Stations of the Cross Lady

Only one more day and Lent is over so I can start irritating people on my personal Facebook page again instead of just reading my notifications and getting twitchy fingers.

Because it really wasn’t much of a sacrifice only half giving up Facebook for Lent, I arose slightly earlier than usual this morning to get ready to suffer penance a bit in church.

When Scotto saw me getting ready, he decided to come too. He probably suspected I was up to something nefarious as me going to church, especially in the morning, is quite abnormal behaviour. The last time was about three years ago actually.

The beauty of this Stations of the Cross service was that it was at 10 o’clock which meant I still got to sleep in and not suffer too much.

When we arrived and sat in the pew, a man handing out response sheets ran out of them just before he got to us. Typical.

The nice, very pious-looking lady sitting a few seats away, moved next to us so we could read from her sheet. She was absolutely teeming with knowledge. “We’ll have to get up and follow the priest around the church as he goes through the Stations,” she coached me.

I didn’t fancy this idea because I prefer to sit… but what the hell... I mean heck. I listened closely to all her instructions and tried to impress her with my saintly and angelic demeanour.

Then the nice lady said she’d seen me around the church before but not for a VERY long time. I explained that I’d been a few times the previous year because I’d worked at the school but now I taught at a different school and went to the church there. She smiled at me sweetly, recognising a fellow companion in religious devoutness.

“There aren’t many people here! It’s a disgrace!” she sniffed in disgust as she perused the congregation.

“Maybe more people will come on Easter Sunday,” I offered meekly.

“This is a more important service,” she scoffed.

I nodded sagely. After all, I was there wasn’t I? Where were all the other heathens?

The priest began the service. “Why aren’t the fools getting up and following the priest,” she hissed in my ear with a sense of what I could only describe as brutal outrage. She went to push me and Scotto forward but then thankfully she noticed NO ONE was moving and the priest didn’t seem the least bit perturbed.

The service was quite long, fourteen stations long, with A LOT of praying in between. 

Scotto had trouble kneeling what with his gammy knee, and not being a Catholic he had to pretend to know the right responses by mouthing random words and making a dull, humming noise.

Finally at the end, I turned to the nice lady to say Happy Easter (even though I felt it might be irreverent to say the word ‘happy’ because of the whole crucifixion thing). Before I could get the words out she leaned past me and poked Scotto in the ribs.

“Excuse me, but you were chewing gum throughout the entire service. You know you shouldn’t chew gum in church!” she looked at him scathingly.

With a bit of tongue dexterity I managed to manoeuvre my own chewing gum to the inside of my cheek so she wouldn’t notice I had a chewy in my gob as well.

“No!” I agreed, nodding, frowning at Scotto and holding the gum clenched tight. “You shouldn’t chew in church, it’s very disrespectful.”


“How can you take Holy Communion while you’re chewing?” she continued to rail.


“Yes Scotto,” I concurred. “You can’t have Jesus AND chewing gum in your mouth at the same time!”

Scotto broke into nervous giggles.

“It’s no laughing matter,” the nice lady chipped.

“No. It’s not.” I gave him a stern look. “Not funny at all.”

Then the nice lady hugged me and told me to have a happy Easter but she didn’t hug Scotto.

I was secretly thrilled because most people ALWAYS prefer Scotto to me.


She probably thought he was beyond the reach of redemption. Lol.

The Ultimate Secret Of True Love

I was sitting on the toilet in our ensuite tonight, staring into the mirror. 

Not my most flattering angle but we’ve all done it when we’re a bit bored. You know... let’s see how much I can look like a creature from the depths of hell while I’m sitting on the dunny?

What? You haven’t ever stared at your face when you’re sitting on the loo and pulled a horrible, devilish face?

Bloody liar.

Anyway, I decided to pull the completely, and most utterly, ugliest expression I could manifest, in the mirror… as most people do from time to time.

What? You haven’t ever done that?

Weirdo.

So it just so happens, at the exact time of my having this impulsive impulse to pull my silliest and most spew inspiring expression in the mirror, my front tooth denture was missing and I looked a bit like an Ork with periodontal disease.

Not only that, but I pulled my chin down so it looked as if I had eight chins and I then I went the extra length and super bulged my eyes, all the while staring into the mirror in gleeful evilness. 

I rejoiced in my hideousness.

Because the universe is so serendipitous, it was at this exact moment my husband happened to casually saunter past the bathroom door and witnessed me pulling my most unappealing possible face, ever.

He paused for a millisecond and I naturally expected he would recoil in disgust and sink into the foetal position in fear. I thought he would form the cross with his fingers and start shrieking a Hail Mary and start spraying garlic everywhere.

But he just burst into laughter and tried to pull an even uglier face.

He failed... nothing could surpass my repugnance, but at least he tried.

That's true love.

That’s true love.

How I Improved My Bikies Pinky Mother In One Easy Lesson

My dear old Dad surrounded by bikies.

It started off as a sedate Saturday lunch with the oldies and my visiting sister, brother-in-law and nephew. 

I was elected to choose the venue and I suggested an authentic and charming pub down the bottom of the mountain. We’d never eaten there before but Scotto and I had been a few times to have a Sunday arvo drink and listen to the band.

As we disembarked from our cars in the parking lot, our eardrums were assaulted with the sound of a zillion motor bikes flooding down the hotel driveway. We were stuck in the middle of the road with big, black sinister bikes milling around us.

It was like a scene from Mad Max. They were huge and scary looking bikies with skull masks, chains, tattoos and black leather. They had mohawks and pierced bits everywhere.

I spun around to check on my elderly mother and was alarmed to see her trotting way ahead of us in a somewhat hurried fashion. Great, I thought. I’ve brought my senior citizen, fragile parents to a bikie pub and have probably scared them into apoplexy.

“Quickly!” Mum shouted at us as we struggled to keep up behind her. “We need to order before all these bloody bikies get to the counter. I’m hungry and I want to get in first.”

She had a point. There were at least two hundred of them. The bar staff must have panicked.

We found out, via my brother-in-law, Pedro, (who went for a cigarette and got chatting with one of them) that they were on a memorial ride for a member who had died the previous year.

“Probably died in a violent motorbike crash,” commented Mum, always one for a bit of drama. I scanned the beer garden and wondered if it was more likely a death via a cholesterol related issue. They were all rather big boys and they were wolfing down the deep fried chips with a vengeance.

“She’s going to regret all those tattoos when she’s an old lady,” my mother remarked in a scathing tone and with far too much volume for my liking as she stared at a bikie chick over my shoulder.

“It’s her choice, Mum!” I hissed under my breath. “Don’t talk so loud.”

“Look at her! She’s got writing and pictures all over her body,” Mum continued, not adjusting her bellowing by even a degree.

I deliberately did NOT look at anyone and just put my head down and stared at my palms which had begun to sweat and shake. Sometimes I think my mother has a death wish.

Fortunately, they turned out to be very nice bikies and after a couple of glasses of Dutch courage I quelled my reservations and asked two of them for a photo.

Pinky: A woman of the people.

They were very well-spoken and polite I must say.

They even said I could put their photos on my blog, Pinky Poinker.

They were super keen actually.

I always ask for permission before putting pictures of people on my blog.

Especially bikies.

You never know who they might be hiding from and I’d hate to be the one to expose them.

That’s a joke. I suspect that many of them were accountants, lawyers and school teachers.

In fact, the grade two teacher at the school I work at is a bikie which is funny when you think about it.

There are two different types of bikies you see. Sweet natured, respectful ones and the ones that....

Never mind. Best not dig myself any further in my grave.

Know any bikies?

The Family

# Yes, I'm still typing my key words into the title generator. I love it.

Everything You Wanted to Know About Snake Bites and Were Afraid To Ask

I’m officially on two weeks school holidays so naturally now the tables have turned and instead of ME getting up at five am, shivering on the couch whilst clutching my first coffee in the lounge room watching the sun rise and then taking his Lordship a fresh coffee at 6:00 am, now Scotto has to bring me my morning coffee.

Ha!

But I’ve noticed a vague resentment when Scotto heavily plonks my coffee down on my bedside table. He would deny it but I can tell he is condemning me with his disparaging manner.

It’s the expression on his face, the forced smile and the weightiness of the aggressive kiss he lumps on my forehead as he delivers my cup down beside my Nicorettes.

When he leaves for work, he critically observes me reclining on the bed in my PJs at ten o’clock in the morning and I can see the disapproving glint in his eyes.

Fudge you, I whisper to myself. Fudge you, judgmental man.

But this morning I felt a bit sorry for him because his car, the Batmobile, which is still under warranty and just had the engine replaced, was towed away a mere 36 hours after he picked it up from the workshop (after FIVE WEEKS in the garage).

When he left in the pathetically incapable courtesy car (his third one) to go on a job, I was sitting on the couch on my laptop reading about how a chicken failed to recognise its owner because of a new haircut (thanks Rae Hilhorst) and I suddenly thought, my husband thinks I’m an Internet layabout.

Naturally, I had to correct this silly opinion he seemed to have formed in his head.

So after I’d finished watching the very captivating chicken video, (and then another hypnotising video about how you can use a piece of string to peel onions)  I went out with my gardening gloves and weeded the front garden which has been allowed to go stupid for at least 6 months. It was so bad even our neighbours had been making jokes about it.

It took a while to weed (about an hour and a half) and when I came in puffing and wheezing, I suddenly noticed two fang marks on my wrist and naturally assumed I’d been bitten by an Eastern Brown snake. 

Sorry about the age spots

I googled how long it takes for symptoms to manifest and what the symptoms are. It can take up to an hour for death to strike.

I hadn’t actually seen a snake but plenty of people get bitten and don’t realise it. I felt my heartbeat escalate and my mouth went dryish. I may have dribbled in fear despite the dry mouth.

I had a coffee and then a wine and waited for an hour and nothing happened so I think I’m okay. I did get a mild headache but it passed.

But if you never hear from me again you know I died from a venomous snake bite, so thanks for reading my blog all this time.

If I’m dead tomorrow you know whose fault it is, K?



Does your other half get jealous when you have holidays and they don’t?

These 5 Simple Cyclone Tricks Will Pump Up Your Sales Almost Instantly

Caveat emptor: There are no cyclone sales tips, I'm still using the click bait title generator.

On Monday and Tuesday, with great dismay, I stared at the BOM radar images watching the cyclone approaching the North Queensland coast where four of my five children are ensconced.

I knew in my heart the cyclone would not hit Townsville, but I sent all my beloved children texts querying their welfare. 

One sent back a text saying, “It’s a bit windy”. 

One sent back a text saying it was “all good, Mother”. 

One ignored me completely. 

One asked if he could possibly borrow 100 bucks until he got paid on Thursday.

One thing that really stuck in my craw was that the schools were bloody closed up there for two days. 

I was furious. How dare they?

If I was still working up there I would have had two days off. 

Hmmmmf.
Bloody sooks. A bit of rain and they cancel school. The cylones NEVER hit Townsville. Everyone knows that. They cancel school when it bloody spits rain up there.

So anyway, the cyclone has turned into a rain depression and has moved down South to my area and guess whose school is closed for two days????

Hardy ha ha Townsville, you bloody fakers.

P.S. It’s very boring staying home when you are locked in a flood bound house with your ‘work at home’ husband who slightly resents your annoying and unprecedented presence.

P.P.S. I’ve run out of crosswords and it’s raining very bloody  hard, there are gale force winds and I fear for my chickens’ livelihood.


P.P.P.S. The dogs are being very sooky and I think we may be all about to die. Dogs know stuff like that.

Fascinating Rooster in Love Tactics That Can Help Your Business Grow

It appears my rooster, Hodor, has fallen in love with me. 

Mum and Dad were over last weekend and he jumped on my lap and sat there listening to our conversation the whole time. He follows me around everywhere, endearing himself so he won’t be given away. He’s gaslighting me with his cuteness. He’s trying to act all coy so I will convince Scotto to let me keep him.

I re-located Hodor into a new coop with his own little harem, the four silkie chickens, Theon Greyjoy, Joffrey and two new gingers, Ygritte the Second and Tormund Giantsbane. 

Ygritte and Tormund

His other girlfriend, Jon Snow, has turned all broody and is currently sitting on nine eggs fertilised by none other than 'imself.

He’s a bit of a lad with the ladies even though smells like a petting zoo and kicks them in the gizzards when they take his bread.

Speaking of the rustic life, I’ve seen about a million cows this week and killed a plethora of cane toads and one silly unfortunate bird who failed to see my car until too late.

R.I.P inattentive bird; I felt sick to my stomach for half an hour after I hit it.

The road leading into the country town I work at is highly susceptible to flooding and this week I found myself taking a rural detour adding another 25 minutes to my already lengthy journey. On Monday I didn’t realise the road was blocked so I had to backtrack which meant my commute to work took three, fudging, ashmole, bastard hours.

I have to divert to a grazing community where it’s so rough the school zone speed limit is 80 kms an hour. I wish I was joking.

Country kids are very tough and can run pretty fast apparently.

We had a twilight meeting at school that night too so I had to drive home along an unfamiliar, one lane country road in the fudging dark. 

It took eleven One Direction songs on my USB just to get to a vaguely urban area with one flickering street light. 

As if that wasn’t punishment enough, when I finally reached the foot of our slippery, twisting mountain road, it began raining heavily and when I at last reached the summit, the cloud cover was so thick I couldn’t see more than two metres in front of me.

I’m starting to think someone wants me dead.

Is God punishing me for taking sneaky looks at FB?.

The boss at work suggested I check the local council Facebook page to check for road closures. But I told her that since I’ve given up FB for Lent, she would have to do it for me and ring me by 6:30am. She directed me to the Bureau of Meteorology instead.

My daughter Lulu has been trying to bait me to break my FB promise by posting extremely provocative taunts online. My friend Kathy from 50 Shades of Age has also been tagging me with adorable Chihuahua posts. 

You’ll be pleased to know that I have remained resolute (except for very quick peeks). I just get Scotto to comment on my behalf.



Go on… try to tempt me to post on FB. I bet you can’t.

Randy Rooster!

The Ultimate Secrets of a Fire Fighter

Image Credit

* Still using title generator, lol.

Last night, at about three in the morning, I reached over to grab my water bottle and as I sucked thirstily on the life force within, I felt something light-footed and sinister, scrabble down my delicate wrist. It felt like either a small spider or a cockroach crawling along my arm.

In my dazed state, I flicked whatever it was over to Scotto’s side of the bed, rolled over and went back to sleep.

I think I might have woken up about an hour later and casually mused on the possible locality of the diminutive but possibly vicious invertebrate. 

Could it be back on my side of the covers, snuggled against my thigh, ready to sink its fangs in? Frankly, I didn’t give a shit at that stage because I was delirious with exhaustion.

The next morning, Scotto regaled me with an animated (but slightly boring) story about how he woke up in the dead of night because he sensed a cold blooded creature which had unceremoniously landed on his back.

He expressed concern that it might have been a spider but he thought it looked a bit more solid in the dull light of dawn. "Perhaps like a bug, or a cockroach," he said thoughtfully. An hour later he felt it land on his arm. He’d still failed to get a good look at it though, so he couldn’t be sure what it was. A scorpion? A Toe-biter?

I just kept my mouth closed about my own personal, moderately distressing incident with the unknown organism. No need for Scotto to know about my lack of concern for his nocturnal welfare. 

He didn't need to know I’d possibly flicked a funnel web spider onto him in a willy-nilly absence of attention towards his personal welfare.

After all, he is supposed to be a tough fire fighter and all.

Sexy firefighter husband

But it’s funny how I’m not scared of spiders in the middle of the night when I feel sleepy but I’m absolutely terrified of them when I’m fully awake, don’t you think?

Some People Excel At Cock Collars And Some Don't - Which One Are You?

I’ve given up my personal Facebook page for Lent after the disgraceful post I accidentally put on my dear friend, Alana’s Facebook feed.

It was the least I could do. I just don’t trust FB anymore.

Facebook is the new Satan.

Anyway, yesterday, when I was at the new and lovely Catholic school I work at, waiting for my class to line up, one of the teachers squirreled over to me and furtively informed me that I should most definitely consider purchasing a ‘Cock Collar’.

I choked back the scream.


“Don’t Google it,” she warned. “But apparently a Chinese woman in Brisbane sells them.”


Naturally, I was super pumped to get home and inform Scotto that we needed to buy a Cock Collar.


Disappointingly, he was nonplussed.


“Yeah, Pinky,” he drawled. “Someone already mentioned that to me today, too.”

It seems EVERYONE here knows about Cock Collars.


So now I have to source a Cock Collar without Googling it.

I can just picture me wandering in to Target and asking the pimply faced attendant if they have any Cock Collars.


Why is life so fudging hard?


P.S. We need a cock collar for our spiteful and detestable Pekin rooster who has begun crowing (as well as kick-boxing the hens in the fanny at every opportunity) and the only people who are willing to adopt him want to kill him and eat him.


Do you know where I can buy a Cock Collar?

P.P.S. I'm still trying out the title generator on Google.

Who Else Wants to Enjoy Cat Injury Worm? *

On Wednesday night, as I sat on the couch staring at the telly by myself (Scotto was at a sexy fireman’s meeting), I suddenly realised that the cat had not galloped out to the car to greet me when I’d arrived home a few hours previously.

It was unusual as she always welcomes my arrival home because that’s how she reminds me to feed her and otherwise she’d starve to death.

I went outside calling her and eventually she emerged from the shrubbery, piteously mewing, with one leg dragging dramatically behind her.

Gammy leg: taken after treatment just so you don't think I'm exploiting my cat.

Hagar (twenty-three year old son) and I brought her into the kitchen and frenetically rifled through her fur searching for a paralysis tick whilst I desperately tried to remember the exorbitant cost of paralysis tick antidote.

“Was it six thousand dollars or two?” I pondered. “How much do I actually love this fifteen year old cat?” I internally debated. 

I speculated it was $6000 for a snake bite treatment and only $2000 for a tick. I began praying for a tick.

However, we failed to find any ticks (but we did notice an inquisitive and brazen thread worm spiralling from her bum).

“Call the vet, Mum!” insisted Hagar. “Bugger the cost. She could be suffering.”

"Just shut up while I think!" I barked back as I I hearkened the cha ching of my online bank account as the numbers went down



Reluctantly, I rang the vet (whilst marvelling on how I ended up with Francis of Assisi as a son).

I didn’t mention the worm to the vet out of shame even though it’s not really my fault she spits out her worm medication or bites us when we attempt to shove a tablet down her throat.

It was with jubilation that I received the vet’s advice it was highly unlikely she was sporting a tick and it was most probably a mere injury so I should just bring her in to the surgery in the morning and monitor her overnight.

It was Scotto’s job to take her in (as I had to go to work in Woop Woop) so he placed her in the cat carrier where, during the journey, she somehow managed to place her wormy bum up against the cage door and spray the interior of his car with urine. 

Thankfully it was not feaces because we all know how much cat poo stinks. Not that urine doesn’t smell but one must always look for positives.

The chief problem with this incident is that Scotto is currently driving a courtesy car whilst his bat mobile is in the workshop getting fixed.

I think he bought the IGA out of bicarbonate of soda and car deodorant.

I suspect he didn’t buy $360 worth though, which is what my vet’s bill was after an x-ray and anti-inflammatories for a torn feline ligament. 

The vet deduced she’s been tarting around at night, clearly been caught in a tight spot and needed to get away in a hurry; crazy loose bitch that she is.

At least Scotto managed to convince the vet to worm her.


I’m imagining she was probably more worm than cat at that stage.

Any advice on getting a cat to take worm medication?

P.S. I bought her for $20 and she is now up to the $1500 mark and skating on thin ice.

*P.P.S If you are wondering about the title of this post, I tried out a 'Title Generator" using key words and am still perfecting it.

What were you doing this time last year?

Today marks exactly one year since we arrived on the mountain after leaving North Queensland.

So what’s happened in that year? What have we achieved in that time?

1. I haven’t been back to visit my home town, ONCE! (I thought I'd be back after a month.)

2. All the Poinker kids have visited several times and one of them (Hagar) is now living here in our house without paying board which makes me feel all warm and nostalgic.

3. My beloved sister and her family have visited twice which was great because I have missed her a bit.

4. I now have a proper job at a rural school which I love to bits and is the nicest school I've ever taught at.

5. Scotto is running a successful business repairing and building computers.

6. I now own seven hens with five baby chicks on the way.

Yesterday one of the 'hens' crowed, which is unusual for a hen (in case you are reading this and work for the local council and receive a complaint about us keeping a rooster on the premises... which we aren't... it's just a hen that crows).

7. All four dogs and one cat are thriving and getting quite fat and haven't had one paralysis tick between them.

8. I’ve had shingles and am now a bit deaf (but that has positives).

9. I now grow my own herbs which I use in my cooking. 

Oh and...



10. Scotto is now an auxilliary fireman.

....Yep. 

You read that right.

My own frickin HUSBAND is a hot FIRIE!

Can you imagine the potential for role play????

“Bring that big old oxygen tank over here, sweet baby.”

“Tell me, is that pole of yours as really, really slippery as it looks?”

“Wow! Now that’s what I call a huge mother of a hose!”



Scotto gets to wear THREE different uniforms!!!

He’s not allowed to bring the most expensive one (which is used in real firefighting) home and I can only IMAGINE why… it probably stains easily or something.

I reckon he should be Mr September in the firemen calendar because that’s my birthday and it would be a nice present.

I shouldn't be so silly and flippant because firefighting is very serious business but...


how do you think he should pose for the calendar?

Facebook: What the Hell is Going On?

On Thursday night, as I surfed the web in bed, I came across this meme which gave me a laugh so I posted it to my timeline with a comment saying that, although it was a bit mean it was still quite funny.

At least I thought I posted it to my timeline.

The next morning I checked my FB notifications to see how many of my friends had liked it; needy, pathetic creature that I am.

Horror of horrors, it hadn’t gone on my timeline but instead I’d posted the “Nobody Likes You” meme as a comment on a cute puppy dog video a friend had shared.

Can you even begin to imagine how mortified I was?

Naturally, I immediately deleted it and contacted my friend to explain.

Again, I’m sorry Alana House. Also, sorry to Alana’s sister who must think I’m a right bitch.

Alana replied that she thought it was quite strange because she knows how much I love cute puppy dogs.

If someone had posted something like that as a comment to a video I’d shared, I would have immediately unfriended them in a fit of blustering rage.

Is Facebook out to get me? Is it playing tricks on me, attempting to destroy friendships and discredit me as a bitter, vicious, nasty Nigel?

Or was I just utterly exhausted and didn’t pay attention to where I was posting?

I’ve been getting up at 5 every morning, driving two and a half hours to work and back and attempting to create a competent impression at my new school. Maybe it’s going to take this old woman a while to adjust to hard work again.

I’ve discovered there are three different routes I can take to get to work.

I was boring my son, Hagar, to death as I recited details of my back country road research.

“It’s pronounced ‘rowt’, Mum. Not ‘root’,” he admonished.

I didn’t know he was such a prude. “Is a carrot a ‘rowt’ vegetable then?” I retorted.

Anyway, as I said there are three different routes I can take to work...

1. I can career down a treacherously steep mountain, traverse a sinuous, meandering range and usually get stuck behind ‘Cheryl and David: Retirees at Large’ in their rickety campervan.

(Journey: 1 hour, 13 minutes)

2. I can climb up the precipitous mountain road, before travelling back down again along a spiraling, perilous, seven kilometre death trap of a road and usually get stuck behind a laboured water tank which obstinately refuses to pull over and allow the serpentine trail of cars behind it to pass.

(Journey: 1 hour, 13 minutes)

3. I can anxiously propel my car down the mountain via what is known by the locals as “the goat track”. It is so named because only one goat can fit on it at a time and the terrifyingly sheer drop is merely a pleasant view for mountain goats alone, not acrophobic humans whose knuckles turn white when they are forced to reverse along the track when they espy another car hurtling towards them.

(Journey: 1 hour, 13 minutes)



On the up side, I’m making very good friends with the guy at the servo in Beaudesert.



Have you ever accidentally posted something stupid on Facebook?

Hello From the Other Side

Celine saying 'hello'

I have finally broken down the freezing, frigid wall of ice that is education employment in Southern Queensland and have a job for the entire of this year. 

You know what that means, right? 

No more anxiously waiting for phone calls in the morning, scrambling to insert my false teeth to take the call so I don’t lisp ( sort of joking); no more feeling like a pariah in the staff room and no more running from prep to grade one to grade six and then back to grade six and then slipping into grade two, all in one stressful relief teaching day.

In the words of George Costanza, “I’m in baby!”

No matter that it takes me an hour and ten minutes to get to my new school on a back country road with no mobile reception 

( think Wolf Creek). 

No matter that when I am on playground duty, I have to take a golf buggy down to the oval (before the kids run down there at lunch time) to clear away all the snakes and random big red kangaroos spoiling for a rumble with a middle-aged matron (not kidding).

No matter that there are rambunctious bulls threateningly peering at me over the back fence oval. I have an actual job teaching my favourite grade. I’m not complaining!

Plus… I am going to be a Grandma.

I KNOW!!!!

Hodor and Jon Snow (my Pekin chickens) are with child. We excitedly spied a miniature egg in their nest today. I must admit, when we put the lovers back in their coop after ‘free ranging time’ they started viciously pecking at their own flesh and blood so we might have to go all DOCS on them and remove their offspring in line with protective laws and issues… but still. I think I will be a grandma soon unless they eat their own baby.

Tiny Pekin egg at bottom for comparison.

It’s all going swimmingly really.

Sometimes, when things seem like shite, life can suddenly take a dramatic turn for the better so if you are feeling down, just think… at least you don’t have to drive an hour and ten minutes to get to work.

Or do you?



What’s been your longest commute?

Pinky's Default Post!

Sometimes I feel like I need to write a post so that the last post I wrote is less visible.

I feel like that all the time, really.

I worry about who is reading this blog and what they’re thinking about me as a person. I’d hate to be taken out of context.

Occasionally I feel I might come across as a bit of a twit to a brand new reader. I’m sure you’re shaking your head right now thinking I’m exaggerating and I’m being over dramatic again. “Who would think you’re a twit, you silly, adorable thing?” I hear you laugh.

Hmmmmf.

Anyway, here’s my default post in case prospective employers search for what I get up to on social media.

Hello Pinky Punksters!

Today I awoke from my slightly dishevelled but sanitary cotton-sheeted bed and liked everyone’s posts on Facebook except for the rude ones and the ones where people swear. Swearing is only for the Devil’s spawn. It’s a disgrace what people say these days.

I avoided reading the Reddit conspiracy site I’m addicted to because I realise it’s just a waste of my precious time and I read about really inspiring educational themed stuff instead. Stuff about how to conduct guided reading sessions and literacy sessions and stuff about how to write with a plum.

I didn’t think one awful thought about what was on the morning telly and tweet about it in an arrogant fashion and instead I researched how apparently some people drink too much alcohol.

It’s shocking. Where is their self-control? People like that should seek help. There are countless places one might seek support. Private message me and I’ll share some links. No one is judging you.(Personally, I never touch the stuff except for a sip at a wedding or christening occasionally.)

Then I cleaned my soap dish in the shower with an environmentally friendly bread knife and then air dried my hair whilst reading more stuff about education and differentiation.

I didn’t look at Twitter at all.Twitter is evil.

I did some more research on how to spell differentiation and it turns out that the way I spelled it is correct. Hooray for me. But I’m humble so don’t praise me for that. I just have a bit of a gift for spelling.

I didn’t scream at my husband all day (except maybe once but he deserved it) and I certainly didn’t have any dead chickens in residence as of 6:45 pm.

I hope you all had a fun and wholesome day like I did.

If you like I will send you a recipe for chocolate basil and oregano infused brownies.

Thanks for calling by.

Love Pinky. Xxx


P.S. I will message you privately with future posts.

Stick That in Your Lunchbox Australia

26 January 2017 (Australia Day)

12:30pm: Scotto and Pinky share a civilised Australia Day lunch on pool deck with friends. Alcohol is sipped sparingly as refined friends don’t drink much.

10:00pm: Scotto and Pinky sing loudly to Australian rock anthems (focussing on Midnight Oil, Daryl Braithwaite, Wolfmother and Kids in the Kitchen). 

Dear friends had left our company six hours previously and any restrained moderation regarding sobriety went pear-shaped soon after.


10:30pm: Pinky sends out a lot of very silly tweets and Facebook statuses. Gets unfollowed by many.


11:00pm: Pinky and Scotto sing every Crowded House song to be found on Youtube and unanimously decide that New Zealand is merely just another Australian state so Neil Finn (et al.) is still within the general theme of the national day of celebration.


11:59pm: Pinky notices it’s almost midnight and screams at Scotto for not warning her it was getting so late. Scotto comments that as it’s the first week of the school year she is unlikely to be called in to work as a relief teacher tomorrow.

27 January 2017

8:55am: Phone rings and Pinky is called in to work at a nearby school as some other teacher has possibly enjoyed a far too joyous, raucous Australia Day as well.


9:00am: Pinky staggers around kitchen throwing together two wads of stale bread and cheese whilst simultaneously cleaning teeth, slurping coffee and dabbing the previous day’s eye makeup and armpits with a Nivea wipe.


9:30am: A sweaty Pinky arrives at small country school and is directed to the only non-airconditioned classroom in the establishment. Feels a bit hungry and queasy as missed out on breakfast.


10:50am: Pinky enviously observes students during morning break eating their lunch whilst she nibbles on hastily prepared musty bread and mouldy cheese sandwich. 

Notices one eight year old boy brought half a watermelon, three times the size of his head, for morning tea.

“Do you have a spoon for that?” Pinky asked cautiously. For all she knew they just eat it like a corn cob in the country.

“Oh yeah!” boy suddenly remembers and runs back to his bag for a spoon. Pinky thinks about asking him if he has a second spoon and if he'd consider sharing.

I0:55am: Pinky spies another boy eating an avocado as if he were eating an apple, skin and all. And yet another kid devouring a juicy mango like an expert and merely tearing the skin back with bare hands as he slurps on it. Another boy has ripped into a Dragon Fruit and has purple gunk all over his pants and shirt.


11:00am: Pinky ponders on the over-processed, sliced up delicacies arranged in designer lunch boxes which she usually sees kids bring to school; the fancy stainless steel sectioned lunchboxes containing sushi, cubed honeydew, diced vegetables and hummus, deconstructed organic lettuce and endangered species, hard-boiled quail eggs.


11:05am: Pinky decides more mothers should be sending kids to school with leftover sausages, a lump of bread and an entire rock melon which they have to use a sharp stone to break open.

Country kids seem a lot less precious. I suspect they pick their food from trees on their way to school.


Pinky loves country kids.

Why you should listen to Mother (or you’ll end up smearing Vaseline on a chicken’s vagina).

My mother came over the other day and complained that I was feeding my chickens too much bread and I rolled my eyes behind her back. Mum is always telling me stuff I'm doing wrong.

But now I suspect she was right.

“You’re killing them with kindness, Pinky!” she admonished.

I ignored her and continued overfeeding the diminutive feathered fiends, but now my most precious chicken is dead.

We buried her this morning. Ygritte. My little ginger Pekin is gone.

Deep grieving sigh.

I don’t know if she was egg-bound (which is why I smeared Vaseline on her vagina) or if the excessive bread I kept dishing out stuck in her craw… but she is dead and I am enveloped in guilt.

I am so enveloped in guilt I am now being extra nice to all the rest of the menagerie in recompense.

Normally, when the Dire Wolf, Borat, the German Shepherd, gets all sooky because there’s a thunderstorm we rouse on him and banish him to the garage... but tonight we brought him in to the lounge and let the hairy brute snuggle on the couch.

His gossamer hair floated all around the place settling in every crevice, but mainly coming to rest in my wine glass.


But I took it all with a stoic, fatalistic, deterministic acceptance.

What’s a bit of hair between friends, eh?

We are all here for such a short time… surely we can put up with a bit of stray hair on the bookcase.

This is my new philosophy on life.

“Don't be afraid to live life with a bit of hair between your teeth”.

Celine, Scotto and Borat the hairy Dire Wolf

Understanding and Dealing with Bitchy Women

Our new chicken Lyanna is the black hen this side of the fence, Margery is at the far back, eating a newspaper.

We didn’t have enough chickens so we bought another one. This one is called Lyanna Mormont and she entered the big hen house two days ago.

Margery Tyrell, the redhead, acts like a complete bitch towards her and Lyanna is banished to the upper perch of the coop for fear of being pecked to death by Margery and also by the sharp-beaked queen of the coop, Brienne of Tarth. 

Brienne of Tarth digging for worms

The spiteful hens won’t let her near the food or water and she is snubbed and vilified just for being there.

Whenever we let the hens out for a run of the backyard, poor, slandered Lyanna is forced to hang out with the two dumb cluck, uncool chickens, Joffrey and Theon. They’re quite daft but very sweet and accepting of her. They’re already on the bottom rung you see and have no agenda.

Lyanna, hanging with the Silkies

It’s a bit like the “loser” group in high school really.

It’s interesting that the pecking order of chickens resembles real life scenarios so closely.

There’s often one bitch in a group of women that lords it over all the rest.

One venomous and malicious power monger who calls the shots; one old boiler that uses her power to influence who is, and is not, accepted into the flock.

It’s fortunate that when we are faced with the reality of bullying and meanness we can always turn towards the meek and mild in the lower echelon. Or we can just fly the coop.

Occasionally, one of the leading hens is taken down (resigns/gets the sack/is transferred) and then there is a new opening for another hen to move into a higher position and sure enough, someone is always waiting in the wings.

But sometimes I think it’s better to just hang around with the meek and mild, unpopular group.

They might seem plain and a bit boring at first but they’re a lot nicer. They tend not to gossip and support each other instead of taking others down.

Apparently if you introduce a rooster into the flock the bitchiness stops immediately because when too many female chooks are working together without a male, the stronger females compete to be the leader.

Interesting.

It’s a pity we aren’t allowed to keep a rooster.

There’s an old saying that goes, ‘A hen who acts like a rooster is often invited for dinner.’

It’s worth thinking about.

Have you ever been ostracised by a group of bitchy women?

What Facebook Communities Do You Belong To?

An ant bit me yesterday but it’s hurting way worse today. Just like the sting of a barbed comment from my mother about how I’m getting a bit fat, it won’t let me forget the savage stabbing prick of the unexpected jab from a seemingly innocent assassin.

We have a few bitey things around here on the mountain. It’s very rural. In fact, something bit me on the back the other day when I was weeding and a short time afterwards I felt severely nauseated for a few hours. I had to lie down and everything.

No matter.

It was probs just a funnel web spider.

No biggey.

We mountain women are tough.

There’s a Facebook community up here and all they ever post is pictures of humungous snakes which have unceremoniously settled in for a nap on the essential oil collection in the lavatory and they’re all like, “Do you think I should leave this exquisite creature here on my bathroom cabinet or have him relocated? He’s so pretty. Lol.”

Meanwhile, I’m thinking, “Take to the evil, slithery asshole with a fudging pickaxe!” but all the replies on Facebook say, “It’s a harmless tree snake, leave it alone and let it digest the poultry” or “How gorgeous is that cute little man? Let him go when he’s ready to move on, he will. How lucky we are to have these gorgeous creatures living amongst us.”
The snake in question, is usually identified as a King Brown or a Red Bellied Black by some self-appointed expert but I suppose some people find venomous, slimy, satanic worms to be appealing.


It’s not that I’m not an animal lover. I currently own thirteen hungry animals which I dote on and which frankly, do nothing to compensate me for my troubles. The only restitution I get is a few measly eggs and a bit of dribbling snuggling.

Scotto and I have become a bit more environmentally friendly though. I now shop at Aldi which means I recycle my plastic shopping bags. We have our own eggs from the chickens that poop which goes into the mulch for our home-grown herbs and beans and strawberries and tomatoes. Our shower and sink water provides H20 for the grass which feeds the chickens and we collect all our water in rainwater tanks. 

Our chickens tuck into the dog poop with relish and our dogs lap up the chicken poop like it's caviar and truffles. It’s all recyclable here.

We heard a sound coming from our garden the other night and Scotto and I thought that either the pool filter was going mental, a UFO was landing in the street or there was a major glitch in the matrix and a wormhole had just opened up in our backyard leading to another dimension inhabited by noisy, heavy metal guitar playing people.

It was cicadas.

Or frogs. We still aren’t sure.

I stood on the back porch in my pyjamas, yelling at Scotto as he was hurtling and stumbling around the yard, panicked, in the dark, attempting to discover the cause of the hideous and frightening noise.

I still can’t believe the source of the cacophony was something from nature.

I still have a bit to learn about living in the country I suppose.



Any stories about FB communities?

When will Dentistry Crawl out of the Dark Ages?

I tossed and turned in a hot lather of sweat on Monday night in anticipation of my ten am appointment at the dentist the next morning. 

I’d already postponed the appointment for two months in a row so there was no chance of piking AGAIN with my pitiful excuses.

The appointment was a biggy; it was a bone graft which the dentist had assured me was simple and routine and he’d ordered me not to look the procedure up on the Internet… so for once in my paranoid life, I didn’t.



Later, when I arrived home after my appointment, Scotto was finishing a computer job in his office, so I slithered into the bedroom quietly to avoid detection.

A short time later, he finished his job and came in to check on me.

“How did it go?” he asked with deep concern on his face.

“Great!” I enthused. “The dentist just manipulated a little tube which magically injected fake bone into my gum line and now it’s all over.”

I grinned widely to prove my well-being.

“Really?” Scotto sighed in relief. “That’s fantastic, Pinky. I bet that’s a weight off your mind.”

Crickets chirruped…

“I chickened out,” I whispered desperately. “I didn’t have it done.”

One hour earlier...

When I’d sat my trembling and shuddering body in the chair, the dentist had begun to explain what he was going to do in my mouth.

Firstly, he was going to inject ten or so needles into my teeth ridge, hard palate and in that bit under my top lip (where it feels as though the needle is piercing the sinus cavity and then further into the deep recesses of the brain).

Then he was going to slice all the gum and fold it back before placing the substance (possibly comprised of cadaver and plutonium) directly into my bone.

After that he was going to put ‘lots’ of stitches all around my front, three teeth.

The stitches would stay there for two/three weeks and naturally there would be significant swelling and pain.

After he’d finished his barbaric expose, there was a soundless moment as I considered this rather downbeat development in my expectations and, regarding the dentist with determined but frightened eyes, I shakily informed him I’d changed my fudging, goddamned mind thank you very much sir.

“But it’s a routine procedure, Pinky,” he reiterated in a disappointed tone.

“Nope,” I stood my ground. “I know I’ve booked an hour and a half appointment with you but I’ll happily pay for it and walk out of here a free woman. 

What will it be? A thousand dollars? I don’t care I’ll pay it.”

He let me off the hook but not without taking some impressions of my teeth. This involved ramming metal trays the size of hub caps in my mouth. The trays are filled with blue goo which breaks off and floats down the back of the victim’s throat causing reflexive and insistent gagging. 

You have to hold the tray in your mouth for two, hideously long minutes as the goo sets.

The first impression didn’t work out which was a shame. A real fudging shame as I’d only gagged three times and thought I’d executed a satisfactory demonstration of tolerance and normalcy.

I could see the dentist inspecting the failed attempt thoughtfully with his mini scraping thing.

“Please, for the love of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, don’t tell me you have to do it again?” I pleaded.

He examined the fudging thing for an agonising ten minutes as I lay there, my eyeballs bulging at the ceiling in terror.

The second time was not such a fine accomplishment of self-control on my behalf.

Within the two minutes I think I gagged thirty times.

There were tears streaming down my cheeks and I gripped on to the dentist’s hands struggling against the urge to raise my legs up and savagely shove him off me with two braced knees to his chest.

Thankfully, when I walked out to the waiting room afterwards, it was empty and there were no saucer-eyed children staring in fixated horror after hearing all that ferocious retching from the inner bowels of the echoing surgery.

“Sorry about all those horrible noises you had to listen to,” I apologised to the receptionist.

“That’s okay!” She purred. “Did you vomit?”

I shook my head in the negative.

“That’s good,” she carried on as she typed out my bill. “If you vomit you have to keep it all in your mouth until the impression has set.”

Thank the fudge for small mercies, I thought.

Now I know this is a scandalous thought, but are you wondering about the necessity for that second impression as well?