How I Tricked My Husband!

Christian Bale as Moses

We watched the movie, Exodus (the new one starring Christian Bale) on Saturday after I arrived home from my despicable day at work (when I really should have been lolling in bed, semi-naked and eating peeled grapes instead).

When I say ‘we’ watched it, I mean Scotto, because I was busy on my laptop. 

The only bit of the movie I wanted to see was where Moses parts the Red Sea because that was the best part in the Charlton Heston one. 

I was very pleased to see there were no rock monsters a la Russell Crowe’s ‘Noah’ but I was really more enthralled in trying to think of amusing things to write on Twitter so I decided to watch it vicariously, through my husband.

Run Rusty! Run!

I kept looking up and asking in an irritating, whiny voice,

“Is he there yet?”

“No” (Scotto)

“Is he there yet?”

“No”

“Is he there yet?”

Scotto became quite frustrated with me, eventually turning around and snarling, “Pinky! If I have to start this movie again, I will!”

Moses eventually arrived at the Red Sea and I have to admit it wasn’t disappointing. It was more of a tsunami than a ‘parting’ as such, but scientifically believable, unlike the Heston version.

We went to bed fairly early and I woke up, eyes alert and bulging at 7:00 am, which annoyed me since it was a Sunday morning and all.

Scotto was turned away from me in bed but Pablo the Chihuahua sensed I was awake and started squirming and writhing in his Mexican bean fashion. I glared at him because I didn’t want to be the one to have to take him down for wee wees, so I did the unspeakable.

I licked my finger applying a generous quantity of moisture and poked Scotto on the back of his baldy noggin, pretending to be Pablo’s wet nose.

It worked.

Scotto rolled over and groaned and Pablo, like a Machiavellian puppet jumped all over his face whilst I played dead, even affecting an artificial snore to add authenticity to my pretended coma-like state.

Later, I received my coffee in bed with as much grace as I could manage under the circumstances.

The rule in our house is: 

He who gets up first brings the coffee.
Who gets the morning coffee in your household?



P.S. Sorry about the semi-naked image of me eating peeled grapes but I suffered when I had to get up early on Saturday and I feel you too, should have to suffer in some small way.

Linking up with Jess at Essentially Jess for #IBOT

Homework: One Teacher’s Perspective

(These are my own thoughts and do not reflect that of my employer.)

This week was a bit demanding for an older lady of a certain delicate constitution. I’m a gentle soul who baulks at tiresome interruptions to my meticulous routine and this week some thorny spokes were placed in the well-oiled schedule of the hamster wheel I like to call, work.

Firstly, horror of horrors, I had to stay back on Monday night for parent teacher interviews. I didn’t arrive home until 8:00pm and was in a pernickety, spiteful mood after a thirteen hour day. I swept past Scotto and swiftly flounced up the stairs to my bed chambers to straight away apply a cold, soothing compress on my temples.

I’d missed wine time you see and was in no mood for idle pleasantries.

This very Saturday morning, I was once more put upon to attend a five hour seminar at school, instructing we teachers on the art of teaching spelling.

How dare they steal away one’s treasured private weekend hours of freedom, only to fritter them away by forcing one to listen to an accomplished speaker wax lyrical on the value of raising the phonemic awareness of one’s students.

The hyde of them!

"You watch out!" I warned anyone who'd listen. "Next, they'll be harvesting our blood!" 

But my ominous predictions fell on deaf ears.


The worst part was that, as I rarely read tedious emails or listen attentively in dreary briefings, I missed the latter part of the instruction that we were to meet in the library at 8:30am (for 9:00am).

You can imagine how acrimoniously pissed off I was as my car, Golden Boy, glided into the car park precisely at 8:29am this morning and I trotted breathlessly into the staffroom at 8:29:52am with a rosy glow and a sense of glorious triumph and then sourly discovered I hadn’t needed to be at the fudging school for another fudging, thirty, fudging minutes.

  

Lee-lee, Kyles, Shazza and Kaz!

I was beyond consolation at losing my sleep-in opportunity. 

The girls didn't help by acting all chirpy and bubbly because they’d just finished boot camp and were shiny, showered and fully awake whilst I was still half-way through my dream about Jon Hamm when the alarm had rudely awaken me and I’d bundled myself into the bathroom staggering and swearing in a manner akin to Albert Steptoe. 

But the point of this post relates more to a recurring theme which cropped up in my parent teacher interviews.

Almost all of the parents I spoke to made it clear, in no uncertain terms, they hated homework. Their kids hated homework, the family dog hated homework as it always seemed to end up getting the blame for homework gone AWOL and the parents hated the intrusion on the tranquility of their after school activities, what with having to threaten their kids with a horse whip and all if they didn't sit down and write out their bloody times tables and spelling words every afternoon.

The artless reply I supplied to all of my student’s parents was this: most teachers hate homework too.

Teachers are the innocent chumps who have to set the homework, mark it and keep students in during one of their own precious lunch times to make them do it again if the family bull mastiff conveniently ingested it or they merely forgot to do it. 

I’d much rather be supping on a cup of sweetened tea from my favourite, stolen cup in the teacher’s lounge than pretending to be Mrs. Grumpy in a room full of dejected children staring out at the playground where their cohorts are hanging upside down on the play equipment and screaming louder than should be humanly possible.

Tea just tastes better from Kyle's cup for some reason.

Homework is an exercise to enable the practise of the previous week’s newly learned concepts. 

Whether it’s necessary in the primary school I’m not sure. However, reading with young children is highly beneficial and should never be skipped.

The decision on whether or not to set homework doesn't originate from the Mussolini-minded teacher; it’s usually a blanket policy covering an entire school district created by a nameless boffin who hasn't set foot in a classroom since colour television was introduced in Australia in 1975.



If we put it to a referendum I’d get rid of it too.

What are your views on homework?

Do you have Problems with Eructation?

I heard on the radio today most people think a large percentage of posts on social media are pointless and a waste of time.

What? What do they mean? Surely they can’t mean me?

I mean to say, I’ve provided you with lots of useful information over the years haven’t I? Let’s see, there was How to Eat a Banana, How to Make a Banana Costume, How to Make a Volcano, and… and… and… that one about bananas.

It is pretty hopeless I guess.

There are no fantastic fitness tips, cheesecake recipes or lists of useful advice at all. You won’t find any brilliant procedures for turning plastic milk bottles into artistic lamp shades or bread ties into Christmas decorations on this blog. 

The only travel post I’ve written lately was about staying with my dogs at the boarding kennels. I don’t write book reviews and I don’t use inspirational ideas to motivate people.

In fact I may very well ask myself, what the hell do I do?

Well my friend, I have three first-rate gems to share with you today.



Piece of Advice Number One

Have you ever been sitting at a restaurant with friends and been mortified to find you’ve suddenly come down with a loud and belching case of the hiccups even though you haven’t been sneaking extra wine while no one was looking?

You know what I mean… not just the normal lady-like hiccups, but the ones where it sounds like you’re burping every time you hiccup; those hiccups that sound as though you’re about to disgorge something up your oesophagus onto your dinner plate. 

The type of eructions where your companions begin to stare at you in horror and then all start shoving their chairs back, frightened an eel or something much worse is going to slither out of your mouth at any moment. 

All the time your husband just ignores you and continues to tell his funny anecdote about when he was fourteen and fell off his skateboard, even though no one is listening because they’re mesmerised by the woman with a giant cockroach clawing its way up her neck and waiting for the feelers to poke out her pursed mouth.

No?

Really?

Must be just me.

Well you're in luck because this works for normal hiccups too.

1. Hold your breath for a slow count of ten.

2. Take ten generous sips of water WHILE you’re still holding your breath.

3. Hold your breath for another slow count of ten. Do not let go of the breath for the entire time.
I GUARANTEE (if you’re not dead) your hiccups will be gone.

If in some bizarre twist you happen to be a freak of nature and it doesn’t work; then do it again. It will definitely work the second time. I promise.



Piece of Advice Number Two.

If you, like me, have trouble taking tablets this is weird but it works. Instead of putting your head right back and trying to swig it down, go against your instinct. Put your chin on your chest and swallow. It forces the back of your throat to open up really wide and the tablet just goes down. You don’t even need to have much water in your mouth.



Advice Number Three.

Read this blog!

House Goes Home

I’ve read Alana’s blog for years now and it’s one I absolutely adore. Alana has an honest but humorous style and she really knows her stuff. Unlike Pinky, she posts stunning cake decorating stuff, yummy, easy recipes, celebrity gossip and writes from the heart about all sorts of personal issues.

It’s also her birthday today.



Many happy returns Larney xxx

Any brilliant pieces of advice you'd like to share with me?

Twenty Things I Miss about Growing up in the Sixties and Seventies

1. Archie Comics

When we were kids Mum would take us up to the book exchange every school holidays where we'd stock up on Archie, Casper and Little Dot. 

What was your favourite comic?

2. Spirograph

I pestered my parents for ages and finally got a set one Christmas.

3. Staring at the Wallpaper

My Dad wallpapered every room in the house with different patterns of psychedelic sixties wallpaper. I'd be so bored waiting for the television to start I'd just sit and stare at it for ages.

I think I knew them all by heart.

4. The Local Swimming Pool

The strong smell of chlorine, the little kids' pool where we'd float around and splash pretending we could swim and the ice blocks we'd inevitably eat and as they melted down our fingers and into the pool are memories embedded forever. I don't think I ever took my kids to a public pool. What a shame. 
Did you go to the public pool as a child?

5. Polaroid Cameras

Oh, the joy of printing out photographs instantly and not having to wait for two weeks to get them back from the chemist. The film we wasted...

6. The Saturday Afternoon Movie

I recall seeing the original Time Machine when I was about four. The usual fare were Elvis Presley repeats. I was in love with Elvis from the age of four.

The Morlocks

7. The Lounge Room Display Cabinet

Every house had one. Ours held the 'good' stoneware dinner set which only came out when we had guests. My grandma's was her pride and joy and was filled with photographs and trophies. What did your Grandma keep in hers?

8. Professor Sumner Miller

Loved watching this guy on the television every weekday afternoon. There was precious else on.

9. Peace Symbol Necklaces

They were all the rage in the Sixties. We'd buy them along with Maltese Cross necklaces from the annual Show.

10. Kewpie Dolls on Sticks

Grandma would always buy us one of these from the show. I always chose a pink one and my sister a blue.

They'd only last a week before we'd destroy them and use the sticks to poke each other.

11. Madge Commercials

Dad would go off his nut whenever these commercials came on. He didn't like the old woman who did the Best and Less voice-overs either.

You're soaking in it!

12. When the Avon Lady had been to see Mum

There'd always be nice things to smell.
Unforgettable and Heaven Scent perfume?

13. Mr Whippy

My brother was almost hit by a Mr Whippy van running out to it in hysterical excitement.

We'd all go mental when we heard Greensleeves coming down the street.

14. Wanting to be an Air Hostess

 To me the most glamorous job in the world was an Air Hostess. They seemed so magical! Dad forbade it.

15. Housewife Remedies
I was a horrible child and gave my mother a lot of headaches but these always came to the rescue. I think they included something with a bit more of a zing in it back then.

16. Being Allowed to Light the Incinerator
Every suburban backyard had an incinerator in the Sixties. You'd cough your way through every Sunday when all the neighbours burned their weekly rubbish at the same time. The skies would be filled with trails of smoke.

17. Going to the Drive In and Playing on the Swings at Interval
We were taken to the Drive In a lot. We'd go in our pyjamas, eat real hamburgers for dinner and nag Dad all the way through the first movie about the swings then we'd fall asleep during the main event.

18. Watching Disneyland every Sunday Night
My parents played squash every Sunday night so we'd be left at our Grandma's where we'd watch Disneyland and eat Grandad's lollies. My favourite was Fantasyland.
What was yours?

19. Going to the Movies in the School Holidays
We were allowed to go by ourselves even under the age of ten because it was so safe back then. Would you let your eight year old go to the movies by themselves now?

Credit: Townsvillebulletin.com.au

20. Getting a Postcard from my Grandparents

My father's parents travelled overseas a lot and we loved it when a postcard arrived in the mail. We'd send our friends postcards too when we went away in the school holidays. They'd usually arrive after we returned.
 What happened to postcards?

What are the fond memories from your childhood?

Linking up with Jess at Essentially Jess for #IBOT

Twenty-Three Things I Wish My Mum Told Me

I don’t know about you but I hate inspirational quotes. 

They annoy me greatly.

At my lowest point in life, as an unemployed, divorced, single mother of five primary school aged children, my favourite quote (which I stuck on the bathroom mirror) was

“The light at the end of the tunnel are the lights of an oncoming train.”

For some reason this gave me hope. It was comforting in some sick sort of way. If I expected the worse then I wouldn't be in for any nasty surprises. Thankfully, things did get better. Nonetheless I still gag when I see over-optimistic and unrealistic platitudes plastered all over my Facebook page.

1. Challenge yourself with something you know you could never do- a fruitless exercise. You can challenge yourself as much as you want but you already know you can’t do it… duh.

2. It is never too late to be what you might have been- except young and fresh again, or a classical ballerina or the next up and coming lingerie football player.

3. All our dreams can come true, if we have the courage to pursue them- but when you see a cliff don’t be silly and brave thinking you can fly off it by flapping your arms really hard like you did in your dream last night because it won’t come true and you’ll most likely hurt yourself a lot.

4. Life is 10% what happens to me and 90% how I react to it – and 60% studying for that maths test in Grade 10 because what you ending up doing with the rest of your life is 80% how you do at school and 20% about how pretty you are... whether you’re a male or female.

5. You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take- which to me means you’ll have less of a hangover the next day.

6. If opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door- but add a peep hole in case opportunity is trying to con you via a pyramid selling scheme or a new phone company contract.

7. Failure is the condiment that gives success its flavour- and failure tastes really sour so success must sometimes be a lemon.

8. Luck is a dividend of sweat. The more you sweat, the luckier you get- unless you’re trying to pick up in a bar or hanging by your hands on a metal pole over a river of hungry crocodiles.

9. What counts is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight–it’s the size of the fight in the dog- unless you’re a Chihuahua fighting a German Shepherd.

10. Many of life’s failures are experienced by people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up- but if they had known they would have kept on going and ended up as a success and wouldn’t be counted among the failures so the advice is still relevant… I suppose. 

11. I will not follow where the path may lead, but I will go where there is no path, and I will leave a trail- yeah, so someone, anyone can find me and rescue me as I stumble blindly in the shrubbery, covered in mosquito bites and dying of thirst.

12. I haven’t failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work- and now, after all that wasted time, my life is almost over so I guess I failed after all.

13. It’s not whether you get knocked down, it’s whether you get up- because if you don’t get up it means you’re probably dead or critically injured but you shouldn’t get up anyway until it’s been confirmed you don’t have a fractured disc because you could injure yourself further by moving.

14. That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger- but sometimes what doesn’t kill us makes us so weak we’d rather be dead, or at least in need of an entire weekend sleeping and eating toasted cheese sandwiches watching Seinfeld repeats.

15. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself- well it’s not the only thing. There’re also spiders, snakes, earthquakes, death and seeing your boyfriend’s severed head being bounced by a madman on your car roof but I guess fear is pretty scary too.

16. Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned- unless you actually throw it then it might hit them and that would be funny and quite therapeutic.

17. The best way out is always through- unless you’re on a bear hunt and you have to go under it, over it, in it, etc.

18. I don’t know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everybody- except your boss, the taxation department, your parents and everyone that reads your stupid blog.

19. Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted- which I think means money doesn’t count but you can’t count your health and family. But you can count your family. One, two, three, four, five, six… there, done it.

20. It wasn’t raining when Noah built the ark – but it was raining when I was sitting at work today picturing my only clean sheets on the washing line so Noah must have been really psychic or had higher connections with the BOM than me.

21. The difference between ordinary and extraordinary is that little extra- annoying five letters.

22. What you do speaks so loudly that I cannot hear what you say- especially when you’re talking to me while you’re stuffing things down the damn garbage disposal.

23. Actions speak louder than thoughts- Well get off Facebook and go and save a frickin rescue dog or something.

24. If the facts don’t fit the theory, change the facts- this is the backbone of every principle I’ve let guide my life thus far. Can you tell?

Scotto read this and told me I’m a bitter and twisted old woman.

Do you agree with him or are you sick of these platitudes too?

Can you Sing?

I’d like to explode a widespread myth that even I, at one stage in my life, fell for like an unco-ordinated middle-aged woman on a random piece of salami.

Yes, I have recently slipped over at Coles on a piece of salami discarded by a trolley-sitting toddler who’d freshly paid homage to one of those ladies who hand out bits of free salami.

I think she orchestrated the whole incident to tell the truth, all because she was pissed off when I said, “No thanks, I’m on a diet,” when she’d offered it to me and she just thought, “Yeah, well I’ll show that bi-artch a diet.”
Anyway it did hurt because I strained my neck trying to counter balance and people saw and I was considerably embarrassed so my feelings were hurt as well.

Salami pushers should be banned.

My point however, is that not everyone CAN sing.

I agree you can learn to basically follow a tune but most people don’t possess, and never will, the correct anatomy to produce an even remotely agreeable sound.

It would be the same as if you bent a flute via a welding thing-a- ma-bob. It would still play but the key would be wrong and the notes would be just a tiny bit off.

At one stage I fancied I could be a singer. I enrolled in expensive singing lessons and went for at least eight weeks of coaching. My secret dream was to leap up on the stage one night at Karaoke and belt out a Britney Spears number in front of my unsuspecting friends bringing the house to its knees with my talent. I could picture the tears gleaming in their eyes and the stunned congratulatory praise when I eventually, after three or four encores, left the stage begging for a break. They’d all buy me drinks and say how much of a dark horse I was.

That, needless to say, never eventuated.

Believe me I practised. The kids would complain as I trilled up and down the scales in the car. I managed to perfect one note and walked around the house la-la-ing that note over and over to get my diaphragm working and drove my then husband insane.

I just don’t have the plumbing to be a Shirley Bassey I’m afraid.

But I love singing and the only opportunity I get is at school when the entire community stand and sing their hearts out to Advance Australia Fair. My tuneless unmusicality is drowned out by the other 800 voices and boy do I let it out.

Britney would be proud.

But the kids in my class often turn around and stare at me in mild amusement.

They can’t figure out why Mrs. Poinker loves the National Anthem so much.

Somehow I managed to score a role in the chorus of the local production of Camelot.
There was no call back for any other productions.

Can you sing? Do you have a secret talent?

Linking up with Jess from Essentially Jess for #IBOT!

Is My Dog Smarter than your Child?

If you ask a child (usually younger than five years of age) which stick is longer when you have two identical sticks laid out together, they’ll say they’re the same. But if you move one stick to the right or left they’ll say one of them is longer even though they’re the exact same sticks and of course the exact same length.

This is a developmental thing and eventually all kids will ‘get’ it. Some take a bit longer than others which is part of the reason teaching maths in grade one and two can be so difficult. It;s called conservation of length.

There’s also conservation of volume and conservation of number. Thank you to Monsieur Jean Piaget for enlightening us all about children’s cognitive development.

But you’d think if a four year old child fails to understand the concept, it would be impossible for a dim-witted Fox Terrier and surly Chihuahua to comprehend… but somehow ours do.

We give them a milky treat every morning and evening and sometimes I run low and have to give them a half each. 

They’re fully aware of this aberration and will sit on the end of the bed, livid, eyeballing me and licking their lips in scandalised disappointment.

How can they tell I've short changed them? How do they know they’re only getting five centimetres of doggy lolly instead of ten?

Are my dogs smarter than a four year old?

Ermahgerd! Merlk trerts!

Mind you the milky treats smell delicious, a bit like those milkshake lollies and even I’m tempted to eat one, especially after dinner when I feel like something sweet. Scotto had a bite one evening and gave the thumbs up commenting that they’re thoroughly enjoyable.

I might take him to the vet for his heart worm needle tomorrow.

The dogs become very excited when it’s time for their milky treat but there’s only one thing that sends them into an absolutely uncontrollable spiral of delirious gyration; the arrival of my son Thaddeus on spaghetti night.

I reckon he must slip them something under the dinner table when I’m not looking.


Why else would Pablo act like he loves Thaddeus more than he loves me?

Different Forms of Torture

When I was a really little girl, but a dot, my kindergarten took us on an excursion to the zoo. We had a zoo in Townsville back then. It consisted of a bedraggled, destitute lion, a mange-ridden, stinky bear, and a few other exotic animals trapped in depressing cages biding their time in the North Queensland heat until they died after ingesting a chocolate milk carton fed to them by an unassuming kinder student (not me I promise).

It was a disgrace our zoo and it was either closed down or the guy running it went broke. I know not.

But my point is not how cruel and horrible zoos are; it’s about how I bet you my last glass of Chardy the Kindergarten teachers back then didn’t have to fill out a Risk Assessment form before we climbed into the un-seat belted bus and went to view a dismal array of moulting and miserable safari animals.

If they had to fill out such a form I reckon they would have said, “Get stuffed. I can’t be bothered with this shit. We’re not going.”

Everything is so complicated now. Everything needs forms. I hate forms. I really hate forms. Stop the bus and let me off.

Forms for performance reviews stand out in my mind as being particularly appalling…

and the subsequent reflection forms.

I think they should have a special form for us to explain why we shouldn't be obligated to have to fill out pointless, airy fairy forms.

Why do you hate forms?	They’re useless and nobody reads them properly anyway. In fact you're probably skimming this right now.
What do you think we should do instead?	Eat a banana.
How do you think your performance rates?	Pretty fudging good considering the amount of futile forms I have to fill out thus wasting my valuable fudging TIME.
What do you think would improve your performance?	Having more time to actually do my work and less time having to fill out needless, inane forms would help.
What do you intend doing about it?	Write a blog post expressing my frustration thus leading to the possible cessation of my employment.
What will you do to evaluate your development?	Look up and memorise as many words on my Thesaurus I can that mean senseless, worthless, stupid, purposeless, aimless and wasteful to write a really colourfully worded evaluation. Or I might just copy and paste last year’s reflections since no one will read it. I hope.

How do you feel about forms?

Cloudy with a Chance of Bullshit.

Imagine if you were violently electrocuted by lightning hitting your house because you were on your (charging) laptop, manically looking up the B.O.M. (Bureau of Meteorology) to check if there was the possibility of a thunderstorm approaching. 

Would that be irony? Or stupidity? Or a dodgy safety switch system?

I do it all the time, even though Scotto yells at me when I do.

The trouble is, where we are in Townsville, North Queensland, we always seem to miss out on the cooling rain and storms. It’s something to do with the bloody topography.

We lust rain here. I’d give away my first born for rain. In fact he’d probably give himself to you if you paid off his HECs debt.

This has been the hottest summer I’ve ever experienced up here in frontier land.

But if there’s one thing I hate, it’s whingey, whiny blog posts, so I won’t tell you about how I can’t even tell anymore if I’m having a hot flush or if the mercury level has burst through the thermometer and seeped into my brain.


I won’t even tell you about the kids in my class who come to me with blue lips and their teeth chattering, begging, “Mrs. Poinker, for the love of Jesus, can you please turn the air-conditioning down?” and how I just reply, “No. Bugger off and bring a jumper to school tomorrow.”

I won’t go into the grim details of how my yoghurt curdles in the short trip to work or how there are mushrooms growing between my toes because of the humidity.

Instead I want to tell you about an idea I’ve had and I need your imput.

I want to be a weather person thingy.

I want to be ‘unaccountable’.

I want to say things like, “Tomorrow there’ll be a 50% chance of storms.”

Can you imagine if I was sitting in a parent teacher interview and I said,

“Your son has a fifty per cent chance of passing but only if the south winds form a trough that provide a cool breeze that intercepts with the upper atmosphere moisture. There’s a chance of his scraping through mathematics but his literacy is light and variable, depending on the tides. He’s a bit foggy in the morning but that should clear at morning tea when he eats his first food for the day when it may become windy. We usually expect unstable and inclement weather after lunch when he’s had his salt and vinegar chips with an iced coffee chaser.”

I just love the way weather forecasters hedge their bets.


New career for me?

What career would you like to switch to?

“So Mrs. Poinker, will you be going up to Grade Five next year with us because you’ll have learned everything in Grade Four?” asked a little cutie in my class today.

“No sweetie, this is my sixth year in Grade 4,” I replied despondently.

She looked at me with a soupcon of pity. 

“What a dumbass teacher Mrs. Poinker is,” she must have been thinking.

The truth is I don’t know if I’ll even have a job next year what with our tree change to Mount Tamborine and all. Unlike Pete Evans, I don’t look in the mirror and see a youthful teenager staring back at me. I see a woman of advanced years with glazed eyes, a relaxed jawline and a possible penchant for furtive drinking.

Scotto keeps encouraging me to write application letters and get my name out there but I’m scared. I haven’t written one of those types of letters for decades… centuries even.

I don’t even know what my strengths are: an ability to exploit highly expressive and ludicrous voices when I’m reading stories to the students in order to hold their attention? 

I don’t think that would cut it.

Maybe my prospective employers will take one look at my resume, have a good snort over it when they spot my age and chuck it in the bin.

Perhaps I should look for work outside of teaching.

Most teachers I know, exhausted at the end of term, say they’d quite like to work at Bunnings. They’re particularly specific about it being Bunnings. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because there are lots of aisles you can hide in and slide under with a nice magazine.

Or it might be that there are rarely any children to be seen mid-week at a Bunnings outlet.

I don’t fancy Bunnings myself. I don’t know the difference between a Sphincter Valve and a Grease Nipple Kit.

I could see myself working in a second hand bookstore though. Preferably one I owned myself. I could take my dogs to work with me and sit around in a rocking chair with a shawl over my knees sipping tea and ignoring customers. I own enough books to have a book store. But then I’d probably sell them and have to order more and I couldn't stand the paperwork. Besides I don’t think second hand books are much of a money spinner.

Of course I could incorporate local wine tastings into the second hand book shopping experience. We could have poetry readings (where I got to use my silly voices) and wine sessions to raise extra revenue. Although I’d most likely drink all the wine and end up with a hangover I suppose.

But then I’d get to sleep in every day because no one wants to buy books in the morning do they?

I could open the shop at 11:00 am and have a nice breakfast before work. I’d have eggs and sausages I think. 

I could learn to paint watercolours and have a corner of the shop set up with my works for sale. I might become famous and rich… it’s not impossible. 

Is it?

Yeah I know. I’d better write those bloody letters and get my name out there.

I’m not fishing for compliments but can you think of any hidden strengths I might have?

Does anyone want to write my resume for me?

The Amazing New Amoeba Diet

This week, proponents of the Paleolithic Diet are reeling in shock after a new hypothesis emanated from experts and fanatical adherents to weight loss regimes. 

The latest diet, the Amazing Amoeba Diet has surpassed the Paleo diet in popularity stakes and dominates the conversation topics of fashionable A Listers such as the Kardashians, Paris and Nicky Hilton and their little brother, Perez. 

The theory behind the popular Paleolithic diet is based on the premise that before the development of agriculture and animal husbandry, humans satisfied their nutritional needs with foods readily available at the time. Modern human metabolisms have been unable to adapt quickly enough to cope with foods such as grain, dairy and Macca’s Fillet o Fish, thus leading to a breakdown in our digestive system’s ability to cope and leading to insidious disease and a lot of unnecessary fatty boombahism.
Paleo exponents recommend we eat a diet matching early Stone Age man in order to place our metabolisms back on track.

How about we do a Maccas run instead tonight?

However, leading experts now purport that we, as a society, need to re-evaluate our calculations to even further back in history and examine the original source of life 3.5 billion years ago; when single-cell marine organisms first appeared.

Dr Rocky Crust, Senior Professor from the Crock Swindler Institute states,

“The one-celled creatures living in the cradle of Earth’s life provide the true revelation of where our digestive systems should be at. The amoeba didn’t need to go and enter silly marathons, Colour Runs or pay expensive gym memberships in order to prevent diabetes, tooth decay and obesity. 

In fact, the simple creatures did very little exercise apart from a lazy swim around a warm pond. The crux of the matter is this; you can’t get much thinner than a single celled creature can you? I think that pretty much sums up our argument. The amoeba’s exceptional secret to a bikini bod was its impeccable diet.”

But what did the single cell organism actually eat all those years ago? 

In light of the fact the amoeba was not in possession of a centralised organ (a.k.a brain) it still managed to maintain a regulated nutrient supply. 

“Much like a teenage boy,” declared Dr Crust. “the amoeba sucked up protein and sugar from anywhere it could in a 2:1 ratio. It was a ravenous scavenger.”

Professor Fay Kerr from Crock Swindler has already written and published a book on the topic, “The Euphoric Prehistoric Cook Book” with accompanying suggested recipes such as the delicious sounding, Archean Primordial Soup. The professor is also working on her second book whilst touring the country promoting her upcoming television series, “The Dubious Nucleus Rules”.

When asked for his opinion on the new diet, self-professed Paleo authority, Pete Evans had this to say, "It's a load of f#*&ing garbage."

The jury is still out on the Amazing Amoeba Diet but the evidence looks promising.



Warning: This diet is not recommended for anyone under the age of 3.5 billion years.

Why aren't they called Cockatoo Smugglers?

I was having a quick, condensed, twenty minute conversation with some colleagues in our staff room the other day and I won’t name who it was because one of them recently threatened to sue me for alleged defamation on my blog (hi Shazza). Two of them were male colleagues and the other was Lee-lee.

For some reason; I think it was the impending swimming carnival, we were discussing budgie smugglers, banana hammocks, lolly bags, DTs (aka dick togs) and whatever else they’re called.

“I can tell you an embarrassing story about budgie smugglers!” I said.

Four forks full of microwaved leftovers clinked down on plates and four sets of eyes stared at me in unadulterated fascination.

“What?” hissed Lee-lee. “Tell us, Pinky!”

Lunch time in the staffroom is pretty boring.

“Well…” I tantalisingly drawled, enjoying my fifteen seconds of fame. “It was when my kids were little and having swimming lessons. The swim coach wanted to talk to me about their progress and he was standing there dripping wet in his budgie smugglers and I had a fleeting glimpse at his bulging manhood.”

“What? You mean you looked at it?” choked J.B. one of my male colleagues in absolute disgust.

“I had to!” I squawked in my own defence.

“You had to?” he echoed with barely disguised contempt.

“I couldn’t help it!” I said. “It was like my eyes were drawn to it! You know when someone has a mole the size of a twenty cent piece in the middle of their face with hairs sticking out of it and you can’t help staring? I didn’t want to look at it!”

“So what did he do? Did he catch you looking?” asked an enthralled Shazza.

“Yep, he knew I’d glanced at it alright. He just sort of stopped talking for a few seconds and sneered at me in distaste, then kept talking about Thaddeus’ doggy paddle style.”

“And what did you do after that?” asked O’Reilly.

“I think I blushed, and very soon after that changed swim schools,” I replied, picking at my chia seed health bar thoughtfully.

I’ve never forgotten the incident which occurred about twenty years ago. It still makes me cringe in shame.

The trouble with budgie smugglers is that there’s only the sheerest of nylon between the pulsating thing enclosed and the outside world. It’s impossible to maintain eye contact when you’re talking to a man wearing nothing bar a nylon tissue standing two feet away from you without peeking and I think this is why women hate them so much.

We don’t want to look but we sort of have to. It’s not nice but it’s true.

It’s a similar thing when you’re talking to someone who’s cross-eyed and you don’t know which eye to look at so you just stare at a spot in the middle of their forehead because you don’t want to inadvertently address your concerns to the eye that's not really looking at you.

Anyway, at the end of the day I think the little chat with my male colleagues was beneficial because they both wore board shorts to the swimming carnival yesterday, praise the lord. 

Either that or they’re now afraid of me.