Pinky's Love Advice for Valentine's Day!

                                               

Hubby Scotto went out on a date tonight with his 'bromance', O’Reilly (my teacher pal).

They went to see “Robocop” at the cinema, a movie which holds about as much interest for me as a romantic candlelit dinner with a tree or a staring contest with the wall, or a sweaty roll in the hay with Mr Bean.

“What do you see in those movies anyway?” I challenged Scotto last night.

An accomplished mimic, Scotto made guns with his fingers and began to make robotic, high tech shooting sounds.

I should have known.

I’m fairly certain Mrs O’Reilly feels the same way I do and is most likely doing the same thing as me; lazing around with her feet up enjoying the solitude.

Gosh… you can’t live in each other’s pockets when you're in a relationship can you?

Time spent apart pursuing interests your partner finds unbearably lacklustre, is the first of my tips for maintaining a long term relationship.

Here are some other more original pearls of wisdom (gleaned from my own mistakes) just in time for Valentine’s Day.

1. Don’t nag.

Instead of saying, “It’s rubbish collection night tonight, don’t forget to put the bins out again like you did last Tuesday,” in a monotonous, whiny drone, try to be more subtle.

For example, you could manipulate action via your sex kitten within, by saying, “Have you put the bins out yet, sexy boy? I’m ready for bed!” whilst suggestively playing with your hair and pouting like Lara Bingle.

Or you could play the martyr… “I’ll start dinner as soon as I’ve put the bins out, fed the animals, cut up the vegetables and taken the washing in, darling. Please don’t bother getting off the couch and interrupting your Facebook conversation.”

Or use subliminal scare tactics, “There are maggots the size of crows in the wheelie bin because someone forgot to put it out last week. I hope they don’t start crawling into the house. Maggots attract cockroaches don’t they?” (Scotto is terrified of cockroaches).

2. Don’t let yourself go.

Just because those elastic-waisted shorts are comfortable don’t think your husband wants to see you sitting around in them for forty-two days in a row teamed with a baggy t-shirt and no bra. If he wanted to see that he’d have a subscription to “National Geographic” or “Granny Does Porn” wouldn’t he?

3.  Keep the mystery in the relationship.

If you wake up in the morning and retreat to the ensuite and know you’re about to execute a superb rendition of Herb Alpert and his Tijuana Brass Band’s Spanish Flea, close the door.

                                            Herbie!

4. Don’t outwardly display jealousy.

For example; don’t have this conversation in the middle of a movie.

Pinky: “Did you know Michelle Pfieffer’s older than me? She looks fantastic for her age doesn’t she? She’s such a great role model for us oldies.”

Scotto: “Is she really?”

Pinky: “What do you mean? She looks fantastic or older than me?”

Long pause.

Scotto: “I don’t know.”

Pinky: “Actually, in certain lights she looks a bit jowly and dried out, don’t you think? She’s clearly had work done.”

Long pause.

Scotto: “I don’t know.”

Pinky: “Do you fancy her?”

Scotto (nervously): “She’s alright I suppose.”

Pinky: So you like Michelle Pfieffer then? How can you like her? She looks like a duck!”

All movies starring Michelle Pfieffer are from that moment on, black-banned from the house.

5.  Don’t forget to express affection every day.

“Hello my darling boy! I love you so much you smoochy, coochy, poopy-headed doo-doo! Come and give me a big kissy, cuddly pie my precious little baby.”

That’s me, greeting Pablo the Chihuahua when I get home from work, whilst Scotto touchingly shuffles in the shadows of the doorway watching on dejectedly.

Make sure you share the love around. It’s not all about the dog.

6. Treat him like a king.

When you’re cooking up a couple of steaks/enchiladas/chicken breasts, always serve him the biggest and choicest cut. If you happen to accidentally drop the best one on the floor, serve it to him anyway. He won’t know and he’ll appreciate the gesture more than you know.

7.  And finally my last piece of advice, whatever you do, under no circumstances, if you value your relationship, don’t ever, ever, ever…

Oh shite! Scotto’s back from his movie night already! Have to go! I missed him!

Happy Valentine’s Day everyone xx

Linking up with Grace at FYBF!

Pinky's Organisational Tips (Give-away!)

As the five kids grew bigger and smellier, Scotto and I had a crack at instigating some level of order into the chaos. 

Tired of sorting out huge piles of laundry every day we installed pigeon holes in the laundry so that as soon as clothes were carelessly yanked off the line they were to be placed in the appropriate hole until the assigned child took them upstairs to their bedroom to be neatly hung up.

What happened was this.

Then we bought another set of allocated shelves for any school bags/books/clutter belonging to the untidy teens we found lying around the house on a daily basis.

The shelves would inevitably be overstuffed with mud-caked joggers, odd rubber thongs and a plethora of smelly football socks with the odd school lunch rotting in darkness at the back.

We took to placing signs in obvious places reminding the kids about social niceties such as flushing the toilet, not slamming doors and doing their own washing up.

It was the latter which caused the most contention.

“Why don’t you get the dishwasher fixed Mum!” they’d whinge. Lulu even dobbed on me to her grandmother, complaining about having to perform slave labour by doing the washing up because I was too cheap to spring for dishwasher repairs. In those eight years after it broke down, Lulu probably actually did the washing up… let me see… um… oh that’s right… never.

In fact, I could count on one hand the amount of times any of them ever did the washing up.

Why didn’t I bite the bullet and have the bloody thing fixed?

Because I needed a place to hide things from the kids.

Now that the kids have grown up and don’t spend much time at home, I feel it’s finally time to make life easier for Scotto and me. I’m going to buy a brand new dishwasher as I’ve investigated the role of dishwashers and their ability to save energy (electrical and human).

Of course I will have to teach Scotto how to load a dishwasher properly and I foresee the odd clash of opinions but what the heck.

I have a pack of Finish Qantum Power Gel Balls to give away to the first (Australian only sorry) person to leave a comment on this post.

The second comment on the post will win a twelve year old Miele two-drawer dishwasher and this wonderful prize is open to anyone… even if you live in Timbuktu. 

*Conditions Apply



*Conditions
The winner of the Miele dishwasher must come and collect it themselves and clean up all the cockroach poo that’s been collecting underneath it for the last twelve years.

How being a Primary School Teacher can Destroy your Self-Esteem!

                                 

I was on playground duty the other day and a rather candid Grade One-er approached me with her head cocked to one side staring at me from under her long lashes. I smiled at her indulgently. Those little ones are so cute.

“Are you old?” she enquired with all the delicacy of someone slamming a blackboard ruler into my face.

“Apparently,” I replied after a few seconds stunned silence.

There was not much more to say.

I recall a couple of years ago some older girls strolled up to me in the playground. “Excuse us for asking Mrs Poinker… but are you expecting?”

I burnt that dress as soon as I got home… burnt it dead.

“What are these?” asked a curious eight year old one day, as he pressed the bulging veins on my wizened, thin-skinned hands with intense interest. “My Grandma’s got them too!”

Another time a young boy vigilantly ogled me with a wary look on his face the whole time as I read the class a story using my most dramatically expressive voice and facial expression. I thought he was interested in my excellent rendition of Roald Dahl’s “The Twits”.

“You look like Cap’n Jack Sparrow,” he lisped in horrified fascination when I finished the chapter and put the book down.

I was mortified last year when one of my boys greeted me in the morning with his frank, albeit blunt comment, “Are you tired Mrs Poinker? You have really big bags under your eyes! You need to go to bed earlier.”

Then I remembered I used to say the same thing to him when he arrived at school after staying up all night watching the State of Origin with his dad.

I used to be miffed when the kids accidentally called me “Grandma”. Now it doesn’t worry me anywhere near as much as when they accidentally call me “Grandad”.

On another happier note, please note the excellent Avatar my darling husband Scotto, created for me to replace the out of date profile picture I’ve clung to for the last twelve months.

There doesn’t appear to be a jowl, wrinkle or grey hair in sight! I only look about twenty-five! At least someone still thinks I look okay. Those overly forth-right kids know nothing!

The Cats in the Cradle have Silver Spoons in their Mouths.

                  Pinky... so happy to spend time with her scowling kids.

My kids arrived seems like the other day
They came into the world in the usual way
But they cost a lot there were bills to pay

They learned to walk and soon moved away
And they’d smart mouth me back and as they grew
They’d say never gonna be like you Mum
You know I’m never gonna be like you

And the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon
C’mon sing along cos you know the tune
"When you comin’ home son?"
"I don’t know when but it might be close to ten
You know that you're nagging me again."

My son turned nineteen just the other day
He said, “Thanks for the cash now I’m off to play."
"Can I come too?", I asked. "Not today
You’ll cramp my style." I said, "That's ok."
And he walked away but my smile never dimmed
I said, "I'm gonna always love him, yeah
You know I'm gonna always love him"


Well, he came home from Uni just the other day
So much like a man I just had to say
"Son, I'm proud of you, can you sit for a while?"
He shook his head and said with a smile
"What I'd really like, Mum, is to borrow the car keys
See you later, can I have them please?"



(Some things don’t need changing)

I've long since aged, my kids stay away
I called them up just the other day
I said, "I'd like to see you if you don't mind"
They said, "We'd love to, Mum, if we can find the time
If you take us to dinner and you shout us too
Then we might spend time with you, Mum
We sure might spend time with you.

And as I hung up the phone it occurred to me
It’s my only guarantee
My kids' love is not for free.

Linking up at Laugh Link... 

Have A Laugh On Me | Melbourne Mum | Talking Frankly |  

  26 Years and Counting

Bananadrama!

     

Image Credit

                                 

I read in a newspaper recently that General Practitioners are in the firing line because patients take affront when they look things up on Google while the patient is still in the room. I’ve had it happened to me and it didn’t bother me. 

I’d rather they check the medication they’re about to prescribe, than for me to wind up lying on the kitchen floor with my legs twitching in the air like a baited cockroach. As long as he or she wasn’t checking for information on Wikipedia.

However, I would draw the line at my doctor running back and forth from the computer, waving a cold speculum around whilst performing a pap smear on me.

People, even doctors, shouldn’t be expected to know everything.

The same must be said for primary school teachers. Or perhaps I’m speaking for myself.

We’re learning about the subject of plants this term and I thought I’d take the kids for a stroll around the periphery of the oval to look at leaves, roots and other botanical things. Someone picked a flower from a tree and handed it to me.

“When a flower is pollinated this part of the flower swells, the petals fall off and it transforms into a fruit!” I informed them knowledgeably. “Then seeds grow inside the fruit, the fruit drops to the ground and the cycle starts over again.”

I was on a roll with all eyes riveted on me. “Do you know the difference between a fruit and a vegetable?” 

I challenged, knowing this titbit would blow their minds.

“A fruit has seeds whereas a vegetable doesn’t.” I waited for the inevitable discussion about tomatoes.

There was silence. Finally one bright spark raised his hand, “So a banana isn’t a fruit, Mrs Poinker?”

I stared hard at the small boy trying to think of an answer. In my mind’s eye I imagined the pulp of a banana rotting in the soil. Surely a banana is a fruit. But I’d certainly never cracked a tooth on a banana seed.

“Pumpkins have seeds!” added another.

“So do cucumbers and capsicums!” chimed another.

It seemed I was out of my depth. The eight year olds had outwitted me and were circling like hungry hyenas.

As soon as we arrived back in the classroom, I surreptitiously logged on to Mr Google while the kids put their hats away.

“Does a banana have seeds?” I typed, feeling ridiculous.

And guess what? They don’t have seeds. They used to but now, according to Dr Karl, “The internal dark lines and spots inside today's banana are the vestigial remnant of seeds,” and the seeds were bred out of them many years ago for commercial purposes. But they’re still a fruit.

As for all those other vegetables the kids were throwing at me (not literally)… they’re technically fruits as well, but from a culinary perspective they aren’t sweet so they’re vegetables.

Google came in handy this morning too when a student came in rubbing her throat and complaining her cat had scratched her. “I was asleep,” she whispered confidentially to me. “You know how cats think you’re dead when you’re asleep and try to eat you? Well my cat tried to eat me.”

I was fairly sure this wasn’t true but I Googled it just to make sure.

This is what I found!

A cat will begin eating a human body just a few hours after death. Even if the cat has plenty of food.

* This FACT about cats was brought up during a presentation of crime scene photos by a homicide detective at Eastern Michigan University. He said that it was common for cats to do this. He mentioned he has never seen a dog eat human flesh, but it probably would too if it got hungry enough.

Cat's just like fresh meat a lot more.

I knew it! (I'm not going to credit my source because my cat's looking over my shoulder licking its lips.)

                                     

Who Decides on Who has Real Talent Anyway?

It makes me really, freakin cranky when I see sub-standard crap being praised on the media/internet whilst clearly talented musicians, writers, actors, artists are consistently overlooked most often due to nepotism, contacts and hype.

Scotto went into paroxysms of gladness this arvo because the sultry North Queensland sky finally decided to open its retentive bladder and provide us with some long lusted after rain!

“Let’s go to the Riverside Tavern and watch the water falling from the sky!” he enthused like a true ex-Melburnian.

So off we went to sit by the river and savour a couple of cold ales staring at each other in boredom with nothing to discuss but what level of overflowing our pool would be at.

Imagine my delighted surprise when the afternoon’s entertainment proved to be the acoustic guitar playing genius and undiscovered talent of Jeremy Romeo. 

“Here we go…” I thought as we sashayed in and I saw the ginger in rubber thongs and a singlet. 

“We’ll be in for some off-key renditions of Cold Chisel and rubbish of the like.”

I couldn’t have been more wrong if I’d said NAPLAN would be phased out by 2014… (Bloody stupid thing should be...)

My point is… this boy blew us away with his appealing tonal quality, his understated demeanor and his ability to make us put our glasses down and listen the f%#k up.

It worries me that there is much raw, unbridled talent out there in the world that’ll never see the light of day!

I watch the big stars playing live on Sunrise and frankly they sound like a bunch of sh#t. They can't actually sing unless they're produced to buggery! Then you listen to an unknown guy playing his itty-bitty guitar, singing like a nightingale and not hitting one bung note. Who has the talent I ask you?

So please take a look at this twenty-two year old’s work and tell me he’s not bloody awesome!

Jeremy's Youtube Channel :)

Like his page and support these jewels amongst our midst!

Jeremy Romeo! 

Apparently there IS a CYCLONE coming after all.

Cyclone Dylan

I was in a spot of bother the other day on Twitter when I announced to my followers (some awesome people, some unidentified bots and numerous cats and dogs) that a cyclone was ominously hurtling towards us. 

A physics professor from the local university chipped me (and rightly so) about sending out alarming and non-factual information… so I deleted the tweet immediately.

Now, it seems that there IS a cyclone heading towards us and it is predicted to make landfall about 100 kms south of our city early tomorrow morning. As I gaze out the window it does appear to be a bit windy outside and spitting lightly, but nothing to write home about yet. 

Yet.

That’s the trouble with cyclones. They’re quite unpredictable. They can spin around, head back to sea and come back with a vengeance. Or they can change track, build in intensity and cause massive tide surges and devastating floods.

The big question however is… will school be cancelled tomorrow?

“You must be hoping so, Pinky!” I hear you jeering.

The truth is, no, I don’t want school to be cancelled.

The announcement won’t be broadcast until 6:00 am tomorrow morning and if I have to haul my menopausal body out of bed at that ungodly hour (after feverishly waking every hour bathed in sweat, on the hour, every hour) to check the Internet for notifications, I may as well get up, have a shower and go to bloody work.

That’s the only reason I dislike work at all in the first place. 

Getting out of bed in the morning.

It’s only three days into the school year but I can already tell I have a delightful class this year. One of my little nine year old students walked past me in the playground yesterday and lisped, “I love you Mrs. Poinker!” How could anyone resist that superstar adulation?

My class is a captive audience for me to practise my jokes on, expound my deep knowledge on various frivolous subjects to and entertain with my side-splitting anecdotes with added clowning tricks. They’re an adoring crowd… as opposed to my own kids who ceased listening to their asinine mother many years ago.

So… despite the rampant media sensationalism (by reporters who always seem to congregate in Cairns for some reason), I’m fairly certain and dearly hope Cyclone Dylan will prove to be another dud and we’ll all wake up unscathed and secure in our beds tomorrow morning. 

Stay safe everyone!

In Praise of the Rubber Thong

In patriotic jubilation, yesterday (Australia Day) was spent at a family gathering hosted by my sister Sam and her husband Pedro. There was a backyard pool, a barbeque, lots of snags and lamb chops and the odd cool, refreshing beverage.

But it was what lay beneath the table that arrested Pinky’s attention and a quick spot check revealed just how Australian we all are. There was no official dress code, no requirement expressed on the invitation decorously sent via text message and yet we all chose to attend suitably and identically attired.

WE WERE ALL WEARING THONGS! 

Pinky's Thongs*

                         

                                                       
                                                        Uncle Pedro's Thongs*

                                

                                  Sinead's Thongs*

According to my go-to source of up to the minute information, Wikipedia, the ‘thong’ has been around since Egyptian times when they were made from papyrus leaves; but I beg to differ. 

They were invented and embraced by Queenslanders as more than just an iconic form of footwear. They belong to us and us alone... we have a myriad of uses for them!

                                                  

                                               Scotto's Thongs*

1. They are ideal for leaving outside the front door for the convenience of slipping on when you need to walk across the front lawn to take the wheelie bin out. It negates the mandate to run the gauntlet of vicious spiky weeds invoking what’s known as the “Bindi-Eye Dance”. The best thing is the cane toads can’t hide inside providing the unsuspecting candidate with a slippery surprise.

2. Rubber thongs have the perfect aerodynamics for hurling at the wall when out of the corner of your eye you spot a flaming big cockroach tentatively making its way up the lounge room wall while you’re eating the dinner precariously balanced on your lap and watching Border Patrol.

3. Ever step in dog poo in rubber thongs? No problem. But have you ever tried to get dog poo out of the corrugated sole of your jogger? Found a small stick in the garden or a random ballpoint pen and attempted to gouge the excrement out bit by bit? Just when you think you’ve got it all you turn the shoe over and realise it’s soaked into the fabric. Rubber thongs can be hosed off… or just thrown out for that matter. They only cost two dollars at Coles.

                                Sister Sam's Thongs*

4. Rubber thongs save lives. My friend’s auntie’s sister-in-law’s cleaning lady was ironing when she received an electric shock and the only thing that saved her was the insulation from the RUBBER THONGS SHE WAS WEARING!

                              Greigor's Thongs*

5. Rubber thongs are perfect for our tropical climate cancelling out sweaty feet and invalidating nasty fungal infections like Tropical Toe. And when it gets too cold you can always wear them with socks!

6. Thongs are a social status equaliser. I once walked into a doctor’s surgery and guess who was wearing thongs? 

Me. But I wouldn’t have been put off it was the doctor.

7. Scotto has been known to chuck the odd thong at Ibis’s stealing the cat’s food, the television when Tony Abbott comes on the screen and our longstanding residents, the Mynah Birds, when they poop all over our patio table after he’s only just hosed it.

8. Personally I find rubber thongs to be the most versatile apparel in my wardrobe. Black thongs for good wear, white thongs for any time before Labor Day and pink for when I’m feeling flirtatious.

9. Top Tip: If your workplace health and safety people insist on you wearing closed in shoes my advice is to simply wear a bandage around one toe and you’ll beat the system for at least a week.



Anyone have any other uses I haven’t thought of?

*I may have accidentally mixed up some of the photos.

Posting at With Some Grace!... for FYBF

An Immigrant's Guide to Australian Slang

Way back in 1947 my paternal grandparents arrived in Australia with their three young sons as ‘Ten Pound Poms’ which I suppose makes me a first generation Australian, on one side of the family anyway.

This is a newspaper from 1947. My grandmother is front row third on the right.

Thank God my grandparents made the decision to emigrate using the assisted passage scheme along with over a million others between 1945 and 1972 or I’d never have been born and that would have been a particularly disappointing outcome (for me anyway).

Excluding our First Australians, our Indigenous population (roughly 690 000 people), we’re all immigrants to Australia or the descendants of immigrants really, aren’t we?

It doesn’t mean any of us aren’t Australians... whether we arrived last year or with the First Fleet back in 1788.

I’ve never felt more Australian than the times I’ve travelled overseas.

Travelling around Ireland with five kids under eleven years of age and my then husband, was one time my antipodean identity was truly brought home to me.

* Mind you, Britain is our antipodes when you think about it.

I recall my five ravenous kids noisily spilling out of our ‘people mover’ in order to infiltrate a fish and chip shop somewhere in rural County Fiddle-ee-dee in 2000.

The patrons and staff fell silent, staring at us as if we’d just landed a flying saucer and emerged in lizard suits; especially as soon as the kids opened their mouths to speak.

“Or’ll have fish ‘n chips with termarda sauce, Mum!” they drawled in their Australian accents, scuffing their rubber thongs or bare feet on the floor of the shop. I examined the tanned faces and sun streaked hair of my tiny Aussies; a result of hours spent in our backyard pool and realised how alien we must all have looked and sounded.

When we finally touched down in Cairns after a month in Europe, the pilot announced our arrival in a typical Aussie twang but as we hadn’t heard it for a month it sounded as if he was taking the mickey.

“Why does he sound so Australian, Mum?” asked a puzzled nine year old Jonah.

A teacher once told me the Australian accent developed because there were so many flies and the English and Irish had to learn to speak without opening their mouths and letting the flies in. 

Try to speak in an English accent without opening your mouth very much… see!

It must be confusing for new Aussies to understand our accents let alone some of the words and sayings we have, so I’ve made a list of translations.

Dickhead: Anyone who cuts you off in traffic, burns off ahead of you at the traffic light in a souped up Commodore with a Chevvy badge or drives a Ute and has red P plates. On Australia Day they can be spotted with yellow and green zinc creamed faces wearing only a pair of budgie smugglers and a flag.

Bloody Dickhead: Same as above but gets really drunk and starts yelling at anyone who looks vaguely ethnic about how they should go back to their own country.

Bastard: Someone you can’t stand because they’ve slighted you in some diabolical way in the past.

Bloody Bastard: Someone you love because they’re a rascally rogue eg; “How are you, ya bloody bastard?”

Sanger: A sandwich usually containing corned beef and pickles or curried egg.

Sausage Sanger: A cheap form of food consisting of one piece of bread rolled around a sausage and can be bought outside a hardware shop on Saturday mornings. Found in abundance on Australia Day.

A Stephen Bradbury: When you win something by default. For example; when you’re playing Monopoly on Australia Day and everyone else loses interest and leaves the game to sleep off their sausage sangers and you’re the only one left.

Togs: Lycra sausage casings you squeeze into and attempt to hide behind a towel until the last possible second before you’re able to conceal your over-inflated torso in the swimming pool.

Are there bones in that?: What you say to someone who is choking on the coconut on their Lamington.


Pavlova: An ultra-sweet dessert used to throw at people on Australia Day when they cheat at Monopoly or do cannonballs in the swimming pool splashing chlorinated water in your plastic cup of Chardonnay.

Happy Australia Day you bloody bastards!

Sinead's Poignant Ballad: Nothing Compares to Pinky.

As promised, tonight's post is a guest post by one of our dearest family friends, Sinead (not O'Connor or the one from Bananarama). She's one of the most acerbic, witty and annoying people I know and I'm sure you will find her waffling to be very entertaining.

               

Good evening readers (feel free to apply your own time zone, I care not a jot),

As those most loyal and faithful amongst you would know, I am Sinead - sidekick to Sister Sam (the Baldrick to her Blackadder, the Laurie to her Fry, the French to her Saunders etc ad nauseum).

Please note that my real name is not "Sinead". I threatened to sue the pants off Her Poinkerness if she used my real name...which is actually Geoff.

I have known and loved the extended Poinker clan for two decades - which is almost twenty years when you think about it. Sam and I first bonded when she would pop into the video store where I loitered behind the counter, Tarantino-style...just waiting for someone to read my manuscripts. She expressed a deep and abiding fondness for the written word (just what I wanted to hear, trying to flog videos and whatnot!) and I knew how to read so we formed our own little Book Club founded on a mutual adoration for John Irving's "A Prayer For Owen Meany"...cheers, John.

Perhaps our relationship would have maintained this vague customer/client status had it not been for the intervention of Sam's husband, the legendary Uncle Pedro. At the time, he was a rarely seen, formidable, grunting figure whose suburban reputation preceded him as a local bruiser/boozer/businessman with whom one did not f**k.

One November morning he bellied up to the counter and said. "You're coming 'round for a drink for my wife's birthday. She likes you."
(Nawwwww)
"Well, thank you so much but I couldn't possibly. You se.."
"You. Are. Coming. Round. For.My. Wife's. Birthday."

It was like a Jedi mind trick with more oomph.

Consequently, I meekly turned up with a bottle of something cheap, fizzy and vaguely celebratory...and I never left.

Pedro and Sam made me part of their family. Their generosity and kindness to me have been boundless. They have let me share the joy of their three kids as if they were my own. They loved and supported me through my father's long battle with cancer...Pedro even paid for his wake!

(Not sure what the old man would have thought about the night ending at a strip club but surely naked chicks make everything better?)

We've laughed, cried, sang, fought and loved each other regardless. We have drunk an unseemly amount of booze and often danced like nobody was watching...I hope nobody was. We dyed the dog green on St Patrick's Day and ceremoniously buried the cat when she passed all too soon. To be fair, I was only invited to the funeral because I could lay my hands on a shovel and wield it more efficaciously than a bread knife but that is incidental.

And that is the back story.

(Note from Blog Host: Here comes the important part.)

I met Pinky fairly early in the relationship. Sam is the quintessential "middle child" (quiet, unobtrusive, insular, weird) and has grown up with a certain degree of respect and deference for her older sister. If you have read earlier blogs, a healthy sense of fear for her own physical well-being may have factored into it. How I tried to kill sister Sam.

I cannot recall exactly the circumstances of our first encounter, but it was before Pinky fell pregnant with the delightful Lulu (aka "please let this one be a girl and maybe she'll stop!"). Sam prepped me for the meeting like it was going to be a mid-term at MIT - what to say, what not to say "please don't try and be funny because not everyone thinks you're as funny as you do".....I get that a lot.

So. Pinky pulled up to Sam's place one afternoon and the entire brood tumbled out of an unfeasibly small vehicle (Ringling Bros had nothing on them) and proceeded to wreak havoc while Pinky issued motherly warnings and karate chops in equal measure.

                                 

After initial pleasantries, Pinky gave me a quick "up and down" (she has a knack) and, apropos of very little said, "Ok, Sinead - who do you think is prettier... Me or Sam?"

Imagine, if you will, the horrible, slow, sitcom-esque moment in which I realised she wasn't hinting at some obscure family in-joke...

Sophie had an easier choice (apologies, Ms Streep)!!

I took the coward's way out and shot myself in the foot. Far less painful.

But seriously folks - along with Sam, I have been a Pinky fan waaaaayyy before this blog made it fashionable. I have attended her performances in amateur local dramatic productions (no Deidre was ever more sorrowful, to be sure, to be sure), I have applauded from the sidelines as she made the lunatic decision to strike out on her own with five kids in tow. I have cheered as she went back to university and studied her arse off to achieve her teaching degree (five kids still in tow). I snickered behind my hand when she started chatting to some geeky dude on the interweb...I believe you all know him as "Scotto" (I'm sure she'll tell him about the five kids one day).

I didn't have the good fortune to be raised with sisters, But now, thanks to Sam and Pinky, I feel that I am blessed with two - both younger and much, MUCH prettier.

Pinky Poinker Goes Back to School.

Today was our second day back at school before the Rug Rat Army infiltrates the grounds wearing their spanking new shoes and wrestling with huge cardboard boxes full of books, pencils, and glue sticks for us teachers to spend hours sorting when we’d much rather be horizontal on a couch with a crisp Chardonnay in hand.

What do teachers do when they have no kids to teach?
Sit on chairs designed for three foot hobbits with our lower backs going into violent spasms and suffering the exact same droning lectures we inflict on our students that’s what.

At ten-thirty we plodded up to the staffroom like a herd of weary cattle for a recuperative cup of tea and a snack.

A symphony of twenty cans of tuna snapped open simultaneously; a legacy of too much festive cheer and indulgence over the six week break.

You want to know what we talked about?

The main topic of conversation centred on our Christmas break up party in November and where we should hold it in 2014.

Jaded as it sounds for only our second day back in the trenches, there is a fresh wind of change at school this year. 

My Grade Four cohort has been transformed and Pinky’s long-suffering buddy teacher Rach, has moved into an administrative role. 

O’Reilly’s buddy, Joe the Irish teacher, wisely absconded back to the mother country and has been replaced by the boisterous and dynamic Shazza.

(Placing Shazza and Pinky in the same year level may prove to be slightly dangerous and was possibly an oversight by the bosses but we’ll try to behave ourselves and keep our heads low so they don’t realise their mistake.)

My new buddy teacher is a graduate teacher, fresh from University.

“You’ll scare the poor girl to death!” commented Kaz, when we met the quietly spoken, slender, slip of a girl yesterday.

“No I won’t! I’ll be a great mentor to Gemma!” I retorted with all the confidence of a nonlifejacket-wearing saxophone player on the Titanic.

“Well for a start you can stop calling her ‘Gemma’,” replied Kaz drily, “her name’s Jenna.”

The truth is I’m delighted to be in the position to act as a tutor, supporter and cheer-leader for my new buddy and have compiled a list of important items she may like to take note of;

The Chicken Caesar Salad Wraps at the tuckshop are glorious and very cheap when you compare prices around town.

Never ask Pinky anything about computers, Smart Boards or anything technical because she will just stare at you with her mouth open until she begins to dribble.

Pinky is quite selfish about her Blu Tac and Sticky Dots so don’t bother asking to borrow them. However, she will be very generous with her Smart Board peripheral cable.

Don’t steal Pinky’s special parking spot in the morning. Anne, the office lady, tried it on one day and a bitter feud resulted which lasted for two weeks, until Pinky needed a sick bucket and saw dust sent down from the office after an unfortunate regurgitation by one of the students and was forced to apologise to Anne on the telephone.

Finally, never approach Pinky in her classroom before school as that’s her precious preparation time. Also... because old ladies like Pinky tend to suffer early morning flatulence of the kind that no Glade plug-in air freshener can ever hope to disguise. Just ask Rach!

Tomorrow night, a dear friend of mine, Sinead, will be presenting a guest post in which she tells a few lies and litigious falsifications about how she met Pinky.

My Fatty Boombah Photos

I’m linking my post up to Kirsty from My Home Truths today and the terrifying prompt for the week is an expose of our worst photos.

Cripes! I thought. So many to choose from...

When I turned a certain age ending in a zero, my hubby Scotto made a slide show presentation of my life thus far, and he created a special folder entirely made up of Pinky Poinker images. 

He thoughtfully named the folder, “Pinky Through the Ages”.

Through the fricken ages?? What am I? Seven hundred years old?

Perusing the photos in order to write this post, it suddenly occurred to me that the most unappealing photos of me were taken just prior to giving birth to my five kids. Let’s face it. No one is at their best when they’re at their fattiest boombahish.

It might also be cautiously observed I am no longer married to the photographer concerned.

Just saying.

So here is what I was able to discover among the ruins.

Please do not be alarmed by the beer in one hand and wine glass in the other. This was taken about a week before I gave birth to Jonah and he has just graduated in law, so if you don't believe me that the photo was a joke then at least the child concerned didn't suffer any permanent brain damage. N.B. None that interfered with his academic ability anyway.

This was in the delivery room about an hour before the pugnacious Padraic, pushed his blonde head out into the world. The calm before the storm.

Two days before Thaddeus was born, my face and ankles were puffy and sitting on that hard concrete step made me feel as though my innards were about to fall out, hence the wince. I'd put on twenty kilograms with my first pregnancy through a steady intake of chocolate coated raisins.

And just as a treat I'll finish off with this weird scared little guy expression I'm wearing right after Hagar was born.

Though it just goes to show how photographs lie...

giving birth to my five children were the happiest times in my life.

Pinky's Golden Snow Globe Awards 2013

“Lunching alfresco beside the Fontana Di Trevi!”

“Just saw the cutest squirrel in Central Park”

“Sipping Cosmopolitans at a bar in Manhattan! Lol…”

“Chilling at the Tower of London with ma homies.”

These are the sort of Facebook updates Pinky reads with her sour little puckered up face as she scrolls down her timeline.

Everyone I know has been, or is about to go, on an overseas holiday in 2013... except me.

“Have a great time on your trip,” I jealously comment when they post a status about how they’re just about to board the plane. “Don’t forget to bring me back a snow globe!”

While they’re blissfully cavorting around the globe I’ll sensitively drop a subtle reminder in their message box like… “Hi!...S.G.”

In the last twelve months I’ve been gifted no less than nine treasured S.G.s from the United States, Italy, Ireland, and England which has allowed me to glean a modicum of vicarious pleasure from the travels of my wealthy friends.


I’d like to thank the nominees for the Pinky Golden Snow Globe Awards; Lulu, Jan, Rach, Dolly and Emmsie, however there can only ever be one winner.

And the winner for 2013 is… Emmsie!!!!!

                   Amy and Emma returned from the U.S of A.

Emmsie’s Acceptance Speech.

Thanks for nothing, Pinky!

After dragging these bloody heavy, expensive, annoying things around the United States I forgot to pack them in my suitcase when we were leaving. When I arrived at the airport, security wouldn’t let me take them on as hand luggage and threw them in the damn bin. I fished them out again and after considerable begging on my part they allowed me to pack them in a box and check it in. I nearly missed my flight because of your pain in the ass snow globes, Pinky! Here… take the bloody stupid things. You’re welcome.

Pinky would like to advise nominations are now open for 2014.

Pinky's Last Supper

                                   

Teachers all over Australia are in mourning as the Christmas holidays draw to an untimely close. The kids still have a week left but we teachers are required to front up on Monday for administrative stuff. I don’t know what sort of stuff… I like surprises so I haven’t read the agenda. Dreadfully boring stuff I suppose.

Kyles, our unofficial social planner, organised a lunch yesterday at a newish restaurant, The Lighthouse, to commemorate the end of freedom until the Easter holidays.

“Here she is at last!” called Kyles, as a dishevelled Pinky puffed up to the table of twelve ladies lunching.

“Where do I sit?” I bleated piteously, scanning the long banquet table and noting the lack of spare seats.

“Over there!” they cruelly pointed to a small table for two in the corner.

I always get left out.

The handsome young waiter kindly moved an extra table and chair on to the end and handed me a ticket.

The restaurant, in their wisdom, has developed a system for large parties where each individual is given a numbered ticket so that everyone can pay separately without the usual fuss. What a brilliant idea!

My ticket was number thirteen.

“Does this make me Judas Escariot?” I objected sullenly. “I don’t want to be Judas! I want a different number!”

It was then I had my own brilliant Pinky Punkster idea!

So… after much shuffling of chairs; bossy, shouty orders from Pinky, acrimonious grumbling from various individuals (Shaz, Kaz and Kristen), and stunned disbelief on the face of our waiter, I was finally able to procure the perfect snap!

There was a bit of an argument about who got to be Jesus  but we sorted it out in the end.

            Shaz ,Pinky, Mrs T, Sue the Librarian, Rach, Kristen, Jan, Kyles, Judy, Emmsie, Elle, Nic, Kaz.

                        Please click to enlarge!

I’ll no doubt get into trouble but I am so printing it out and pinning it on the staff room wall.

Thank you to Scotto for his outstanding Photoshop work!

Any suggestions for other iconic photos for next time?