair in my donut in Tijuana. It was clearly his fault the hair was manifestly entangled in the dough.

Don’t even get me started on what emerged when we went to see the Spruce Goose.

In retrospect I should have just bought a packet of cigarettes.

Even on the way back to Australia, when we were upgraded to a luxurious suite at one of the Hawaiian Sheratons, we had the biggest brawl of all and wound up sleeping in separate rooms for three nights.

But despite all that... I still love the U.S. I plan on going back there with Scotto one day.

But this time I’ll pack the Nicorettes.

Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace

Things to do when waiting for your husband to come out of the hardware store

Look in rear vision mirror and count your open pores.

Pluck long black hairs from behind your knees which you missed when shaving that morning.

Search through handbag for runaway barley sugar.

Pick fluff off barley sugar and eat slowly.

Closely observe people entering and leaving store and .give them an original Game of Thrones character name like; Petyr Baygon, Polish the Bannister, Jon Dyna-Gro and Eejit, Various Tarpaulins, Stains of the Bathatheon, Hoe-dor, Neon Spraytoy.

Push cuticles back on fingernails whilst acknowledging to self how unfunny those names are .

Count up how many calories you have already eaten today. Calculate if you refrain from eating for the rest of the day and go for an hour long walk wearing ankle weights you can possibly afford to eat an entire Dr Oetker pizza that night.

Recalculate possibility if you up it to a two hour walk.

Stare at the sky until you can see the white cells moving through the capillaries in your eyes. Watch them for a while.

See how many signs you can read whilst holding your breath.

Do twenty pelvic floor exercises.

Calculate calories you just burned.

Take reading glasses out of case and clean them thoroughly.

Put them on and look in rear vision mirror again.

Pull out spiky chin hair you didn’t see before.

Watch owner walk funny looking dog past you.

Make mental note to buy dog food.

Add up in head how much money you spend on animal food a week.

                  (Weekly purchase: not counting 8kg bag of doggy biscuits)

Try to remember why you bought so many animals.

Check phone to see if any of your kids who failed to come home last night have answered your numerous texts.

Notice there are no replies send more texts. Angrier ones.

Suddenly remember why you bought so many animals.

Jump in excitement when you see husband coming out the door.

Notice in alarm there is nothing in his hands and he is wearing disenchanted expression.


Brace self for another exhilarating wait outside next hardware store.