I Needed to Wash My Willy!

It’s been so hot, almost 40 degrees 'apparent' temperature. That’s the temperature it feels like when you add in the freakin hideous humidity factor. 

I felt so sorry for my German Shepherd, Borat with his long woolly coat I thought I’d better give him a haircut.

I spent hours today, back bent, brushing out his moulting hair and filled three shopping bags with it. 

At some stage I looked over to spy an extremely grubby silky terrier, Willy lurking behind the pot plant. He watched me with his shifty eyes wary of the fact he might be next in line. 

Willy

He sported more dreadlocks than a Rastafarian and if I’d put a little red, green and gold knitted cap on him he could have busked on the street reggae style to Buffalo Soldier and made a small fortune.

The thing is, you can’t let on to Willy he’s about to have a bath or he runs away and hides somewhere impossible to reach. Like when he squeezes himself between the wall and the air-conditioner and if you try to pull him out he bites like a little fricken mofo.

So I had to come up with a plan. I had to beat this dog at his own devious game and decided to trick him with a sausage left over from last night’s dinner.

I snuck up silently; whisking him up in one fell swoop as he unsuspectingly inhaled the sausage. Then I carried him as he viciously struggled and screamed out, “Me is well conscious of what you is doin’ to I! Dis is fockin bullshit mun! Kiss mi backside fassyhole!”

But somehow I managed to plunge him snout deep in the cool, soapy water in the laundry tub before he could sink his menacing, bitey, little teeth into my arm.

You would not believe the stuff that came floating out of that mucky, little terrier. I think it's entirely possible there were other lifeforms enjoying a symbiotic relationship within his dreads which I unintentionally drowned and washed down the sink during that bath: a species of lichen, barnacles, some coral, a hermit crab… and maybe a couple of clownfish.

I gave Willy a haircut (the Wednesday Wacky Style special) and released him back into the yard so he could go and roll in something disgusting again.

Rotting bones and poo-poo probably.



Washed your dog or cat lately? Did they enjoy it?




"If yuh sleep wid dawg, yuh ketch im flea"

Bob Marley (or possibly not).

I Killed Christmas

Lulu (18 year old daughter), Thaddeus (25 year old son) and the ‘Son Who Can’t Be Named’ (SWCBN) were over last night enjoying the regular Monday night Spag Bol for dinner. 

The Chihuahua and Fox Terrier sat jealously slavering on the sidelines hoping for them to drop something.

After receiving useless, but highly competitively selected Christmas presents from the five kids over the years (I know it’s the thought that counts isn’t it? But I did go through 45 months of vicious morning sickness, an unnatural aversion to coffee and forced Chardonnay abstinence for them. Not to mention five horrible labours and lots of boring parent teacher interviews), I’d decided to take a stance.

“I'd really like you all to put in twenty dollars each for a restaurant voucher for my Chrissy present please,” I politely requested.

“I’m putting you in charge, SWCBN,” I added, because he seemed like the most obvious being the bossiest and most domineering and all.

“How am I supposed to collect all the money from everyone?” SWCBN responded gruffly.

“I don’t know… that’s your bloody job, my dear!” I huffed.

“But you can’t expect me to drive all the way to Hagar’s place to collect twenty bucks from him?” he complained.

“Internet. Fudging. Banking?” I pipped.

“Can’t you just ask Hagar for the money and give it to me?” he bleated piteously.

“Isn’t that defeating the purpose of me getting a moderately priced but pseudo-surprise Christmas present?” I retorted. "Like...if I have to collect all the money?"

“But you’ll already know what you’re going to get mother,” he responded.

“You know we’re all working now so we’ll all be buying you something extra anyway, Mother,” Lulu interjected.

“NOOOO! That’s want I want to avoid! Because if you spend all your cash on my present then I’ll have to pay for your lunch every day the following week, or for your tyre re-treads the next week or your motor vehicle insurance. Just twenty fudging bucks each. That’s all I fudging ask. Together. That’s all. We’ll get a lovely romantic lunch or dinner for that,” I pleaded.

“Where do you want the voucher to be for?” asked an attentive but brooding Thaddeus.

“Michel’s! That lovely French restaurant! I’d love that! We’d get a top of the range meal for one hundred bucks there!” I replied excitedly.

“What if they don’t do vouchers?” someone asked.

“Why wouldn’t they do vouchers for cripe’s sake?” I asked, suddenly beginning to suspect this task was being relegated to the too fudging hard basket.

“Maybe they don’t. What’s an alternative mother?”


“Fudging McDonald’s then!” I yelled. “Buy me a damn Maccas voucher! Is it too much to ask for something I’d really actually like that won't inevitably cost me a fortune because you’ll all be fudging broke after Christmas?”

There was silence after that.

Everyone picked at their Spaghetti Bolognese and the dogs sat slinking unctuously in the corner licking their butts.


I think I killed Christmas a little bit.





My prayers and thoughts to the victims and families of the Martin Place siege 16.12.14.

Linking up with Jess at Essentially Jess for #IBOT

Why you shouldn’t fight with your husband without proper preparation.

Evil Sangria

Yesterday began fairly normally. We slept in then prepared to go to lunch at my friend Dolly’s place.

Going to Dolly’s place is always an experience and a half. The lady knows how to do lunch. In fact you’re lucky to get out alive after a lunch at Dolly’s.

I blame the intolerable 40 degree heat and the Sangria for a lot of what went down.

Dolly, Julie, Val and Patrice.

The first two glasses slipped down my dehydrated throat just a little too quickly. I’d eaten zilch for breakfast and had done five kilometres on the treadmill so it must have been the massive sugar hit that rocked my socks off.

Italian sausages

The retro prawn cocktails and Italian sausages with couscous salad were washed down with crisp Chardonnay then followed up with delectable tiramisu and an unidentified dessert wine.

Delicious tiramisu made by Julie

Dolly brought out the playing cards gifted to her by her daughter Mads. “Oh look, Pinky!” she said. “You have a royal flush!” 

Royal Flush!

And she wasn't referring to my rosy, broken capillaries either.

We played a few games including one where head gear was a necessary fashion accessory.

Flattering huh?

It wasn’t long before Dolly was struck by the urgent impulse to don her Stevie Nicks wig and hat.

Dolly channeling Stevie.

 Then she brought out the fake drinking boobs also gifted to her by the wicked Mads.

Novel boobs!

At some stage Scotto resolved that he too would make an excellent Stevie Nicks doppelganger and it was around that point I deemed he was having too good a time and sent him a hostile text from another room where I’d begun my steady descent into seedy belligerence.

Steven Nicks.

We took a taxi home and for some inexplicable reason I felt it imperative to pick a fight.

“I’m sleeping in the spare room,” I exploded when we arrived home. “Don’t bring me coffee in the morning because I shall not be speaking to you until Christmas Day.”

Now this is where I made my biggest mistake.

The spare room has a television in it but I don’t know how to turn it on and I certainly couldn’t trot back down the hall and ask Scotto how to turn it on because I’d just informed him I wasn’t speaking to him until Christmas Day.

I’ll just read my Kindle, then, I thought.

The trouble was I’d left my reading glasses in the bedroom as well.

The dogs had followed me into the spare room with tails between their legs. They knew Mummy and Daddy were fighting. Pablo began frantically scratching at the door to go back to his father so whilst swearing and cursing, I let him out. Five minutes later he was back scratching at the spare room door. This went on a few times before I roused on him and he crept under the covers, deeply traumatised by his alcoholic, pugnacious mother.

I found some inadequate reading glasses in my handbag (which was the ONLY thing I’d remembered to bring with me).

But I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.

About an hour later I awoke, mouth as dry as a dead dingo’s donger and groped around for my bedside glass of water.

There was no water. Where the fudge am I? I thought in confusion. Oh that’s right, fighting with Scotto. I’ll show the b#stard.

What did he do again? I can’t remember… but it must have been something pretty bad. Gawd… I need to go to the toilet but it’s all the way down the hall and if I go I’ll disturb the dogs and they’ll start their infernal scratching again. And I’m so thirsty. Why the hell am I in the spare room on a single bed squashed between two dogs and Scotto’s sprawled out on the King size bed with the ensuite and a nice glass of water beside him. Why didn’t I insist he go to the spare room? Why is my head hurting? Who invented Sangria?”
I drifted off after a few hours of wondering how I was going to manage to keep up my promise of not talking to Scotto for the next ten days when I needed to ask him how to download that new Marion Keyes book onto my Kindle. Did this mean I wouldn’t be able to watch Carols in the Domain on Christmas Eve because I can’t turn on the telly? Also, how would I be able to tell Scotto what I want for Christmas? And should I tell him to cancel our holiday after Christmas? I don’t think we’ll get our deposit back. Maybe we could still go on the holiday and we just wouldn’t communicate for the entire holiday. I can be a stubborn little b#tch when I want. I’m sure I could do it.

It was about 8:00 am when I was awoken by Pablo and Celine licking my nose with their legs tightly crossed so I let them out to do their business.

Where's my morning coffee? I can’t move without my morning coffee. I thought morosely.

Why did I tell Scotto not to bother with bringing me coffee? Was I possessed by the spirit of some truculent martyr last night or something?
He’d already gone to work by the time I dragged my bloated bladder up to finally empty it and then gulped down three glasses of water.



Now I’m back in my bedroom watching the telly and witnessing the horrifying siege at Martin Place unfold and wondering how I’d feel if Scotto was one of the hostages in the Lindt café and I hadn’t apologised to him for being such a little shrew last night and how worried the parents, friends and families must be for their loved ones trapped inside.

So… I’ll say it now.



I’m sorry Scotto.

Pauline's Pronation Party!

Now I’m on school holidays it’s time to get all those revolting medical appointments over and done with.

I had an appointment with the podiatrist this arvo and at least I didn’t have to spend the entire day dreading it.

I mean… at least they weren't going to perform horrifically painful, invasive procedures in my mouth (like the dentist) or rudely poke my vagina (like the doctor). 

The issue was only concerning my feet and surely they wouldn’t need to see my vagina for that?

Surely?

I was going to see about my bunion, the infamous Paul/Pauline Bunyan. 

Ironically my booked podiatrist was named Paul and I couldn’t wait to tell him about his namesake.

I’d been to Athlete's Foot to buy a pair of runners yesterday and Melanie, the shop assistant, had almost fainted when she first spied Paul/Pauline.

“We may have a problem here,” Melanie smiled wanly as she measured my feet. “One of your feet is about 2 centimetres longer than the other because of your (nervous cough)… that big ‘thing’ on your toe.”

“I’m going to the orthodontist about it tomorrow!” I exclaimed defensively.

“You mean the podiatrist,” she smiled.

“Oh yeah, I meant a podiatrist. I was just thinking about orthotics in shoes and got mixed up,” I replied sheepishly.

Mind you, Paul/Pauline is getting so big he/she almost needs braces.

The previous week I was strolling around the shopping centre when the strap on my sandal broke. Paul/Pauline had burst through it in all his/her glory. Paul/Pauline was finally demanding medical attention in the only way he/she knew how.

Anyway, I arrived at the podiatrist this afternoon after carefully showering, shaving and lavishly spraying my feet with Balenciaga Flora Botanica and cutting my toenails beforehand.

I have a similar preparation ritual when I know the doctor is going to be looking at my pink bits (except the cutting toenails bit). 

I’m just like that, okay?

Podiatrist Paul was lovely. He made me do all sorts of things like walk up and down the hallway and stand on my toes while he watched intently.

“You have Pronation,” he declared triumphantly. “Some people say Pronation is bad but it’s not always bad.”

I squinted at him thinking he was referring to Pauline Hanson for some reason.

‘Pronation is always bad!’ I thought to myself quietly.

Then he went on to describe how Pronation is a fancy way to describe the way your foot rolls inward when you walk and because I have loose ligaments mine rolls in excessively.



The long and short of it is; I have a large bunion.

Who knew?

I need orthotics which will cost me over $1000.

It won’t annihilate Paul/Pauline but it may stop it from growing to the point where it needs be enrolled in Prep School.

Then, Paul the podiatrist proceeded to shave bits of dead skin from under my toes. I watched the flaky slivers of my yellowed corns drop onto his perfectly ironed pants and wondered who did his washing.

If Scotto was a podiatrist I wouldn’t let him into the house without a Silkwood style wash down, I’m here to tell you.

I never summoned the guts to tell Paul the podiatrist my bony protrusion/extra toe/alien baby shared the same name as him. It would have been awkward.


Especially when he had his tiny little grinder out and it tickled my feet so much I started giggling like a three year old.

Have you ever been to a podiatrist?

Secret Santa Secrets

Secret Santa Sucks!

Five people asked me why I was at work so early today… five. What? Don’t they have a life? They have to check whether or not Pinky’s Golden Boy is parked in her OCD parking spot every morning?

“It’s just that you usually arrive about three minutes before the bell goes,” Shazza sang out rudely across the staff room.

That’s completely untrue you know. I punctually arrive thirteen minutes before the bell goes. There’s still plenty of time to switch my sunnies to reading glasses, put my lunch in the fridge and harass a few people as I perform my dramatic sweep through the early bird conchies, drinking their cups of tea and staring into Zombieville. 

 It’s not like they’re actually doing any work anyway.

The reason I arrived an unprecendented twenty-four minutes before the bell today was so I could sneak my Secret Santa’s present into her pigeon hole before she arrived. Unfortunately she sprung me hovering around the office ladies annoying them for sticky tape so the entire effort was wasted. 

That sucked.

The environmentally friendly brown paper bag her present was ensconced in was too easily identifiable and the game was up. I hope she liked it.

I don’t think I’ll join in on Secret Santa anymore. It’s way too stressful. I hear everyone else on staff whinging about what they get and I end up being way too extravagant to ensure my S.S. isn’t disappointed.

Then, when I open my S.S, I usually have to do the fake smiley, over exuberant platitude thing in case my S.S. is watching and I’m a terrible actress. I used to be a mediocre actress but the light inexplicably went out on that talent years ago.

Probably the Botox.

Even though S.S. is supposed to cover all festive magnanimity , my dear friend and colleague, O’Reilly, decided we should exchange gifts within our grade four cohort. This means I have to buy three extra presents which really shites me off, bah humbug.

I shouldn’t be mean about O’Reilly because he added a truly awesome card with his gift which he clearly put a great deal of thought into.

Awesome card!

I’m obsessed with saying Ermahgerd! and Bananas!


Shazza, another grade four colleague, gave me a bottle of Chardonnay. 

Not so much thought, methinks.

“Do you mind if I just give you a bottle of Sav Blanc back?” I asked her this arvo.

“Nup,” she replied.

“Can I use the same bag you gave me?” I asked.

“Yep,” she answered brusquely.

“Can I use the same card and just switch our names?” I ventured.

“Whatever, Pinky,” she sighed.

So I did.

Cheapskate present.

What do you think about gift swapping at work?

PS: I did love my S.S. present this year just in case you're reading.

Don't buy girls pink this Christmas!

I was inspired to write this after watching Mrs Woog's (Woogsworld) hilarious vlog today.

Greens Senator Larissa Waters would have been infuriated with me this afternoon. In fact she may have even smacked me in the face with the pointy end of a Barbie doll and anyone who’s ever experienced a Barbie bit piercing the sole of your foot on the way to midnight ablutions knows how much that would hurt.

It’s the last three days of school for the year and to prove to my students I’m not a wizened, spiteful harridan all the time, I thought we’d play some games in the classroom.

I had the desks lined up and the kids were taking turns blowing a crumpled piece of paper with a straw to see who could get it to the end first.

We called it “The 4B Paper Blowing Olympics!”

See… I can be quite whimsical when I choose.

I must say I regretted any fanciful notions I could be a fun teacher when the cheering started up. I began nervously staring at the phone waiting for the Deputy to call and ask if she needed to turn on the lockdown siren because surely someone must be being murdered down my end of the school with the hysterical racket she could hear from her office.

But my politically incorrect gaff occurred when I handed out the straws; pink for the girls and blue for the boys.

According to Ms Waters I was gender stereotyping; I’m promoting domestic violence and the gender pay gap with my thoughtless labelling.

Little Darius was quite affronted by my heinous actions and insisted I give him a pink straw… which I did.

This No Gender December thing upsets me in the same way putting prisoners in pink uniforms to shame them upsets me. What the hell is wrong with pink?

If giving girls pink clothing and toys places them in a particular pigeonhole, then shouldn’t the same thing happen to boys who are dressed in pink?

By the time I had my fourth son I was so sick of dressing babies in blue and yellow I began buying pink clothes for all of the boys. They had Cabbage Patch Dolls too, girl ones. 

I have a photo somewhere of little Jonah running around in a jaunty pink and yellow Lycra swim shirt. Padraic had a pink Hawaiian shirt which complimented the long, golden curls I couldn’t bring myself to cut off. They were Power Ranger crazy back in the day and one of the boys must have been the pink one, on reflection.

Hagar

My predilection for pink didn’t affect their career aspirations at all. Two of my boys are tradies and two are lawyers so despite whatever the fanatical screamers are saying I did to my sons’ gender identity clearly doesn’t seem to have influenced them one way or the other.

Personally, I think Ms Waters is merely another pinkist.

I mean why don’t we just ban the colour altogether if we’re going to hand the reins over to the fudgewits of the world who want to scream about every little thing in life.

Perhaps Ms Waters would like the colour pink to be replaced with green?



Olive (formerly known as Pink)

Lime Cadillac

"An Asparagus Diamond" or "An Asparagus Elephant".

Or even "Asparagus Eye".

"Artichoke Floyd"

"Olive lemonade"

"The Forest Green Panther"

"My Avocado Bits" (No photo available soz).



"Greeny finger" (on second thoughts probably not).

What do you think? Buy gender neutral toys only or not?

Pinky's Weight Loss Revelation!

I went for coffee last week with the 'Buzz Club' gals. We’d finished our staff meeting early and Kyles suggested we use the serendipitous occasion of unanticipated free time to have a catch up over coffee.

“I’ll give it a miss,” I apologised with a silly grin. “I have to go to the Discount Chemist.”

“We’ll go to a coffee shop in a shopping centre and you can go to the chemist there, Pinky!” ordered Kyles in her authoritative voice. 

I swear that girl channels a commanding officer from the Third Reich. She’s a five foot tall power house of frickin bossy boots.

“No cakes today?” I noticed as I arrived in my tardy and flustered fashion after going to the bloody shopping centre chemist and not finding that which I so desperately sought. 

Usually the girls have ordered extravagantly from the pastry counter and have the entire contents of a French patisserie spread before them.

“Nah… watching our weight so we look nice at the Christmas party on Friday night,” Kaz chirped.

They’ve all lost weight, the bi-atches. And all the weight they’ve lost via their rowing teams, boot camps and gym memberships over the last 12 months seems to have settled on Pinky’s hips; even though they eat like stable guests at the Melbourne Cup and I eat like a sickly bird.

“I have a theory about weight loss!” I exclaimed enthusiastically. “You wanna hear it?”

I caught the girls swapping glances but ignored their sceptical smirks and ploughed on.

“You know my dogs, right?”

Shazza rolled her eyes, sighed loudly and looked at her watch.

“Celine the fox terrier is six years old and menopausal (like me),” I continued undeterred. “And Pablo the Chihuahua is only a young buck at eighteen months, right?”

They all stared at me in boredom.

“They both eat exactly the same thing in the same amounts, okay? So which one do you think is the one with the weight issues?”

“How do you know Celine is meno?” asked Shazza.

“Because she had the operation five years ago and has to take medication for her incontinence,” I replied knowledgeably.

“Here’s the thing,” I squawked. “Celine is a nervous wreck. She’s really highly strung and never sits still. She’s also super active. We can throw a ball at her 300 times in a row and she just keeps bringing it back to us. She’s relentless. Like an Energiser Bunny! 

Thin as a twig!

Pablo, on the other hand, is a lazy little turd-burger. He lazes on the couch, painting his toenails and watches his sister chasing the ball. The only thing that moves on him are his bulging eyeballs from side to side.”

“So what are you saying, Pinky?” yawned Kaz.

“I’m saying,” I said, as I stirred my usual three sugars into my full fat cappuccino and pausing for dramatic effect, “the menopausal mamma is much thinner than the porky little young buck, which means… even though they eat the same calories, the exercise is keeping her thin!”

“So… this is your new theory, Pinky?” asked Kyles incredulously.

“Yeah, it’s brilliant huh? And guess what? I plan on losing my spare tyres over the next three weeks by doing some serious exercise. An hour long ‘power walk’ every morning and afternoon without fail!”

The girls shrugged noncommittally and the conversation switched over to a more banal and non-revelatory subject after that. 

By the time I looked at my watch it was 5:30 pm already.

“Shite in a bucket!” I squealed. “It’ll be too late for me to go for my walk now by the time I get home and all.”

The girls nodded in agreement.


“Maybe I should get Scotto to throw some balls for me instead?” 

Any weight loss tips for Pinky before Christmas?

An Introvert's Guide to Christmas Parties

“Goodnight!” I said to Kyles at 8:00 am yesterday morning.

“What are you talking about, Pinky?” she screwed her face up at me.

“Well Kyles, you always tell me I nick off and leave the staff Christmas party without saying goodbye to you so I’m saying goodbye now.”

It’s true. I have a terrible habit of reaching the critical point of my ability to mingle and be nice to people in social situations, urgently tap Scotto on the shoulder and do the bolt. A bit like Cinderella I suppose. But like a fat, old Cinderella… and I usually need to flee the scene at about ten o’clock, not midnight like my glass slipper wearing sister.

It has something to do with being an introvert I think. I can only put on the vivacious act for a limited amount of time before crashing like a cheap Dell computer.

Our Christmas party last night, consisting of 120-ish teachers and staff, was organised by the inexhaustible Kyles and the efficient, capable Kaz. 

Scotto and I created the slide show which has been our special job for the last six years. Can you believe they trust us?

A couple of years ago we had a Hollywood theme and Scotto made up about twenty Photoshopped movie posters. This was what he did with ours…

Pinky and Scotto

Three of my colleagues look so much like the actors we could barely tell them apart.

Kaz as Liz Hurley

Kristen as Diane Lane

O'Reilly as Ben Stiller

This year we went for a Game of Thrones theme and kept repeating shelved, corny jokes about our colleague, J.B. (Hodor) much to the delight of the half-pissed crowd.

JB as Hodor!

Our table consisted of the usual suspects.

(L-R top) Kaz, Troy, Liam, Scotto, O'Reilly

                            (bottom) Pinky, Lee-lee, Jenna, Shazza, Kyles!

And of course the girls had to have a special photo taken.

Bzzzzzzzzzz!

Scotto accidentally put chocolate sauce on his roast beef at the buffet (I know this sounds like more of Pinky's made up bollocks but it's true).

Roast Beef a la Nestle

He ate it anyway.

I explained to O’Reilly why us sheilas hate the moustaches blokes grow for Movember (even though we know it’s for a good cause). 

“You know us girls can grow moustaches in Fanuary!” chimed in Lee-lee.

“Where would we grow them?” I asked innocently.

Apparently it really is a thing...

Ahhhh… a fine time was had by all.

But sure enough at ten o’clock the panic set in. I looked around and suddenly there were too many people in the room, too much noise and I began to perspire.

I started thinking about how sick and hung-over I’d be the next morning if I wasn’t tucked in my bed within the next half hour.

I found Scotto and poked him in the ribs; the secret signal.

“You’re not going PINKY!” screamed Lee-lee. “It’s only about frickin… six o’clock, you slacker!”

Kyles caught wind of my planned exodus and immediately put me in a head lock.

“Say goodbye!” she threatened. “Say goodbye to me Pinky or I’ll never talk to you again.”

So I did. 

And I was tucked in bed by ten-thirty.

Today, as I sit here in a frail physical condition, sucking on an icy pole in an attempt to loosen my dehydrated tongue from the roof of my mouth, I wonder how come I wound up with a bloody hangover anyway.

Do you go home early from parties or are you a dirty stop out?

The Book of Pinky

My bloggy friend Hugzilla, who writes so dern tootin, granny-slappin good (in fact she’s hotter than a goat’s butt in a pepper patch), has tagged poor lil me in a post.

This is what she went and blabbed about me… “Because she’s a teacher, so she be real smart I reckon.”

Well listen lil lady, just cuz you’n is a teacher don’t mean diddly squat. 

Ah’ve known plenny a teachers what ain’t right in the head… a bit touched if ya know what ah’m sayin.

Ah’ll have a go at these here questions but ah dunno if ah’m up for it.

Ah’d like to say I was happy as a puppy with two peckers about this but it got me worried. But, ah had to decide if ah was gonna poop or git off the pot, so here’s what ah came up with.

Do you snack while you read?

When ah was a young’un, sometimes ah liked to fix up a mess a tater chips with mater sauce to have beside me while ah read ma book. These days I is too fat around the middle to partake of such a fine luxury.

Do you tend to mark your books as you read, or does the idea of writing in books horrify you?

Tarnation! Ah would never dream of desecratin’ a book! Although ah do recolleck drawin in some of those learnin books we had at the you-nee-versit-ee.

Fiction, non-fiction, or both?

Ah was reared up to read all kinda books so ah don’t favour one over ta other.

Hard copy or ebooks?

Ah don’t like to tote around a pile a books cuz it makes me meaner an a striped snake so ah read all ma books on ma Kindle.

Are you a person who tends to read to the end of chapters, or are you able to put a book down at any point?

Beats the heck outta me? Ah just read til ah fall asleep cuz I’m usually drunker than Cootey Brown.

What are you currently reading?

Ah’m readin Gillian Flynn’s “Dark Places”, cuz she’s finer than a box of snuff, and ah love all her dern dang books.

What is the last book you bought?

Ah don’t like to chew ma cabbage twice! Ah just dang told ya that one!

Are you the type of person that only reads one book at a time or can you read more than one at a time?

Ah went to the schoolhouse and done all mah learnin’ but ah ain’t smart enough to read two at the same time, gol durn it!

Do you have a favourite time of day and/or place to read?

Ah like to sit in ma rockin chair on ma porch as the sun sets, with the jarflies chirrupin and the lightnin bugs floatin around me. But usually the critters need feedin’ so ah wait til bedtime.

Is there a specific book or author that you find yourself recommending over and over?

“Replay” by Ken Grimwood. I knowed it was gonna be a goodun from the first page. Ah’ve read that dang book three times already and will be readin it again direckly.

Is that all you need to know ya nosey parker? It’s hotter than blue blazes up here yonder in North Queensland and ah’m aimin on goin for a dip up yonder a ways, down by the crick.



See you’all later alligator!

Oh! And ah tag Alana from House Goes Home cuz ah love her'n and Kez from Awesomely Unprepared cuz ah dern dang love her'n too!

Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace for #FYBF

What the Hell's that on the Classroom Floor?

The bell rang as usual at 8:30 this morning.

Another day… another five cents.

My class sat expectantly, waiting for instructions from their Yoda (me) when I first noticed it. And I knew... I just knew those bright, keen faces were watching me, ready to bring me to my knees at the slightest sign of weakness.

“Never show your white belly, Grasshopper,” my Deputy told me some years ago.

So I didn’t let on what I’d seen. What I'd just spotted on the blue carpet. I’d keep it close to my heart.

“Darius! Would you hand out the maths books please?” 

I requested, eyeing the point of interest clandestinely, attempting to ascertain what the hell that thing, sinuously enmeshed in the carpet fibres, was.

It looked like… but it couldn’t be… but what if it was?... where did it come from?

A rat?... no, a rat would be too small. A possum? Doubtful. .. a possum wouldn’t be able to get into the classroom.

Or God forbid… could it be from a human? It wasn’t entirely incredible.

The chocolate hued specimen was about 4cm long and probably too small to have emanated from a child, and yet… with the lack of dietary fibre pandemic in ten year olds… who knew?

This was Code Red. No one could know about this. Not a soul.

I mean… you do remember the scene from Caddyshack? 



“Complete week thirty-seven in your Mental Maths books please,” I lilted nervously in my fake, ‘nice teacher’ voice. 

I didn’t want to alert the natives to what was possibly going down. 

That would be disastrous. There’d be hysteria. Pandemonium.

Glancing around to make sure no one was watching I snuck over to the tissue box and urgently grabbed a fistful.

Sashaying casually up to the object on the carpet, I swooped it up with the deftness of the Men from Uncle. I may as well have been suspended from the ceiling by optic fibres (or whatever) I was so stealthy.

Like a stealth bomber. Like Harry Potter and the snitch.

No one saw me. Not a one.

I had a quick squiz at the brown, squishy morsel encased in the Kleenex in my palm.

“Is it a clump of sultanas dropped from a lunch box?” I pondered. “Should I smell it?... Best not to.” I surmised stoically.

I threw it in the bin, unsniffed.

“What was that Mrs. Poinker?” asked Darius, eyes bulging suspiciously as he walked past me, laden down with maths books in his arms.

The children of the corn put their pencils down in unison. 

Staring at me with their laser like eyes.

“Nothing Darius,” I coughed. “nothing you need worry your little head about.”

The children of the corn bowed their heads once again to their Maths books.

Some things are best kept quiet for the sake of the greater good.

A Dog's Life

 “What's the matter, Pinky?” Scotto asked me yesterday as I choked and sobbed in bed watching this video on my lap top.


The cynic in me wants to believe it’s a set up but I know in my heart it’s not.

Dogs do grieve. I remember when I was a kid we had a Doberman Pinscher. When his long term companion, Zorba the poodle passed away, he tore up an entire single mattress they’d slept on together. He was never the same.

I’m a dog lover in case you hadn’t noticed.

Back at the beginning of writing my blog almost two years ago I wrote two tongue in cheek posts about why I love my dogs more than I love my teenagers.

Here and here!

Here’s part three…

Why I Love my Dogs more than I Love my Teenagers



All my dogs will want for Christmas is a $5 cow hide bone not ‘Just give me cash and don’t worry about a card’.

Bliss!

My dogs don’t put on a load of washing and leave it in the machine for three days.

My dogs don’t keep me awake worrying all night when they go to Full Moon parties.

My dogs don’t leave their hair straighteners on all day when everyone’s at work.

My dogs don’t speak to me from three rooms away and expect an answer.

My dogs don’t agree to take palm leaves to the dump for me in their Ute on Saturday, and then go away for the weekend instead.

My dogs don’t eat all my roast capsicum dip without asking.

My dogs don’t go out and leave the back door wide open.

My dogs don’t use my ‘delicates’ washing bucket as a spew bucket after Full Moon parties.

My dogs don’t give me scathing looks as they pass me in the hallway.

My dogs don’t go out wearing Band-Aid sized miniskirts against my wishes.

My dog would never get a loan from Cash Converters for a tattoo.

And finally...

My dogs always come straight away when they’re called to dinner.

Did the video at the top affect you? Are you a dog or cat lover?

Linking up at Laugh Link with 

Have A Laugh On Me | Melbourne Mum | 

  26 Years and Counting