Can Plants Communicate? A Spooky Tale!

Philip Seymour Hoffman

There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.

There is a theory that argues if you put one hundred monkeys in front of one hundred typewriters for one hundred years they would eventually write a Shakespearean sonnet.

Perhaps that theory needs to be revised...

This happened to Scotto and I yesterday and is an entirely factual story I promise.

Yesterday began innocently enough when Scotto mentioned he’d like to do some sunset photography for his blog. I suggested we go down to the beach and have a Sunday drink at one of the restaurant/bars on the Strand where the sunset might be spectacular.

It’s not that I’m incapable of doing anything which doesn’t involve alcohol but more that it seemed like a nice idea... and I’m on school holidays after all.

A Sunday drive to the beach was immediately instigated; we found a rock star parking spot and decided to call in to the C Bar which has romantic history for us as that’s where we had our first dinner out together.

Scotto lugged his camera over his shoulder Paparazzi style and we found a table facing West so he could set up his equipment.

“We charge extra for photos!” quipped the jolly, little waiter when he saw the monstrous tripod and lens.

We ordered our drinks and sat waiting for the solar system to do its thing.

“That’s weird,” frowned Scotto, picking up his phone and squinting at it. “My phone has just typed out a message by itself!”

He reset it and placed it back on the table.

“It happened again!” he said a few seconds later. “Look! It’s the frond from the plant moving around my touch screen.”

Plant typing a text message!

I leaned over and watched it for a while.

“I think the plant is trying to communicate with us Scotto!” I squealed. “What’s it saying?”

We scanned the text message.

'An NBC CNN NBC check lol KiiiiiiL'

“Shite!” I gasped. "It’s telling us to watch the news! It just typed KILL!"

The plant kept merrily typing. It was mainly jibberish but every few lines there’d be a couple of distinct words. 

Scotto texted me what the plant wrote so I could document it!

“Ask Phil?” I shrieked, attracting attention from the other diners. “Who the fudge is Phil? Maybe the plant is channelling the spirit of Prince Phillip… no he’s still alive.” I scanned my brain for dead Philips. “Philip Seymour Hoffman! That’s who it probably is!”



“My God, it just typed ‘bubby’! That’s my nickname for you, Pinky!” exclaimed Scotto.

“What are you trying to tell us little plant?” I coaxed, timidly stroking one of its leaves.

'Listening' the plant replied.

“Oh crap! It’s listening!” stammered Scotto.

We watched it deliberately trailing its frond over the touch screen… ‘Hugo… hi…pink’.

“It said PINK!” I almost fell off the chair in shock. “It typed ‘Pink’! This isn’t funny Scotto!”

“Is it about my blog?” I urged the plant. “Do you have an important message about my blog?”

'Lol' the plant replied.

The waiter came over to check on us. “Look,” Scotto pointed to the phone. “The plant’s talking to us!”

“It typed out KILL!” I added theatrically.

He looked nervously at us and took our drink orders.

We must have frightened him because a different waiter brought the drinks back and this one wasn’t smiling at all.

We watched the plant communicating with us for ages until we realised the sunset was a fizzer and decided to go home.

“I really want to take you home little plant,” said Scotto gently.

“Maybe we can buy it from the restaurant?” I suggested hopefully.

We both agreed that would be cruel because every pot plant we’ve ever owned has perished.

'Think fuk sad' the plant typed.

We left reluctantly (under the close inspection of the waiters and customers at the neighbouring table), promising the plant we’d be back to visit it soon.

That’s if the waiters don’t burn it alive before we get back.






This is some of the text I retrieved from Scotto's phone...

HDTV add Zach CATCH CAN CAN add oh CHUBB chunk chef an bubby hun chin sad guy thx Sag cash Fax AH I’LL ask Phil Ask lj ask ok Go thkx ah xx listening Hugo hi pink GC chunk loo ok go look pull school has go off & add had get added ages ask kolksda go load him If Jo Hugo lol jump go of think do go Ki’ll ask hook hi gets the add Jo d you look feel safe oh go ppppllll such couch ask I socks chunk ask DJ oh ga DJs da ass think fuk sad him the da ask I’d ago is dad you as to do

What do you think it was trying to tell us?

Related article.

Linking up with Jess at Essentially Jess for #IBOT

Who is Pinky Casing?

The highly esteemed and entertaining Sanch from Living My Imperfect Life nominated me for one of these little beauties!

Thank you, Sanch.

Worth Casing Award

    And as most of you know that means I must bare my soul by answering a set of five interrogative questions...

So here goes. 

1. Why did you start blogging?

Basically it was because I thought I was a funny little thing. Mind you, no-one had ever told me I was funny. 

My kids certainly don’t think I’m in the least bit amusing. My students roll their eyes and make gagging motions at my jokes. Scotto, giggles at everything so he can’t be trusted. My colleagues think I’m probably one of the most annoying people on Earth and my dogs NEVER laugh at my witty barbs at their expense. 

But I think I’m funny and as one of my favourite philosophers said,

If you believe in yourself anything is possible: Miley Cyrus.

2. If your wardrobe could talk what would it say about you and tell us about your favourite or most worn item?

I have a pair of shorts. They’re elastic-waisted and balloon around my hips in a most unalluring manner (I made up that word, unalluring but you know what I mean). Sometimes I wear them for three months at a time without washing them but I always have clean undies on. 

 I only put them on after work (the same time as I’m ripping off my bra in a contortionist feat which would make Houdini cower behind his Mum’s skirts) so if you add up the actual time I’m wearing them between washes it’s probably only two months. 

One and a half tops...

My wardrobe would probably say to me...

“Pinky, honey, there are some folks here who’ve long outstayed their welcome. The Eighties called and want their stone wash leather jacket back. They also want those lace up boots which can no longer accommodate Paula, the bunion on your right foot.”



3.  What’s on your Worth Casing list?

(a) Which way (up or down??) to scroll from Channel 7 to Channel 10 on the remote control without having to go through SBS, ABC, WIN, ABC2, ABC3, SBS2, SBS3, ONE, TVSN, ELEVEN, ASPIRE, 7two, 7mate, TV4ME, GEM…



(b) How I can put things away in my bedside table drawer so that next time I try to open the bloody thing it won’t only open to one centimetre due to an infuriating obstruction. It forces me to blindly ferret around for thirty minutes in order to investigate what’s jamming the bloody thing. This event inconveniently occurs whenever I urgently need to find a pen to write down a rare and brilliant blog post idea which fleetingly passes through my grey matter at the speed of light and will invariably be gone by the time I get the bloody drawer open which is why I have to write about trivial stuff like this.


(c) The exact time I need to pull out of my driveway in the morning so I can catch the fifteen 'synchronised' green traffic lights between my house and work. I've been doing it for nine years now and am still to hit pay dirt.



4. If you had a theme song what would it be and why?

Hmmm… A tough one.

If you asked my kids, it would be “Burn the Witch” by Queens of the Stone Age. If you care to listen...

If you asked Scotto, it would probably be “Even Witches Like to Go Out Dancing” by Graveyard Train.

A sample...

If you asked my ten year old students, it would probably be “Wicked Old Witch” by John Fogerty... for your listening pleasure.

If you asked my blogging buddies it would be this…

I think my blogging buddies are the closest to the mark, you lovely things you!

5. What’s your idea of the perfect date night?

Jon Hamm, James McEvoy and Kit Harrington all fighting over who gets to pour my champers, peel my prawns and find the correct TV channel for me.

Nah… just joking. It would be Scotto doing all those things (with no bitter complaining and snatching the remote from my hand) whilst wearing his ‘special occasion’ sarong.

I'm dobbing in five bloggers for this award! 

If you've already done it, tell me to shove it!

Mumabulous

Rae from I Opened My Mouth and it Ran Away Without Me

Louisa from My Midlife Mayhem

Mark from Full Half Glass

and... someone who I know won't play along...

Lee-anne from Is It Just Me? because I know she's too busy finishing her book, but one can only try!

Munchkins, Hunchbacks and Bananas!

“I’m all stocked up, Mrs Poinker,” said my nine year old student, Isolde, grinning broadly and holding up a wad of tissues in my face. I was relieved because Isolde tends to suffer massive nose bleeds when she’s nervous.

It was D day. After weeks of rehearsals we were finally off to perform our Year Four play at the local Eisteddfod.

Naturally, Darius had forgotten his garish Hawaiian shirt costume and we had to send someone off to do a mad raid of the After School dress up box. I could have strangled him with my bare hands but shoved a fistful of Nicorettes in my gob instead and chewed maniacally whilst staring at him with the glare of Sauron of Mordor in my eyes.

The bus was waiting in the hot sun as my troops skipped out; glittery wigs, sequins and enough cellophane streamers to shoot the sequel to "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" trailed behind us. The kids were rowdy and exuberant; the smell of greasepaint affecting their mental stability.

Not only that, their teacher was struck dumb with Laryngitis and unable to govern the tiny but terrifying natives of Lilliput with any modicum of efficiency.

We passed my colleague and friend O’Reilly, returning with his class from their Choral Speaking performance and victoriously wielding a trophy around his head.

Why don’t I enter the Choral Speaking instead? I thought. It’s so much less fraught with danger… and then I remembered why… A most traumatic experience!

I sat alone on the bus trip there, turning around in my seat every now and again to mime slashing my throat at the boys who were raucously singing football songs in the back seat.

Bus drivers of children are a touchy lot. I didn’t want him to throw a tanty and turn the bus around because of obstreperous behaviour.

“Ulysses is crying, Mrs Poinker!” declared little Cressida as we passed one of my favourite watering holes on the road. Oh, how I wished I was inside its chilled confines sipping on a holiday wine.

I decided to ignore Ulysses’ tears. If I was going to be mute I may as well play deaf as well.

Ulysses can be a bit of a drama queen and cries at the drop of a hat and he was probably just overwhelmed with titillated anticipation. I was correct and didn’t hear another peep about it.

As we drove past the new inflatable waterpark little Troilus screamed out at the top of his lungs, “If we win today will you take us all to the waterpark, Mrs Poinker?”

I smiled wanly and may have imperceptibly nodded.

A massive cheer erupted. I looked nervously over at the bus driver’s ears which were bright red and twitching in an unnatural way and motioned for an immediate shush.

As the bus pulled up at the Civic Theatre I spotted Kyles the music teacher, waiting on the footpath for us. “Thank the fudge for that,” I thought. She looked like an angel descended from a luminescent celestial body… a fudging, beautiful miracle.

Kyles was there to help me with my class and I’d designated the Munchkins as her personal responsibility. The Munchkins’ troupe was comprised of the… er… most ‘dynamic’ of my boys.

“Are you sure I should have the Munchkins?” she coughed, “Wouldn’t it be better for me to have the Bananas?”

“NO! You stand on the Munchkins side of the stage and I’ll control the Slaves and Bananas and Hunchback,” I insisted in a wheezing but desperate rasp.

Before we knew it they were on stage. They were vibrant, entrancing and very sparkly under the lights. I knew they’d excelled themselves because, as is my custom, I burst into tears as I pressed the button to start the finale music.

I only burst into tears when I get a peculiar feeling we’ve hit a special home run.

Our first place trophy!

Anyway… guess who is on a dodgy promise to take twenty-six kids to the inflatable waterpark?


So not happening.

Thank you to Kym and Tanya for making props and for your brilliant moral support.

And of course Kyles x

The back story to this post!

LARYNGITIS!

This is day two in my journey of living life without a voice, cruelly struck dumb in the prime of my life and I’ve chosen to write a little Cinquain poem about it for your entertainment…



Laryngitis

Strangled Chook

Weird creaky sounds

Emitting from inflamed itchypods

Ebola?

I’ve never had Laryngitis before which is strange because I tend to use my voice a lot and if you’re going to get sick usually the thing you use the most is the first to go.

I spent today in bed, writing my last will and testament and pondering the meaning of my melancholic life whilst attempting to watch the midday movie, unable to yell critical abuse at the terrible actors and incapacitated to the point where the dogs took advantage of my inability to shout at them to shut the hell up with their incessant barking.

Sometimes I hate my dogs.

But then it struck me… what if my dulcet tones never return? What if I remain a mute? A voiceless old woman, never again able to work as a teacher, sing happy birthday to my grandchildren, perform Karaoke or order McDonalds at the drive through?

I’d never be able to chatter inanely to husband, Scotto, at the climax of the Fast and Furious movie he’s watching, or answer the checkout chick at Coles when she asks me how I’m going today.

I’d have to carry signs with me everywhere saying, “Good Thanks!” or “Great! How are you?”

Scotto 'says' my dearth of vocal tone is cute. He keeps making me do Marge Simpson and Cookie Monster quotes and then he laughs and laughs and laughs.

But I think he might be taking advantage of his brief reprieve from the continual whine in his ear day in day out. He’s going to the movies tomorrow night to see Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with our mate O’Reilly because he reckons I need to spend more time alone to rest my vocal cords.



I’m thinking of designing a sign just for him that says,

Should I let him go?

Toothbrush Land

Toothbrush Land

“What’s wrong with you, woman?” I thought when I noticed my toothbrush lying on the floor of the shower recess in our ensuite this morning.

I picked it up gingerly. How did the naughty little bugger end up there? I was already late for work and couldn’t be bothered with social niceties so quickly examined it for cockroach poo. There didn’t seem to be anything obvious concealed in the nylon fibres… still… you can never be too sure.

I washed it under the hot water tap in the bathroom sink whilst staring at my crazy-eyed reflection in the mirror. The Pierrot clown who hadn’t removed its makeup properly… the scared, weird, little guy look.

Hot water kills most germs, I thought.

Then I glanced back at the shower recess. The mould growing on the walls would give a grade fiver’s lunch box a run for its money. What if the mould had leapt across the ravine and attached its invisible spores to my toothbrush. Is mould dangerous?

I was feeling devilish, courageous… so I jumped in the shower, liberally squirting toothpaste all over the suspect toothbrush.

Literally two seconds after the questionable toothbrush entered my ruby lips did I speculate that all was not as it seemed. The brush did not seem to take up as much room in my mouth as it usually did. Its bristles were of a more malleable, more lenient texture than that of their usual torturous, stabby-in-the-gums quality.

Alarm bells rang. 

Could it be this WAS NOT MY TOOTHBRUSH?

I wiped away the steam from the shower glass door and peered through to spy Scotto’s huge toothbrush standing out, loud, proud and spectacularly purple in its special little holder; all alone in its glory.

This must be mine, I mused, scrubbing my calculus away with verve.

Thank God I didn’t accidentally pick Scotto’s up. God forbid I get boy germs. 

But it still felt weird. Something about the brush was alien and deep in my heart I knew I was being an ostrich. This was NOT my toothbrush. But whose could it possibly be?

I must be imagining things, I reassured myself. There are only two of us who use this bathroom, it can only be mine.

I finished my shower, taking extra time to swish my Listerine around before spitting it out on the shower floor.

Then it happened.

As I emerged from the shower recess I suddenly spotted it on the bathroom counter.

It was my toothbrush… hiding in plain sight beside the SPF 30+.

My very own cheeky, fire engine red toothbrush.

So… what the freakin hell toothbrush did I just use???

An unspeakable thought crept into my head and I shuddered in revulsion.

I keep an old toothbrush on the floor of the shower to occasionally scrub out the mildew from the tile grouting. I hadn’t seen it for a while. Perhaps it had deliberately concealed itself behind the plethora of empty shampoo and conditioner bottles. 

That couldn’t be the toothbrush I so carelessly picked up, could it?

COULD IT???

It’s been eleven hours since the harrowing event.

There are still no symptoms of fungus rot invading my system.

Fingers crossed you hear from me tomorrow.



If not take this as a warning: inanimate objects aren’t always what they appear to be. Sometimes they can be malevolent. There have been cases of demons attaching themselves to inanimate objects. 

We’ve called a priest in.

Do you clean your teeth in the shower or bathroom sink?

Ten Questions that Make You Think.

One of my favourite bloggers is little Hugzy (who is much funnier and cleverer than I), from Hugzilla Blog...

and she nominated me for a Liebster award which means I have to answer some questions and pass on the honour... so here goes! I hope it's not too boring.

What was your favourite subject at school? 

How big a moll Linda Fink was after she kissed Rodney Dawson for two hours and let him put his hand up her top at the party the previous Saturday night. Also how she came to school with a love bite on her neck which she tried to hide with a bandaid but we all knew it was there.

How easily do you wake up when your alarm goes off? 

I usually wake up an hour and a half after it goes off while I’m driving to work at 100kms an hour on the motorway. Sometimes I get a bit of a fright when this happens.

You could never miss a single episode of which TV show?

Why Better Homes and Gardens of course on Friday nights, because Scotto and I play a drinking game where we skull a wine every time Dr Harry tells someone their pet is just bored and that's why it's humping/gnawing on the window sills/pooing on the bed every day and merely needs something to chew on while its owners are out.

What’s your go-to dish when you’re asked to bring a plate?
Definitely Coles Smart Buy Paper Plates as they’re very strong, can be used later on in the night to Frisbee at your husband’s head to get his attention when your wine glass is empty, plus your thieving friends won’t ‘forget’ to return them and stash them in their Tupperware drawer.

If you could be a character from a favourite book from your childhood, who would you be?

Pippy Longstocking because she got to live alone without sucky parents, wash the floors by chucking buckets of water all over the place and skating around with mops on her feet and ride a horse to school.

You’re exploring a scenic beachside village. Would you prefer to do it on foot or by bike?

A bike… but one that someone else was peddling whilst I sat in the back of a rickshaw supping on a cocktail and shouting out orders to the minions.

The reality TV show that you would absolutely blitz, would be what?

The X Factor because until you’ve heard my rendition of “I Will Survive” with an accompanying interpretive dance you’ve never seen raw talent in its supreme state.

Do you prefer your Summer or Winter wardrobe?

Living in North Queensland there’s really no difference. In Winter I occasionally let the hair grow on my legs for a bit of extra warmth and wear socks with my rubber thongs when I go outdoors.

What’s your favourite way to relax?

I follow the famous “Five Cs” philosophy. 

Cheese, Crackers, Chardonnay, Couch and Club Penguin (adult's version).



If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?



I’m a tad partial to Rivendell, Narnia or possibly Hogwarts but if we’re being realistic… probably the Maldives…

Now, who to nominate... You know, I think pretty much everyone has won a Liebster award already so I'm posing the questions to all of you. Please choose a question and answer in the comments or on Facey :) Can't wait to hear your answers!

Linking up with Jess at Essentially Jess for #IBOT

Townsville: Why it's better than Cairns.

I was born and bred in Townsville; sometimes maliciously referred to as Brownsville, or even worse, Bogansville.

There’ve been many changes to Townsville over the last fifty years. (Did I just say fifty??)

When I was a kid, once a week my parents would take us for an evening drive to buy an icecream from the Ozone Cafe on the Strand and we’d sit and watch the fountain change colours. “Oh look! It’s red! Now it’s blue! Now it’s yellow! It’s red again!”

That was about the most exciting after dark entertainment for kids back then.

The only other evening recreational activities in 1960-70’s Townsville were either a James Bond movie at one of two drive-ins or window shopping in the main street in our pyjamas whilst being serenaded by a filthy plague of pigeons nesting in Biblical proportions in the shopfront eaves.

The Ozone Café, fountain and pigeons still exist in Townsville today.

But despite many changes to my home city of late some other things have also managed to survive the halcyon years including the intense rivalry between Townsville and its nemesis, Cairns.

I don’t know how many emails I’ve sent off to the television breakfast show, Sunrise, informing them that Cairns is not the capital city of North Queensland as evidenced by their national weather map.

Dear Sunrise Weather Person, (I politely write)...

Why do you have stupid Cairns on your map and not Townsville? How am I supposed to know what the weather is like today? Cairns is roughly 1700 kilometres from Brisbane. Don’t you think people need to know what the weather is like in between? 

Besides, you’re filling the Cairns-ite’s heads with delusions of grandeur. They’re already up themselves and think they’re better than us even though the Cairn’s city esplanade is pretty much made up of mudflats whereas Townsville’s Strand esplanade is a glorious paradise.

Yours sincerely,

Pinky Smith.

They never answer my emails. but seriously… these are the real reasons I think Townsville is the jewel of North Queensland far surpassing muggy Cairns and its steamy mangroves.



We don’t have an embarrassingly named suburb called “Yorkey’s Knob”… Cairns does.

People don’t confuse Townsville with a French city that hosts a fancy pants film festival every year.

People generally wear shoes in Townsville when they go to a wedding (rubber thongs at the very least).

In Cairns the weddings are BYOFUC... (Bring your own fold up chair).

In Cairns, when people are pulled over by the cops for having five unrestrained kids in the back of their Nissan Nevara tray-back they say they didn’t know there were any kids there. In other words, they lie through their tooth.

In Townsville we don’t make our letterboxes out of old mufflers, coffee tables out of XXXX beer cartons or ashtrays out of beetroot cans.

In Townsville we don’t need a torch, mosquito spray and a newspaper when we go to the toilet at night.

In downtown Cairns they don’t have pigeons in the shopfront eaves because the worm-ridden, grey birds are a highly sought after culinary delicacy (along with the Flying Fox).

In Cairns, they serve beer to everyone in the Centrelink queue because the line extends two kilometres in the hot sun.

In Cairns they have custody hearings in court over bull mastiffs and Holden Utes with Chevy badges.

Oh… and did I mention our waterfront?

                         Image Credit- Scott Weaver Photography

*Apologies to my Cairns cousins… my actual, real, related by blood cousins.

Which do you prefer? Cairns or Townsville?

How to Make a Banana Costume

                                           Image credit

Whilst I’m not the nail-biting, uptight, perfectionist, 'A' type personality, I am a bit of a negative thinker. 

I tend to spend a lot of time having lucid visions about an impending disaster of the Final Destination genre magnitude.

Have you ever seen those Final Destination movies?

There’ll be a guy running along with a pair of scissors (which we all know you should avoid doing) when he suddenly slips on a banana. The scissors fly up into the air slicing the cord suspending the ceiling fan. The rapidly rotating ceiling fan clatters down on a platter of knives (which were perhaps used to cut up the banana) and one of the knives flies up, stabbing the guy in the eye right through to his brain and he dies a horrible, lingering death...

I have those sort of scenarios going through my head every day. For example; a young, hot woman (Pinky) is driving along the highway beside a massive truck which happens to be transporting a fleet of brand new primary-coloured Hyundai Velosters to a car dealership. A kangaroo unexpectedly hops out in front of the truck which sharply swerves because the truckie is a vegetarian animal lover and doesn’t want to hurt a small furry marsupial. He crashes into a light pole which violently splits in half and spears into the cabling holding the cars on to the truck. The cars cascade off the truck at great speed and hurtle straight towards my (the hot woman’s) gloomy face in the windscreen, beheading her in an instant...

Despite this somewhat pessimistic and catastrophist view of life I still tend to live on the edge. I have a terrible habit of leaving everything until the last minute. Perhaps I’m subconsciously addicted to the rush of adrenaline and gnawing panic or something… who knows? However, in the interests of my cardio-pulmonary system I’ve decided to reform… a bit.

This time last year I was in a state of alarm because my class of nine year olds were about to perform a play in our local Eisteddfod and at the eleventh hour I still hadn’t procured the two vital sea monster costumes we needed for our pirate extravaganza.

                        Scotto modelling the sea monster costume!

It’s still two weeks away until this year’s class of young thespians grace the stage with their gala performance of ‘Mergatroid’s Adventures in Bananaland’ and I’m happy to inform you I’m already on top of the costumes.

I have six bananas, six slaves, eight munchkins, a witch, a hunchback and two narrators to outfit, which sounds daunting I admit.

The slaves were easy; the kids could wear some raggedy old clothes. The munchkins could wear black jeans, t-shirts and silly wigs and I already had a witch and old monk costume (as you do)… but the bananas were throwing me a curve ball. 

How was I going to be creative, innovative and inspired by such a simple fruit? It addled my tiny brain and kept me awake, tossing and turning in a lather of sweat every night for weeks.

Until, that is… I had one of my best Pinky revelations.



Bananas look a hell of a lot like sea monsters don’t you think?

                         Students modelling banana costumes!

On another note my husband Scotto, has launched a brand new photography blog (it's not a competition he keeps reminding me) and it would be lovely of you to pay him a visit! Scott Weaver Photography (he's using his maiden name!)

Have you made any dodgy costumes for your kids?

Do I write too many posts about bananas?

Are you a Jealous Person?

“Did you make time to go to the doctor today?” I pestered Scotto as soon as he walked in the door after work.

In his typically injury-prone style he’d managed to pop his knee when we were away last weekend. As well as that he had a worrying painful lump on his upper chest rib.

I don’t know about you but I don’t like anyone finding a lump anywhere. Nineteen year old son Padraic, showed me a grape-sized lump he had in the side of his stomach a few months ago and I’d booked a medical appointment for him faster than you could say Munchausen by Proxy. It wound up being a lipoma, which is a benign tumour composed of adipose tissue… in other words, body fat.

I suddenly wondered if that was what was currently residing around my midriff. A gigantic lipoma!

It would explain a lot anyway.

Scotto wasn’t concerned at all and blamed the lump on a possible injury from erecting a gazebo for our dogs a few days earlier.

Yes. We bought our dogs a gazebo from Bunnings.

“So what did the doctor say?” I badgered Scotto.

“Oh… I may have torn a ligament in my knee. I’ll see how it goes over the next fortnight.”

“But what about the lump on your chest?” I harangued, concerned for my husband’s well-being. 

“She just thinks it’s a haematoma from a hard bump,” he shrugged.

My concern for his lump was swiftly diverted. 

“She? Your doctor was a she?” I queried, wondering what had happened to the usual old fart he went to.

“Yeah.”

“So… was she hot?” I asked in a semi-jokey voice.

“No… no,” he replied, giving an artificial guffaw and extra cough. “She was Russian.”

“Russian, huh? Did she have an accent by any chance?”

“Yep, it was very thick. I couldn’t understand her very well,” he swallowed nervously.

“Was she one of those Russian weightlifting types?” I asked hopefully.

“No…. slim... she was quite tall though. In fact when Svetlana was feeling my chest she was almost as tall as me,” he mused, staring off in a reverie.

“And was Svetlana a blonde by any chance?” I pushed on, narrowing my eyes at him.

He looked at the ceiling pretending to try to remember, “Yes. A bit blonde I suppose.”

“So Scotto, your doctor was tall, slim, blonde and had a sexy Russian accent but she wasn’t hot? I think you might be telling me porkies!”

“No,” Scotto stammered. “She was really quite plain, Pinky. Quite plain.”

Yah Scotto… vatever… vatever.

Are you a jealous person?

Three Revelations from ProBlogger!

“So what’s your blog about?” asked the professional crew from the Stay at Home Mum blog, last Thursday night at the ProBlogger conference. “A load of rubbish, really,” I muttered in shame. 

They smiled politely. You know… one of those puzzled smiles where you don’t use your eyes. Clearly, I was going to need a better answer if I was to have any credibility over the ensuing weekend.

Husband Scotto and I were staying on the Gold Coast with my parents, so at breakfast before I left on Friday morning I grilled my father who occasionally checks in on Pinky Poinker to see what his grandkids are up to.

“So Dad, what should I say when people ask me what my blog’s about?”

He paused, frowning in inscrutable thought. “Silliness?” he offered unhelpfully.

The truth is I didn’t have a definitive idea of what it’s about. So I gave it some thought and came up with a mission statement:

Pinky Poinker is on a one-woman campaign to stomp out being up yourself; the kind of up yourself that makes you pretend you’re someone you’re not. It pains me to see people living their lives pretending to be perfect. Pinky is here to ‘out’ herself and hopes some people can relate the failures and foibles of a wicked old woman to their own lives and see the ridiculous side of life.

The next revelation to come out of the conference for me was that the bumbling, irritating, inappropriate Pinky I describe on the blog is a lot closer to the truth than I’m entirely comfortable with.

All this time I’ve imagined Pinky, as an exaggeration, a caricature of who I really am, mostly designed for comedic effect. 

Wrong again.

Once out of my protected environment where my friends, family and colleagues suffer my numerous atrocities, I soon learned to see myself through the eyes of strangers.

“So which session are you going to next, Pinky?” asked the lovely, serene Renee from Mummy Wife Me, who I’d only just met at the previous session.

                                 Pinky and Renee

“I thought I might go to the ‘Harnessing Social Media’ lecture,” I chirped. “It might help me get more Facebook followers!”

“Um,” she quietly corrected, “I think it’s actually called ‘Harnessing Social Media for Social Good, Pinky.”

“What? Really?” I scoffed. “Oh? Well I’m not into social good. Not at all. Nah, I won’t go to that one. I’ll go to the ‘Monetising your Blog’ session instead.”

Renee gave me a wan smile and stared after me as I flounced off.

Later, sitting in the money-making session, my words began to float around in the dark recesses of my brain like nasty little bats in a belfry.

I’m not interested in social good. I’m NOT interested in doing anything towards social good.

What the hell was wrong with me? Who am I? George Costanza?

Of course I’m interested in enhancing and promoting social good. What must Renee think of me?

I raced around at lunch looking for her. I badly needed to explain myself.

Just like I’d desperately chased around that day looking for Martine from The Modern Parent to explain why I’d introduced myself to her ten minutes after meeting her the first time the previous night. I was excited you see and acting like one of those horrible people who just don’t pay attention when they’re shaking hands with you. 

Still… I was sure she thought I was either stupid or ill-mannered. I had to verify that it was, indeed, stupidity… and not rudeness.

                                      Eva and Renee


I found Renee talking to Eva from The Multitasking Mummy. She sweetly accepted my rationalisation that my blog would probably bring charitable organisations into disrepute and that was why I said what I said.

I did learn one other very important fact at the conference.

Mrs. Woog smells lovely.

One of my lofty ambitions at the conference was to speak to one of Australia’s most popular and funny bloggers, the famous Mrs. Woog from Woogsworld!.

I had a justification, which in my mind would prevent me looking like just another stalker. I needed to thank her for publishing my guest post on her site a few months ago.

I waited for the exact right moment. A session had only just finished and I spotted her moving up the side aisle towards the door. Now was my chance. If I moved quickly I could block her path. Her bodyguards were nowhere in sight. I took the plunge...

She was so nice. She even hugged me and called me by my name. But all I could say was, “Gawd, you smell nice! What perfume are you wearing?”

She waffled off the name and I think I got it. 

I’m pretty sure I caught it.

Trembling with childish fan frenzy, I sat down again beside my friend Rae from I Opened my Mouth and it Ran Away Without Me. 

                                     Pinky and Rae

She turned her head and commented, “Pinky! You smell gorgeous! What’s that perfume?”



“Mrs. Woog,” I said. “I’m wearing Mrs. Woog.”

Ever had a crazy fan moment?