Pinky Bites: How to Avoid Cooking for an Entire Week.

With Padraic and Lulu both off for a week at end of school celebrations there's only 20 year old, Hagar and husband, Scotto left at home... so Pinky has decided not to cook for a week.

Below you will discover seven gastronomic delights my family go mad over. Your ravenous family may find them equally yummy should you, on occasion, feel too weary to drag yourself into the hot kitchen and instead languish in a tepid, bubble bath with a glass of champagne and Michael Buble serenading you in the background.

Sunday night (Preparation time for your forthcoming week of hedonistic indulgence)

Sassy Spaghetti Bol- Pinky Style

Quickly brown 1 kg Mince.

Throw in a can of tinned tomatoes and a jar of tomato paste plus a cup of water. Stir every 10 minutes for 30 minutes and serve on boiled pasta. Delicious extravagance.

Monday Night

Left over "Sassy Spaghetti Bol!"

Tuesday night

Pinky’s Tender and Voluptuous Chicken Wraps

Heat chicken tenders in oven for 20 minutes.

Add crisp, shredded lettuce, cheese and barbeque sauce encased in soft wraps and it all looks and tastes just spliffy darlings!

         

Wednesday night

Pinky’s Hot-Ding-a-Dogs

Take one hot dog and place inside an open hot dog roll. Bazinga darlings!

Add barbeque or tomato sauce and cheese as desired. Simply scrumptious!

Thursday night

‘Steak Pinky’ with Cheeky Crunchy Potato Batons

Toss a steak over three or four times in an oiled pan until it’s succulent… you know what I mean, wink, wink.

Place Potato Batons in oven on 230 degrees for twenty minutes.

Presto! Bon appetite!

Friday night

Middle-Eastern Kebabs with Fluffed Rice a-la-Pinky-style.

Buy pre-made and marinated kebabs from Deli. Place in oven at 180 degrees for twenty minutes.

Place sachet of rice in microwave for 90 seconds. Make sure you squeeze the sachet sensuously beforehand.

Pour rice on plate and add desired kebabs. Lick your delicious fingers afterwards.

                        Here's one I prepared earlier!

Saturday night

Pinkster Hamburgers with the Lot

These beauties take about 2 minutes to cook on both sides. Add to a burger roll and with various salad items in the crisper this makes a truly opulent meal fit for a King… or Queen.

Sunday night

Pinky's Golden Arches Special!

Some people caution that Schoolies is a modern day Sodom and Gomorrah and that any parent who allows their kids to attend is sending them straight to an eternity in Hell.

I reckon at least mine will eat better than if they stayed at home this week, possums!

Our Birds have Left the Nest.

Birds of Tokyo’s beautiful anthem “Lanterns” seems to be the graduation song of 2013. My school sang it yesterday at the Valedictory Assembly as did Lulu’s school this morning. I attended Padraic’s V.A. at 9:00am then scooted over to Lulu’s at 11:00.

It’s been a bit of an emotional day.

“In darkness I leave, for a place I’ve never seen

It’s been calling out to me, that is where I should be.”

I love those lyrics… the promise of unknown lives about to unfold.

Personally I just want them to get through schoolies next week.

              Padraic: last time in a school uniform ever!

                           Padraic and the lads!

          Bet their teachers are breathing a sigh of relief.

              Sanri, Lulu and Lucy: last time in uniform.

                               Pinky and Lulu.

The final Guard of Honour!

Good luck guys! Make sure you soar with the eagles!

I'll never be able to hear this song again without thinking of you.

First Installment of ...School Formal F#%K Ups

Wednesday morning at ground zero...

7:30am: Pinky opens Padraic’s bedroom door only to find he’s still not home from last night.

7:32am: Opens Lulu’s door and corroborates with her to meet up at home after work as early as she can get away and drop her to Jock’s (boyfriend) place at 4:00pm sharp for photo shoot.

8:00am: Pinky arrives at school and parks Golden Boy in superior, strategic location for quick getaway in afternoon.

Pinky runs through plans in head. Leave school at 3:00, pick up corsages, rush home, help Lulu dress, drive her to Jock’s house, take photos, rush back home by five pm to take snaps of Padraic and his partner Keely before they leave.

Pinky high fives herself for superwoman-like organisational skills!

3:00pm: Pinky travels home just under speed limit. Can’t risk speeding fine.

3:25 pm: Pinky sashays into florist and scoops up prepaid corsages. Pinky is just too cool for school.

3:30pm: Arrives home, Lulu's not there... where the hell is she??? 

Sh#t a brick.

Pinky locates Padraic, in coma-like state on couch. He grumpily mumbles that Keely is picking him up at 4:00 to drive him to the park to have photos taken... but will return here at 5:00pm so that obliging neighbour can drive them to formal in his flash car.

3:35pm: Pinky rings Lulu to determine her whereabouts. She’s still waiting at shopping mall to have professional makeup done. Lulu will be very late home. 

Pinky’s finely tuned plans go devastatingly awry.

3:40pm: Pinky thinks on her feet… informs Padraic she will take his photos at 4:00 when Keely arrives instead of 5:00.

3:50pm: Padraic is still asleep on couch. Pinky wants to scream at him to get up and put his suit on... but stops herself. Veins are sticking out on her temple.

4:00pm: The gorgeous Keely arrives. Padraic is still asleep on couch.

4:05pm: Keely rebukes slack-arse Padraic then leaves to retrieve a tie she forgot to bring for the unpunctual youth.

4:07pm: Hagar and Padraic have a loud and vitriolic skirmish on the staircase because P. drank H’s pineapple juice. 

H. threatens to give P. a black eye. 

Much swearing ensues. Pinky breaks it up by screaming threatening obscenities at them. 

Pinky needs a fricking drink badly but it’s too early. 

Still no sign of Lulu.

4:12pm: Keely arrives once again and Pinky makes futile attempts at tying a half Nelson Windsor for Padraic. Not possible. Does dodgy school-boy tie style instead. Ushers the pretty couple outside for happy snaps. Runs back inside for almost-forgotten, expensive corsages in fridge. Waves them goodbye.

  

Presenting... the lovely Keely and handsome Padraic!

4:15pm: Still no sign of Lulu!

4:40pm: Still no sign...

4:45pm: At last, Pinky hears tyres crunching on the driveway and the sound of Cinderella rushing up the stairs instead of down.

4:50pm: Pinky, oh-so-carefully zips up Lulu’s dress, flounces the hair, sprays on enough perfume to drown a large rat and they’re out the door and on way to Jock’s place.

Phew! I knew I could do it!

Presenting... the gorgeous Lulu and divine Jock!

Lulu’s hair appointment had been at 1:30 followed by engagements concerning nails and makeup. All up, it took her about 3 hours to get ready. 

How long did it take Padraic? Literally, ten seconds.Hardly seems fair does it?

Pinky plays a trick on her class!

Time is rapidly careering towards the end of the school year and I decided since the old teachers’ adage “Don’t smile before Easter” has well and truly fallen by the wayside, it’s time to start having a bit of fun with the kids in my class… a bit of fun at their expense instead of mine for a change.

As you’ve probably guessed, Pinky is not a ‘specialist’ in any particular area due to the fact that I’ve never really ‘stuck’ with anything for an extended enough length of time to develop what many refer to as ‘skill’. 

I prefer to dip my toe into a variety of activities and run away, tail between my legs as soon as I detect the need for perseverance and dedication.

In other words I have no exceptional talent apart from the ability to bend my fingers at a curious angle at the top joint,

 bend my elbow back in a scary alien-type fashion

 and pop the joint on my little finger and wiggle it from side to side. 

(Scotto is remarkably talented and is able to turn his tongue upside down and scallop it into an ‘S’ shape… that’s not why I married him by the way.)

I can, however, count to ten in French.

Hold the applause.

At our school, a ‘bus bell’ rings five minutes before the dismissal bell and the seven kids who catch the early bus gleefully escape the classroom leaving the rest to mope unhappily.

For the past two weeks, the remaining students, under my expert direction, have been secretly learning to count to ten in la langue Francais... after the bus kids leave.

“So… I’m just curious…” I casually asked the class of ten year olds yesterday, “put your hands up if anyone here knows how to count to ten in French?”

Twenty-two hands flailed enthusiastically in the air while the seven cuckolded bus kids stared around the room in baffled astonishment.

“Go on then, prove it!” I demanded.

“Un, deux, trois, quatre….” they went off in an exuberant, froggy chorus of Francophilia.

The bus kids sat in complete and utter confusion. “Am I dreaming, Mrs Poinker? This feels weird,” puzzled a stunned little boy with his eyes bulging out in shock.


Everyone had a big laugh when we fessed up but I think I’m going to have to watch my back. It’s rumored the bus kids are plotting payback on Mrs Poinker.

Pinky and her 'Closet Drinking'

“So how’s it going with another female living in the house?” queried my mother when she was up on a visit last week.

Mum was referring to Meggles, Hagar’s twenty year old girlfriend who moved in with us a couple of months ago.

“She’s gorgeous!” I gushed. And it’s true. I love having another girl in the house after being outnumbered by five males to two girls for so long.

Meggles does her own washing, cooking, cleans up after herself and more importantly, keeps that rascally Hagar in check.

There is one teensy, weensy little thing though. She’s a bit… health conscious.

“Pinky! You’re a complete idiot!” I hear you jeering. “What’s wrong with being health conscious?”

Well… there’s nothing wrong with it at all except it brings into sharp focus just how UNHEALTHY Pinky is.

Our fridge crisper has never been so chocka-bloc full of fresh fruit and vegies , the pantry is stocked with peculiar organic foodstuffs such as Rice Malt Syrup, Cashew spread, Coconut Oil, Rolled Oats, seeds of every description, rice bran and other nutritious items previously alien to the dingy shelves in my kitchen.

I staggered into the kitchen one morning in search of my 43 beans fix to find Meggles sipping on a green tea. “Look!” she said with her dazzlingly white smile, “I made these pancakes out of a banana and an egg!”

Most days I run into Meggles in the hallway on her way to the gym or off to climb Castle Hill.

What is Pinky doing when wholesome, fit and toned Meggles waves a cheery goodbye as she bounces out the door?

Usually sitting on the couch like a slobby bogan watching the telly with a glass of wine in front of her that’s what.

Hagar and Meggle’s bedroom door is straight opposite the lounge room so the sight of we two layabout boozehounds is an unavoidable and confronting sight when they walk in the door.

The other day, feeling ashamed of my hedonistic ways, I sneakily placed my wine glass in the drawer of the coffee table when I heard Meggle’s car pull up.

“What are you doing?” demanded Scotto in disbelief.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m hiding my drink from Meggles.”

“Don’t be stupid! It’s your house, Pinky.”

“I don’t care,” I whimpered, “I don’t want Meggles to think I’m a lush.”

Anyway… Scotto dobbed on me to Meggles the other night so there’s no point pretending any more.

She doesn’t give two hoots apparently and besides, Meggles is probably still recovering from the fact that I asked if I could use her and Hagar’s photos to try out the app where you can put two individual’s photos together to see how their babies would look.I just wanted to know how beautiful my future grandchildren will be.

Princess Zoe's Eighteenth

                                   Zoe and Lulu

Why are teenage girls these days so much more beautiful than they were when I was growing up?

Lulu’s friend, Zoe turned eighteen yesterday and Scotto and I were honoured (cool) enough to be invited to her birthday party last night.

I was a bit apprehensive. I haven't been to an eighteenth birthday party since I turned eighteen. 'What goes on?' I wondered. Boys doing donuts up and down the street? Girls vomiting into garden beds? Fights?

As we walked in to the party and gazed around, what met our eyes resembled a teenage supermodel's conference. Twenty or so statuesque, long-legged, athletic beauties with waist length hair and glowing skin gracefully milled around the back patio.

“Lulu! Pinky’s arrived,” one of the Miranda Kerrs called out.

Lulu came sashaying up smiling, vivacious, glamorous and looking frighteningly grown-up. 

I’ve probably known most of these girls since they were twelve. I recall ferrying the giggling crew around in the back of my car over the past five years to birthday parties when lemonade was on the beverage list sans vodka.

Lulu, with four older brothers to deal with, never really missed having a sister with these girls around.

Whilst Scotto stood drinking beer and chatting to a group of affable, enthusiastic young men about what their future plans in life were I caught up with some of these gorgeous girls.

There was a distinct undercurrent of anticipation… excitement buzzing in the air.

School has finished. Their entire lives lay before them with so much promise and so many possibilities.

Some of them are taking gap years, some going overseas for a year, some are moving south and some are going straight to University.

Our precious baby girls and boys have flowered into such well-rounded, poised, self-assured young adults and one thing is for sure, the future of Australia will be in good hands.

                                  Zoe, Max and Zoe's mum, Sue.

                                                               Taylor and Lulu

                                 Finley and Shannon

                                                      Sanri, Nikita and Lulu

For F F F F F Formal's Sake!

                          

I’ve just returned from buying the dress I plan to wear to Lulu’s formal next Friday night.

You already know what I’m about to say don’t you?

Now that I have it home I hate it… and I mean REALLY HATE IT…typical Pinky, huh?

I took it downstairs to seek out a second opinion.

“It’s alright, but it wouldn’t look any good on you,” commented the ever subtle eldest son, Thaddeus. “Maybe a teenager could get away with it.”

Whose dress did he think I was showing him?

I’m going to wear it anyway even though it accentuates my tuckshop arms and pot belly. It’s not the dress at fault you see, it’s the untoned, flabby, porker in the mirror that I’m most p#ssed off with.

And just for once, I won’t give a damn because I have far more pressing issues to agonise over.

Next week is going to be a hell-raiser. 

My baby boy, Padraic 

and baby girl, Lulu 

are both attending two end-of-year formals each, on Wednesday and Friday night, for not only their own school but for that of their partners as well. 

We’re talking about four separate schools here guys.

There are two dresses to be picked up from the dressmakers, two lots of make-up and hair appointments, two corsages to purchase, two suits to spruce up, two cars to organise and two valedictory ceremonies to attend.

I don’t know how I can possibly be in two places at the one time. Even though I’m only expected to attend Lulu’s formal, I want to be at the arrivals for all four of them to take photos of the significant occasions and ooh and aah with the other parents.

Formals are just so damn… formal nowadays. When I graduated from high school all we had was a crappy dance at the local lawn bowls club and then threw eggs at each other on the last day of school.

As soon as the formals are over Padraic and Lulu are both taking off to Airlie Beach for a week of Schoolie’s celebrations. Pinky will lie in bed each night, eyes protruding towards the blackness, gnawing at her fist and worrying about her babies, whilst they are whooping it up on the money they’ve managed to extort from me.

School, for my two babies is finished forever. I don’t have to nag about study or assignments, attend boring speech nights, fossick through the dirty washing for a lost uniform, attend parent teacher interviews or sell dodger tickets for the school fete ever again.Hang on… yes I do. I forgot. I’m a teacher.

My Son the Lawyer

I’ve never lived vicariously through my children which is why it sometimes irks me when I bump into someone I haven’t seen for a long time and they ask, “So what are your kids up to now, Pinky?” 

Deep down I know how they want me to reply.

They want me to say, “My kids are great! What are yours up to?”

Their question is a ploy… a ruse, because all they want is to do is regale me with lofty tales of their own golden childrens’ exploits.

“Oh, Nathan’s a chief accountant for a big multi-national company in Hong Kong, it’s terrible really because we hardly ever get to see him, Raphael’s an obstetrician (which is ironic because he married a gynaecologist) and little Monique is a classical dancer with the Australian ballet,” they’ll respond with an affectation of modesty.

It’s true. They’d never ask me what my kids are ‘up to now’ if their kid was doing ten years non-parole in Long Bay would they?

It seems at last, after twenty-four years, Pinky has bragging rights too.

Jonah, my twenty-two year old son, has finished his law degree and requested my presence at his graduation ceremony in the big smoke at the beginning of December.

I wonder how many ways I’ll discover to weasel the phrase, “My son the lawyer” into conversations from now on?

“That’s a nice coloured shirt you’re wearing! My son the lawyer has one just like it!”

“Sorry I’m late. I was just talking to my son the lawyer on the phone.”

“We need a table for two please; my son the lawyer will be joining us.”

“We’ll need two Meatlovers pizzas delivered thanks, my son the lawyer’s coming over and he has a huge appetite.”

I could keep going but I won’t.

As I’m going to the expense of jet setting down especially for this auspicious occasion anyway, I thought I might book into a health resort on the Gold Coast for a week. Visualise Pinky, all alone in luxurious accommodation, hidden away from the vultures picking at my bones in this household.

It would sort of be like rehab, I thought; enforced non-drinking, compulsory exercise and a prescribed organic-only diet.

I imagined myself reclining on a lazy-boy with slices of cucumber over my eyes and an exotic umbrella-adorned mocktail beside me.

But when I looked at the websites there were all kinds of unsavoury activities on the list of options.

I couldn’t picture myself going to Laughing Yoga classes; especially when my diet would most likely consist of lentils and bean curd. The mind boggles at what may transpire.

The resort boasted Australia’s longest flying-fox. Hurtling at a rapid speed from the top of one telephone pole to another is not really my cup of tea. Besides, that would take up I’m guessing, three minutes of my time, so unless I was like those kids at Dream World who keep going back on the same ride again and again, it hardly seems worth the effort.

The five day package also included a fifty minute massage. To be quite honest the thought of a stranger rubbing me all over my body for almost an hour is unsettling so I’d probably wind up skipping that too.

Mountain bike riding, daily health lectures… meh.

So instead of rehab I’ve decided to fork out extra money for lucky Lulu to accompany me on a shopping holiday. We’ll stay at a hotel in the city and spend our days bonding like only mothers and daughters are able, gorging on delicious food and clothing boutiques.

Of course Lulu’s also looking forward to catching up with her big brother, Jonah. Did I mention that he’s a lawyer?

My Sister Sam and Sibling Rivalry

                               Pinky at four, and Sam one.

My first memory of her was when I was about three and a half. “Come and look at your little sister, Pinky!” Cooed my mother from her bedroom where she was changing baby Sam’s nappy and playing ‘bicycle legs’ with her. I peered at the cherubic baby jealously. My mother never did that to me, I thought resentfully.

From then on most of my childhood memories involve me unjustifiably getting into big trouble, while little Sam was the source of the mischief in the first place.

For example, shopping with an eighteen month old Sam one day I passed her a pretty blue cellophane toilet deodorant cake to play with in the shopping trolley when my mother’s back was turned. Who got the blame when the dribbling baby unwrapped the packet and took a bite out of it? Pinky… that’s who.

When I was about six and she was three years old we always took a bath together. It was my job to look after her but one evening, bored with the tedious task, I drained the tub and spread soap all over the floor of the bathroom.

“Look Sam! We can skate all over the floor!” I squealed in wicked enticement.

Sam, unco-ordinated baby that she was, slipped over splitting her eye open. She was rushed to the doctor by my panicked parents. The gushing blood and gaping wound probably scared them a bit but it was ME who copped the blame after the event. Sam still bears the scar today… not that it mars her beauty at all. The scars I bear from the false accusations still gurgle on the surface of my fragile schema though.

To further denigrate my wrongly besmirched character, about a week later we were left at my Grandma’s place for a couple of hours. “Come into Grandma’s bedroom, Sam.” I coerced my sister. “I can make your eye look all better.” I smothered the bandage with Grandma’s thick, oily blue and green eye shadow. By the time I’d finished with her she resembled a grease-painted peacock in drag.

I was just applying the finishing touches to my masterpiece when our parents arrived to pick us up. 

“What have you done, Pinky?” cried mum hysterically. “Look at her…it’s all gone inside the bandage and into the stitches!”

Another late night trek to the doctors ensued and I was sent to my bed without dinner. “That’s it,” I thought vengefully. “They love her MORE than they love me.”

The day Sam shoved a glass bead deep into her nasal cavity and almost died from inhaling it was also apparently my fault. It was my glass bead, one of many I’d left carelessly on my bedroom floor after being told countless times to clean them up. I was mightily peeved after my mother bought Sam a toy for being so brave when the doctor poked a foot long pair of tweezers up her snout. Where was my toy?

But the worst thing I was blamed for was on Christmas morning when Sam was three. We shared a bedroom together and Pinky had woken at sparrow’s fart in typical six year old exhilaration.

Noting with thrill, the pillow cases stuffed with presents at the foot of each bed, Pinky went about clinically unwrapping all the gifts, setting them up and enjoying a good hour long play with each and every one before the parentals woke up and hit the roof. 

They said I ruined Christmas that year.

Many years have passed since those days and my dear little sister is about to celebrate a very significant birthday. Naturally, our parents are making a special airplane trip up to celebrate such an auspicious occasion. 

Did they make the same effort for Pinky?

Well… they didn’t have to because three weeks before my big event they were still living, gosh, around the corner from me. 

Instead, they deemed it more fitting to pack up, sell their house and move one thousand miles away just prior to my birthday. I told you they love her more than me.

All joking aside though, my sister is my closest and bestest friend and I love her to bits. Happy Birthday Sammy!

                               Sam at 16 and Pinky 19

A Post about Princess Rachael

                            Princess Rachael

“Did you read the post I wrote yesterday about Melbourne Cup Day?” I asked my teaching buddy, Rachael this morning at a fund-raising brunch our dear friend Kyles, was graciously hosting.

“Yes Pinky, I looked at it,” she sniffed indifferently.

“So? Did you like it? Did you laugh?” I needled her, desperately hoping she’d throw me a frickin bone.

“Are you talking about the post where the horses are talking to each other?” Rachael yawned. “It was alright I suppose.”

“Alright??” I squealed indignantly. “Just alright? Did you actually read it?”

“Not really, I’m not really interested in talking horses.”

But… I’d spent hours researching it, I thought sullenly. It was my attempt to be creative, abstract... original…

“OH… so you only like the posts I write about YOU?” I hissed, suddenly remembering who I was talking to.

“Yep,” she acknowledged, as she bit delicately into an avocado and cheese croissant.

“By the way, how come you don’t get any comments on your site, Pinky? I clicked on some of those bloggers who’ve made the odd comment on your blog and they get dozens of replies.” Rachael continued cruelly, as she repetitively stabbed a toothpick into a tiny piece of pastry.

She’d struck a nerve. Bloody comments!

Now I realise I’ve written about this bugbear of mine before but I’ve finally decided to do something about it once and for all.

Many years ago, a man I was dating proved to be exceedingly poor in the communication department. What I mean to say is… he never called when he said he would. 

Not being one to respect women who sit waiting by the phone like big losers, I quickly realised I was beginning to obsess about the whereabouts of my phone and anxiously jumping every time it beeped.

I’m sure many of you can relate to this ugly phenomenon.

So... I did what any other unsound of mind, irrational person would do; I removed the battery from my phone and placed it in a glass of water, thus destroying my phone and cutting off my nose to spite my face.

Knowing that I will never possess the persistence and tenacity of all the other bloggers and join up to the myriad of link-ups and whatever else they do, I’ve decided to remove the commenting facility from my blog entirely.

There are two distinct advantages to this system; firstly, I won’t know what I’m missing and will cease sobbing myself to sleep every night and secondly, the pressure will be removed from all of you guys having to create a witty response to my side-splitting, creative talent.

So anyway… thank you to Princess R. for bringing this issue to a head and thanks to the three of you who have dipped their nib from time to time (you know who you are) and made comments. You’re all most welcome to make your feelings known via Facebook or Twitter.

Unfortunately I will be unable to escape the scathing reviews from my very sweet friend, Princess Rachael, as I work in a classroom beside her every day (I’ve just been sentenced to another twelve month stint); however, I’m sure I’ll find a way to get her back some way or another.

The Melbourne Cup: Straight from the horse’s mouth.

Next Tuesday, the first Tuesday in November, the proud nation of Australia stops for the premier thoroughbred horse racing event of the year, the Melbourne Cup!

What goes on in those horses’ heads on the day, I often wonder? The pressure must be unbearable...

According to this sporting website, verbal intimidation is the backbone of physical competition but surely it wouldn't be an exclusively human domain. 

Throughout history, sport has been flooded with unusual characters who possess a flair for the dramatic and I’m certain the commonplace sledging is not confined to the jockeys in the racing industry.

Imagine the trash talk going on between the horses in the stalls as they wait around for the starting gates to open before the race…

Fiorente: (last year’s runner-up) I’m just looking around to see who’s gonna finish second ma homies!
Dunanen: Come on Fiorente! .You've been scratched more times than a lottery ticket.

Fiorente: Horseshit I have! Besides… It ain't braggin' if you can back it up.
Green Moon: Well, you two losers can take a hike. Get your popcorn ready, 'cause I'm gonna put on a show.

Red Cadeaux: Yeah, right Green Moon, I've seen bigger flanks on a Shetland pony.

Brown Panther: Hey! Foreteller! What does Red Cadeaux’s dick taste like?

Foreteller: I don’t know, Brown Panther. Ask your wife.

Dandino: Yo! Ethiopia! Ray Charles has seen more track than you.

Ethiopia: Sorry, I can’t reply to that… I’m a little hoarse… heehaw.

Fawkner: You should be the horse with no name, bro!

Mourayan: Shut your face, Sarah Jessica Parker!

Seville: Nobody talk to Silent Achiever… That mare’s got PMS… Pissed-Off Mare Syndrome, he haw he haw!

Super Cool: You should talk Seville. You're just like a tampon. Only good for one period.

Seville: Super Cool...after the race I'm gonna build myself a pretty home and use you as a bearskin rug, a#$hole.

Masked Marvel: Hey, Mount Athos! So... how’s your wife and my kids?

Mount Athos: Thanks for asking buddy! The wife’s fine. The kids are retarded!

Royal Empire: Hawkspur… ...Hey man, does your trainer know you're out here?

Hawkspur: F#ck off Royal Empire… my left nut gallops better than you do.

Mr Moet: Give it up Hawkspur, when you were born your mother got an apology letter from the articifial inseminator.

Simenon: Don’t sweat it Mr Moet. I heard Hawkspur broke down in his last race and couldn’t giddy-up.

Jet Away: Hee ha hee ha hee ha.

Precedence: Awwww… why the long face Hawkspur?

Forgotten Voice: That’s a clown question idiot.

Just when you thought Pinky couldn't get any sillier huh?

Anyway… Pinky's tip for the Melbourne Cup is….

Never try to heat up a can of peas in the oven.

Ian Botham for his famous cricket sledging comment.
The Bleachers Report from whom I adapted the horsey trash talk!
http://bleacherreport.com/articles/1238737-the-50-best-trash-talk-lines-in-sports-history

Bloody Bustards!

Bloody Bustard

Every Friday my class is scheduled to patronise the computer lab. The kids love it because if they complete their designated task in time they get to play computer games.

I, on the other hand, don’t love it at all.

The revolving chairs on wheels are my biggest issue. Twenty-nine kids in one room with dangerously mobile furniture is a nightmarish state of affairs at the best of times, but throw in the fact that last night was Halloween and they were all hyped up on sugar made it all the worse today.

The task I’d set for them was to research Aboriginal translations for a list of randomly selected words like fire, water, possum etc.

I’d found an excellent website to direct them to with only one drawback. There were a few unsuitable words translated on the site such as, buttocks, vagina, penis, testicles, breasts and various other descriptive bodily processes.

“Guys, when you go on this site you might find some…” I searched for the words I needed. I couldn’t say ‘rude words’ because they weren’t exactly rude.

“Um, … names of your private parts…” I stuttered.

Furtive looks were exchanged. 

Quiet sniggers and muffled guffaws were noticeably audible.

“I don’t want you to be silly when you see these words. Just scroll down and don’t pay any attention to them,” I continued lamely, suddenly suspecting I was waving a red rag at a bull.

Now they’d probably deliberately scan the site for the words, write them in their books and go home and call their father a vagina in Aboriginal and I’d get the sack.

O’Reilly, my teaching colleague, told me he’d once found a dictionary left behind by one of his previous grade four students with every single rude word meticulously found and neatly circled in red biro.

“This kid’s dedication was outstanding!” raved O’Reilly. “He’d found hundreds of them.”

Kids just love dirty words.

Back in my day, dictionaries didn’t have any dirty words. ‘Bustard’ was the only word I could find at the age of eleven after relentlessly scouring the text book. 

A bustard is actually a bird but it sounded a lot like ‘bastard’ and gave us a cheap thrill every time we opened the dog-eared page to stare at it.

                                       Heinrich

Unlike his potty-mouthed Auntie, my eight year old nephew Heinrich, never swears. I was having a discussion with him one day about the books he likes to read. The author, Paul Jennings is his favourite.

“I like Paul Jennings too! I read his books to my class all the time!” I enthused.

Heinrich looked a little shocked. “What do you do when you have to read the ‘C’ word out loud to them?” he asked, with a mortified expression.

Racking my brain I tried to remember if I’d EVER seen the ‘C’ word in any of the Paul Jenning’s series. Surely not? I’d have to speak to the Librarian Sue about this. That’s appalling! I thought.

“OH, YOU MEAN CRAP!” I exhaled in relief when it finally dawned on me. “Oh, I just use a different word instead of crap, Heinrich.”

He furrowed his little brow in confusion. I could see him mulling it over in consternation.

“What… like carp?”

Cute, huh?

Why am I a teacher again?

I’ve read that teachers who were crap at Mathematics as a kid are the best at teaching it because they’ve processed the methods of problem solving in their brains in more simplistic terms. This allegedly enhances the teacher’s ability to explain the formulae at the student’s level.

This theory suits me. I remember sitting at the dinner table while my father irritably attempted to help me with my homework and explain simple algebra.

Eventually, after several cracks at getting it through my dim-witted head, he’d yell something like, “Why don’t you understand? Are you stupid?”

Mum would then yell at him, and I’d burst into tears. Poor Dad. I was seriously as thick as a brick.

Who knew my lack of algebraic nous would make me a more empathetic teacher, eh?

However, this morning I braced myself for what I knew would take me to the outer limits of my sanity; delivering yet ANOTHER lesson on converting mixed numbers to improper fractions and vice versa to my fledgling ten year old students.

Before even beginning the activity I was conscious of the rogue muscle in the back of my neck tightening up ominously.

“So…” I chirped brightly, after furiously drawing illustration after illustration on the whiteboard, “now can you see how four and three quarters equals nineteen quarters?”

I desperately scanned the sea of uncomprehending faces.

Clearly, not one of them 'got' it.

The neck muscle delivered a painful spasm.

Grabbing the lolly jar I extracted five jelly snakes. The lollies ensnared the kids’ attention with twenty-eight faces watching me in rapt fascination as I broke four of the snakes into quarters.

“See!” I enthused, counting all the quarters up to nineteen and feeling like the World’s #1 teacher. 

“Do you understand now?”

“Yes, Gilbert?” I’d noticed his saucer-eyed interest and anticipated his hopefully educated comment.

“Can I have those lollies, Mrs P?”

I looked at my watch. Every muscle in the back of my head was squeezing like a disgruntled python and waves of nausea had set in.

It was ten minutes until lunch. ‘There’s one solitary, squished aspirin in my bag but I really should wait until I can take it with food,’ I thought bleakly.

While the kids struggled through the practise sums on the board, and I walked around wondering if I was actually suffering an aneurism, I planned my attack.

I had roughly twenty minutes at morning tea to eat my salad, make a cup of tea, take my painkiller and go to the loo. It was imperative I get that aspirin into my system as soon as possible BUT... I was also busting to go to the toilet. I couldn’t skip it because I had duty at second break and couldn’t hold on until 3:00pm.

No… I’d take my chances. Food and painkiller took precedence.

Finally the bell rang and I sprinted up to the staffroom, grappled through the fridge to find my lunch and set about pouring the dressing on the salad.

“Who’s on duty in the Grade Two area, Pinky?” boomed Emmsie as she stared out the window at the unsupervised Grade Twos who were enjoying their rare freedom and swinging from the rafters.

“Not me!” I bawled back self-righteously.

“Well how come your name’s down on the roster?” she called back.

“SH#T!”

I’d mixed up my f##king duties.

The salad went back in the fridge to wilt itself away until second break and my throbbing headache was granted permission to expand at leisure.