Pinky's Melbourne Cup Day Tip!

Mmmm... Pinky's Spaghetti!

“Why are they talking like that? Like… in those high voices?” asked Lulu as she sat slurping up her spaghetti whilst sitting on the floor in the lounge room tonight. 

We were watching some jockeys on the telly talking about the Melbourne Cup, which takes place tomorrow (in case you’ve been hiding under a rock or you don't live in Australia).

“They have high voices because they’re small and they have small vocal cords,” I answered knowledgeably. “They have small everything.”

Scotto sniggered.

“What?” I stared at him.

“I meant hands!” said Scotto. “They have small hands. Maybe they have helium balloons off stage they keep sucking on.”

This is very politically incorrect I know. My friend Kyles will be up in arms about this post. 

It’s... ‘shortist’.

Look… I’m not criticising small people. My uncle was a jockey. My mother’s side of the family are all notoriously under five footers. There’s a famous family story about my 'four foot eleven' Granddad Jo, slipping into a sideshow at the local agricultural show in the fifties and all the ‘pygmies’ (gawd knows what appallingly politically incorrect sideshows they had going on then) halting their act to stop and stare at him, gawking at his unusual lack of height. They aggressively pointed their spears at him and began to yell in hysterical, accusatory tones… they had to bustle him out, so the story goes.

I’m a good five foot six inches tall, at least five inches on my diminutive mother... and my own kids eclipsed me in the height stakes years ago. 

What the hell’s happening? Each generation is overtaking the last. And it’s not a new thing. Try going into a house made in the seventeenth century. You’ll scone yourself on the door frames. The beds were so short you’d have to saw off your feet to get a cramp-free night’s sleep.

I mean… just how tall is the human race going to get?

And who will be the jockeys then?

They’ll have to invent really big horses or something.

My tip for the Melbourne Cup?

Mutual Regard!
Protectionist

What's your tip?

Am I a Vain, Narcissistic Blogger?

When I look back at some of my posts over the last (almost) two years I wonder what opinion you've all formed of me.

Vain? Self-promoting and big-headed? 

After all, almost every post features a photograph of Pinky in some form or another; my grinning dial Photoshopped onto someone else's body by my ultra clever husband, Scotto.

Barbie Pinky

Devil Pinky

Leprechaun Pinky

Pinkerella

X-Rated Pinky

Pamela Pinky

Pinky of the Damned

Pinky McGonagall

Ellen Pinky

Catwoman Pinky

But along with those glamorous Photoshops are some fairly unflattering ones.

Humpty Pinky

South Park Pinky

Buried Alive Pinky

Dame Pinky

Wilma Pinky

Pinky and Kel

Cranky Pinky

Pablo Pinky

Porky Pinky

Pinknocchio

Don Draper's Bride- Pinky

If you're bored and you'd like to see a silly lip-sync video Scotto and Pinky made about Jon Hamm aka Don Draper click  here if you dare!

Santa Pinky

Fairy Godmother Pinky

Aged Pinky

How Pinky's students see her!

Really Old Pinky.

Whistler's Mother Pinky

These are just a few of Scotto's Photoshops and if you look closely most of them have used the same one or two photos.

 I'm sure you'll agree... the man needs a round of applause.

Scott's Photography Website here!

So... am I a narcissist or just a crazy nutcase?

Halloween or Hallowwhine?

The standard horde of vampires, werewolves, ghosts and ghouls descended on Poinkerville last night scaring the dogs shiteless and providing a welcome interruption to our usual Friday night feast of garbage reality twat on the telly.

I had the lollies prepared already. 

Halloween lollies!

I’m not one of those whiny, whingey, pain in the arse people who say, “Oh, but it’s an American thing! Why should we celebrate it?”

Seriously, who gives a rat’s bum if it’s an American tradition? Cute kids come to your door and you hand out a few cheap lollipops. If you can’t get with it just go out or put a sign on your door and shut the hell up.

My kids never did it because I don’t think it had become the done thing back then but if that’s the way the world’s going I think I can live with it. I think there are far worse things to get irate about, don’t you? At least it gives us a short reprieve from the Christmas stuff coming out in October!

People are too ready to complain these days.

One thing I will say, is that every single kid who knocked on our door was exceptionally polite and well spoken. One of the boys even shook Scotto’s hand after he’d had a bit of a chat about photography with him after admiring Scotto’s camera.

“It’s not about how expensive the camera is,” quipped Yoda Scotto. “It’s about the person behind it.”

There was only one awkward moment when I brazenly asked one young boy what he’d do if I opted for trick instead of treat.

“Come back and kill you,” he replied with a convincing snarl.

I gave him an extra chocolate frog just in case his name was Jason.

We asked permission from the accompanying parents if I could publish the photos on my blog and they were all quite agreeable.

No one asked me what my blog was.

Just saying…

Anyway, here are the photos and remember… however grumpy you think Pinky is, I would never begrudge kids a bit of fun.

In fact next year we might dress the dogs up and take them trick or treating! I wonder if they sell Cujo costumes on eBay?

And where were all my kids? Over on Magnetic Island at the Full Moon party imbibing in lollies of a liquid kind of course.

Sigh.

Feed the Man Meat!

Padraic, my nineteen year old boy who recently moved into a bachelor pad with some mates was over on Tuesday with one of his housies. He was wearing the glow in the dark contact lenses he’s planning on wearing to the Full Moon party he’s going to on Friday night.

“You look weird Padraic!” I snapped. “And you’re too skinny!” I added channelling Marie Barone. “Come home tomorrow night for dinner. I’ll cook your favourite…tacos with the works.”

“Can I come too?” asked Brandon, his bulky, professional footy- playing mate.

“Of course you can Brandon,” I replied with a nervous swallow wondering how much this boy would need to fill him up. Several kilograms of mince would be required, surely.

I read somewhere you should try to feed your teenage kids’ friends and it’s the one piece of parental advice I’ve managed to tenuously cling to and follow through with; unlike the one about not yelling and screaming at them like an unrestrained mental patient in the middle of a psychotic episode.

Later on Tuesday night I received a text from the Golden Child.

“Can Ben come for dinner too Mum?”

Ben is another flatmate and I like Ben because he gives me a hug and shakes Scotto’s hand whenever he comes over. It's amazing how teenage boys can totally suck me in by simple things like that.

“Yes he can,” I texted back. Ben is a six foot plus behemoth and probably had the appetite of a starved piranha so I began mentally calculating if I had a large enough pot to cook the chilli in.

It was Wednesday afternoon and there’d been no news to the contrary so I went shopping after work and bought out Coles in mince, tomatoes, kidney beans, cheese, sour cream, lettuce, chilli and taco shells.

“What time do you want us there?” came Padraic’s text at 5:30pm.

Elated they hadn’t cancelled I replied that 6:30pm would be perfect thank you sir.

At 6:30 there was no sign of Padraic’s ute crunching into our driveway. I began to panic. I’d even chopped fudging carrots and that extra touch rarely makes it into the taco menu. If the boys let me down Scotto would be eating tacos for the next six weeks.

But then I received a reassuring text.

“Be there in five Mum!” Happy dance.

I’d cooked enough food to feed the entire fudging Cowboys Under 20 team and I would have been pissed off in the extreme if they’d changed their mind at the last minute.

I was in the kitchen, adeptly ladling out steaming chilli and thirty-six taco shells on to plates when they arrived.

Padraic stood in the kitchen doorway with a quite pleasant-looking but decidedly slight, young lad. In fact if I'd sighed too hard he may have blown away in the breeze.

“This is my other flatmate, Charlie,” said Padraic.

“Hi Charlie!” I shrilled, squinting past them at nothing... no-one, an empty hallway.

“Where are the other boys?” I asked in a frightened voice.

“Oh… they already ate Mum so they’re not coming.”

This really happened.

What would you have done?

Pinky's Baby Shock!!!

Relax, I’m not preggers. I just wanted to see if you’d do what I did when I saw these headlines.

I was standing in the checkout queue at Coles when I spotted these two magazines and out of idle curiosity had to have a peek.

Nicole Kidman

The Bachelor

The Bachelor and his lady aren’t pregnant. They are thinking that one day they may have a baby together. SHOCK!!!

Nicole isn’t pregnant either but merely, according to a ‘source’, thinking about having a baby after the emotional upheaval of her father’s death. SHOCK!!!

Someone should take those magazines to task. It’s cheating. 

I would never do that.

But it started me wondering how I’d feel if at my cobwebbed age I found out I was miraculously ‘with child’.

So… I made a list.

Pros

Maybe, just maybe, this one would love me.

I’d be famous and be interviewed on Sunrise, possibly The Project and have my photo in the Sunday Mail.

Fifty-four year old sex maniac falls pregnant!!

When I ran out of disposable nappies for the baby I could substitute my incontinence pads (now necessary after carrying a foetus on top of my antique bladder for nine months).

I could have my five adult children take turns for babysitting duties.

I’d get maternity leave for two years. Yippee! No work!

I’d qualify for the Family Tax Benefit again.

I’d have something interesting to blog about for a change.

My teeth and the baby's would be falling out at the same time which would save the tooth fairy some petrol.
I’d be forced to give up alcohol which could only be a good thing for my liver.

Cons

Everyone would think I was the kid’s grandma (or possibly grandfather).

I’d have to give the kid a name with weird spelling, like Aenybelll or Ptymothee, so it would fit in with the other kids at Prep.

My bladder would probably fall out or spontaneously disintegrate.

My kids would never speak to me again they’d be so ashamed.

My other baby might get jealous and bite the new baby.

Pablo the Chihuahua

I’d be too tired to blog or do anything really.

I’d be applying for Family Tax Benefits the same time as the Old Age Pension and I’d be investigated by the Tax Department.

I’d have to watch The Wiggles again.


I’d have to give up alcohol.

Lucky it won't happen eh?

Pinky's Arch Nemesis

I hate the old bat who lives in that house across the road. 

She’s a vicious, bigoted hag. 

I know things about her. Secret things. Things she’d rather not be made public. 

I watch her every morning when she sidles out to the recycling bin with her wine bottles, looking up and down the street to make sure no one is watching. I see her tip the bin ever so slightly so she can slide the bottles in without her neighbours hearing the clashing jangle of glass against glass; evidence of her excessive habits. 

But I see all.

I wait patiently across the road from the house knowing it won’t be long now. Soon she’ll be out the door again on her way to work. 

Idiot Cat

She’ll pour the cat’s food into its bowl on her way to the garage. The stupid cat sticks its head in the bowl before she’s finished dispensing the Friskies and gets biscuits emptied all over its daft head. The biscuits scatter all over the veranda tiles but the old witch is oblivious. Her focus is on getting to work on time. She’s usually running late after wasting time on her laptop and watching Kochie and Sam on the telly instead of putting her war paint on.

As soon as she disappears into the garage I’ll make my move. Sometimes the senile old biddy forgets something and catches me sneaking up as she goes back into the house to retrieve her lunch or sunglasses. She threw a rubber thong at me one day, screaming abuse like a demented harridan. The thong almost clipped me but I was too fast for her, ducking and swerving: my signature moves. I can’t begin to imagine what the man walking his dog past the house thought.

Voodoo!

In the past few months she’s tried to intimidate me with voodoo but I’m street smart now, having left my drought stricken homeland years ago. I've wised up to the punitive urban lifestyle my tribe has been forced to live in. I've assimilated; always alert to danger. 

It’s a dog eat dog world in the city.

Ah. There she goes puttering down the road in her canary yellow Suzuki Swift. 

Garish.

Tasteless old crone. I might have to leave my calling card again this time. I love to sit on the telephone wires and laugh when she swears like a navvy as she hoses it off the veranda.


Now Sylvester, the tables have turned… Tweety wants his breakfast.

Igor the Fudging Ibis

A Fly on the Wall in Mrs. Poinker's Classroom.

8:30: Mrs. Poinker: Good morning 4B!

8:30.5 Class: Good mombing Ms. Porner.

8:30.7 Mrs Poinker: That was terrible. Let’s try it again! Good morning 4B!

8:30.9 Class: (Really vocal with out of time echoing) GOOD MOMBING MS POMBER! OMBER! BER!

8:30.12 Mrs. Poinker: That was awfu…. Never mind.

8:30. 14 Mrs. Poinker: Open up your maths books for a times table test please and number the page from one to thirty. Darius, can you go back to your seat? Portia please don’t swing on your chair. Prospero! Put those elastic bands in your pencil case! Beezelebub! Do not throw your sharpener at Mercutio!

Beezlebub: But he threw his rubber at me first Mrs. Poinker.

Mrs. Poinker: Okay, both your names are going on the whiteboard as a warning. One more thing and you miss out on play at first break.

Mercutio: That sucks!

Mrs. Poinker: Okay Mercutio, you’re calling out so that’s no play at first break.

Beezlebub laughs.

Mrs. Poinker: That’s you too, Beezlebub.

Beezlebub hangs his head and swears under his breath.

Portia: (The Terry O'Gorman in the classroom)

That’s a bit harsh!

Mrs. Poinker: Well now you can join them at first break too Portia.

Silence.



9:00 The class is working in their Maths books.

Mrs. Poinker notices Darius drawing monster trucks on a scrap of paper.

Mrs. Poinker: Darius! What are you doing?

Darius: (stares vacantly at the teacher then whispers) Drawing.

Mrs. Poinker: What should you be doing?

Darius: (languidly gazing over at what the boy beside him is doing) My maths?

Mrs. Poinker: Why aren’t you doing it, Darius?

Darius: Because I’m drawing?

Mrs. Poinker: (through gritted teeth) Do. Your. Maths. Darius.

9:30 Mrs. Poinker: Okay everyone, pass your books to the end of the table.

Darius joyfully throws his book across the room narrowly missing Cressida’s chin.

Mrs. Poinker: Right Darius! That’s enough! Go to the office.

Darius grins at the class and waves goodbye as he meanders out the door enjoying the attention.

Mrs. Poinker: We have rules in this classroom!

11:00: (after first break)

Mrs. Poinker: (noticing Darius back in the classroom chatting merrily to his neighbour walks over discreetly):

What happened in the office Darius? Who did you talk to? (Thinking Principal? Deputy Principal? Assistant to the Principal?)

Darius gawps vacuously: No-one, Mrs. Poinker.

Mrs. Poinker: What do you mean no-one, Darius? Who did you talk to?

Darius (innocently muttering) : You just told me to go to the office Mrs. Poinker, you didn’t tell me to talk to anyone.

Mrs. Poinker: So you just went and sat in the office?

Darius: Yes.


It’s still only eleven o’clock and Mrs. Poinker wishes she had a hip flask already.

New Reality Show! "Empty Nest Syndrome".

Channel 10 would like to announce a BRAND NEW reality show about a 19 year old who moves out of home and into a crappy rental with three mates...

How will he survive using sheets as curtains?

Who will clean the toilet and collect the used toilet rolls?

Who will replenish the refrigerator with left over Spaghetti Bolognese and bananas?

Who will remind him the rap music he's playing might incite the pleasant elderly neighbours to call the cops.

Who'll be there to reassure him his jock rash is a minor affliction and he can buy a cream from the pharmacist to get rid of it?

Who will lovingly lug his full load of washing from the machine when he's left it there for two days straight and hang it out before it grows mildew?

Who will collect the thirty milk-mouldy glasses from his room and wash and dry them?

Who will collect all his Macca's paper bags from the front yard where he dumped them when he 'cleaned out' his car?

Loose bachelor pad.

Second hand party boy couches!

Hatch back city.

How will his mother Pinky cope when she peers out the bedroom window in the morning and realises there are only three hatchbacks living with her now? Where's the ute?

No pants party?

Will the prodigal son spend his time partying with his pants off? Will he expect to come home and be received with open arms and a fatted calf?

Celine and Pablo

Or will he be instantly replaced by hairy interlopers who are much less demanding and welcome Pinky home every day with slobbering submissiveness instead of surly, reproachful scowls?

Greeks Bearing Gifts

Perhaps he will be usurped by others who know how to win her affections with frivolous frivolities?

Thaddeus and Pinky

Or even knocked from his pedestal by another older son who knows how to play his cards right?

Lunching at the Yacht Club

Of perhaps his mother will discover how much fun it is when life begins again and she is free to go out lunching without fear of a call requesting a detailed menu forecast for the night?

Or will Pinky cave in... collapse under the stress of her dwindling control over the litter of cubs she created some years ago?

Stay tuned for the preview of "The Empty Nest Syndrome".

NB: Pinky is actually very proud of her baby son being the first to officially move out. Hoping the others will take the hint.