Pinky's Naughty Bits

As well as going to the dentist in the holidays regarding my capricious, rickety tooth, I also went to the doctor for my bi-ennial Smiegal Test. You know the one where they take a smiegal of your cervicella and test it for nasty things?

“I hate going for Smiegal Tests!” I declared to my friend Kaz, at her birthday dinner (I can’t think of a better place to discuss womanly issues). “I have a retroverted cervicella and the doctor can never find it.”

“Is there anything normal about you, Pinky?” asked Kaz, her eyebrow cruelly lifted.

I think she was referring to my extra kidney lobe which I’ve only just found out about and had shared the compelling information at our girl’s lunch a couple of months ago.

“Besides,” she added. “I think you mean a retroverted uterus don’t you?”

“Oh yeah!” I gulped, swallowing my camembert and water cracker. “That’s what I meant. My retroverted utility box.”

Now I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m using such silly names for my bits but the reason is I think names for bits are… well, considerably harsh. They’re not euphonious if you know what I mean. They’re not pleasant sounding to the ear at all.

I’ve always been wary of parents who teach their kids the medical names for their privates. It just seemed so bizarre to hear a four year old come running to his mother at playgroup screaming, “Mum! Hagar Poinker just kicked me in the scrotum.” When I hear the word ‘scrotum’ I always think of turkey necks.

Whereas my boys, (having the coarse mother and all) would have cried, “Mum! That kid just kicked me in the nuts!” which is much more palatable. I mean, who wants to picture a scrotum? Nuts, provided you aren’t allergic to them, are much more savoury.

I don’t think my only daughter Lulu and I had a special word for her you know what. Maybe it was merely, ‘Your… you know what’, I really can’t remember. I certainly wouldn’t have referred to it as a V… v… vadge… oh you know what I mean. 

It’s a dreadful word and I refuse to say it.

When my brother was a toddler he called his bits and pieces, ‘Quack Quack’. He’s forty-something now and probably still calls it that for all I know. The name came around because he had a potty in the shape of a chicken. It was especially designed for boys with a chicken’s head to accommodate his dingle-dangle. 

Scotto won’t tell me what he called his but he’s goes into a paroxysm of embarrassed giggles whenever I mention the name of a certain extinct flightless bird from the island of Mauritius, so I think I can guess it.

We even give our pets’ private bits special names.

'Mum! Celine has something hanging out of her winkle!' or 'Mum, Pablo is dragging his doodle all over the carpet in my bedroom. Come and get him out of here!' or 'Mum! Willy’s out the back humping my football and he’s got a red rocket! You’ll have to buy me a new football now!' were common cries for urgent action in our house when the kids were growing up. 

And yes… I have a dog named Willy.

Pinky's Willy

So where am I going with this?

Well I just found out that after the age of seventy you can stop having Smiegal Tests. I don’t know why. Perhaps my cervicella will just fall out... or shrivel up or something when I hit seventy. But what that means is I only have to endure eight more Smiegal Tests and it got me thinking. 

You know how bloody quickly they come around; you’ve only just thrown the results from the last Smiegal Test in the bin and before you can say Sim's double-bladed posterior vaginal speculum you get a reminder for your next one. 

Before I know it I’ll be seventy and what will I have to show for it?

Nothing.

Just this increasingly, childish blog.


NB: A cervicella is actually a moth if you Google it.

Any amusing names you'd like to share?

Pinky's Baking Post!

You all think this must be a joke huh?

Pinky baking? 

Well I must admit it is a bit of a ruse.

For months I've been linking up on Tuesday with Jess at Essentially Jess and as I've looked around the other blogs I've been consumed with jealousy.

I've barely controlled a deep-seated envy for all those great cooks out there, knowing in my spiteful heart there was nothing I could contribute to the culinary competence.

Of course there was always my signature spaghetti bolognese but I'd bet my last bottle of Wolf Blass Cab Sav you're sick of hearing about it already.

So I did what any self-respecting, double dealing cheat would do and asked someone to write a guest post.

My friend and colleague Sandra swans in every Monday with clever little cupcakes and decorated biscuits and I've often wondered why. Why would you bother when you can nick up the shop for a packet of Tim Tams?

Well it seems she has a very good reason. Something to do with being a good mother I believe... please enjoy.

Sandra has a blog and you can find it at The Book According to Callum.

Gingerbread House

                           TIME WELL SPENT

This is the culprit who started it all! Last year near Christmas, Callum spotted this gingerbread kit in the supermarket. It's a train, enough said. This was the first time I had ever attempted such a thing, but was a beautiful thing for Callum. He dressed up in his Junior Masterchef outfit (complete with chef hat - looks very cute). He stuck on most of the lollies and certainly enjoyed demolishing the train.

Fast forward to this year and little man started Kindy. I set myself the goal of baking some treats for his lunch box. This has begun a lovely ritual for Callum and I each Sunday afternoon. Early in the week we search for cupcake decorating ideas on Google images. Callum selects what he wants and when we go shopping we get the necessary ingredients.

We do cookies or cupcakes (so far). We have done a lot of train cupcakes - some with train chocolate molds, some with licorice trains. I've had a lot of fun figuring out/researching how to do some of the things required (teddies in a blanket, spider webs, teddies at the beach to name a few).

What has been most enjoyable is the growth I've seen in Callum. When we first began baking, he had to leave the room when I switched on the mix master, the noise was too much. Now he actually turns on the mix master himself. He has learned how to crack an egg, measure ingredients, is great with a rolling pin and using cookie cutters. His icing work still needs practice, but hey, he has only just turned 5. (I five now, I'm not four anymore) he has been telling everyone. 

Pinky's Favourite!

This week we had koalas (besides the 3rd batch of train cupcakes I've had to make for our 3rd fifth birthday party (we are celebrating with our Kindy friends. The joy of having child whose birthday is the middle week of the holidays. We did Daycare cupcakes before his birthday, then there was the actual day and now we are doing Kindy.)

Many people have commented that I must have a lot of spare time. I don't, but the development I have seen in my little man over the year makes this time well spent.

Sandra blogs at The Book of Callum.

 Linking up with Jess for #IBOT

Are You Getting Decrepit?

“I need to have an operation,” I groaned as I slunk into bed in my undies last night.

“Why?” asked Scotto in alarm.

“To have this roll of fat from my stomach removed,” I replied petulantly, clutching a fist of it and wobbling it around in his face.

“Don’t be silly, Pinky,” he said. “I love you for who you are.”

There were a few seconds of nervous silence as I digested this.

‘I love you for who you are???’

He used to say… “Don’t be a fool Pinky. You’re not fat.”

Now he’s saying, I love you for who you are!!!

I want him to love me for my exotically sinuous body not for who I bloody am!

“You love me for who I am,” I reiterated. “What the fudge does that mean?”

He stared at me like a starving cat caught stealing frozen prawns defrosting on the kitchen counter.

“I mean I love you the way you are… because you don’t look any different… you look the same,” he stammered.

“I knew it!” I said in triumph. “I’m fat!”

Blind Freddy could see it really. I shouldn’t need anyone to tell me. But that’s not the only sure sign of old age and its insidious advancement upon my bodylicious.

I also have a loose tooth in my head.

What? I didn’t tell you I have a loose tooth? Oh yeah… I have a loose tooth. And it’s not one of those back teeth that nobody will see when I smile. Oh no. This is a tooth that’ll instantly demote me to Swamp People status if I lose it.

I went to the dentist in a panic during the school holidays. It’s like one of those nightmares where your teeth fall out but this time it really is happening.

She took x-rays and tried to shame me.

“Look Mrs. Pinky,” she said holding them up to the light. “You have no bone left in your upper left jaw.”

I blinked away tears. “But where did it go? Will it grow back?” I asked, bottom lip trembling.

“No,” she said kindly. “Not unless you get a bone graft. You’ll have to go to a periodontist.”

I thought about all the fibs* I’ve told my boss over the years. Fibs about having to take the day off to go to a ‘dental specialist’ who’ll only see me between 9:00 and 3:00 and how now my scheming lies seem to have matured into a self-fulfilled prophecy. It was Karma come to bite me like a bitch.

“How did the dentist go?” Scotto asked me when I arrived home.

“She said my gums are so bad I could floss with a sock!” I screamed at him.

I’d seen her write ‘poor dental hygiene’ on my referral form and I was furious. Judgy McJudger!

The thing is my teeth are perfect. I haven’t had a filling since I was twelve years old so it’s not that I have poor dental hygiene at all.

It’s those five bloody kids I gave birth to within six years. My gums went all spongy for half a decade allowing nasty things to gain access.

I saw this meme on Facebook posted by our handsome Melbourne friend Mark and had to save it. It’s so true.

When I was a kid and stayed at my grandparents I’d listen to them get up in the morning and gleefully marvel at the amount of flatulence I’d hear echoing from the toilet bowl.

That’s me now. It’s like I somehow swallowed a hot air balloon during the night. It’s a wonder the neighbours haven’t rung the police to complain about someone practising a Flugelhorn at six in the morning.

Mind you, Scotto (the Trumpetmaster) is ten years younger than me and he gives the Philharmonic Orchestra a run for its money when he sits on the Iron Throne.

I don’t get it. Why do old people accumulate so much gas overnight?

At least it explains why the youngies call us “Old Farts”.

My colleagues’ opinion of my driving is further proof of my eligibility for membership to the Republic of Old Party.

“I sat beside you at the lights frantically waving and you sat there staring into space and left me hanging!” they accuse.

“Why do you sit so close to the steering wheel Pinky? Don’t you crush your knees?” they needle. “You look like a little old lady on her way to lawn bowls!”

I'm a careful driver, okay??

The final thing I’ve noticed is I’ve begun to talk like a geriatric. For example, I’ve started putting “the” in front of things I shouldn’t, as in "Is it hot in here or is it the menopause?"

“Have you seen that video clip of kangaroos fighting on the Youtube?” I asked my eighteen year old daughter Lulu yesterday. Her scowl of derision almost melted my face with its intensity.

She should remember that getting old is not a crime and one day she’ll turn into her mother… just like I have apparently.

* If my boss is reading this I really did have to go to the dental specialist.

Have you noticed any of these symptoms yet?

Blood Moon- End of Times?

Scotto ran back and forth trying to get a National Geographic quality snap of the Blood Moon and cook his own dinner at the same time last night. I’ve given up cooking dinner you see; except for spaghetti bol on Sunday night when the hobgoblins come over (and birthdays when a roast with the works is invariably requested by the birthday brat).

I feel, after twenty odd years of cooking for seven people every damn night, it’s about time I weaned them off expecting it. These days the kids are never home anyway. Can you imagine how tedious it’s been over the last two decades? I blame the monotonous, laborious ritual for my excessive drinking. It’s so much less painful to cut up potatoes with a glass of Chardonnay in your hand.

So anyway, Scotto cooked his own dinner whilst Pinky rested on her laurels; feet up on the coffee table watching the telly and leisurely throwing balls for the Fox Terrier.

Scotto kept rushing back in to check on his corn/chips/quiche in the oven. I felt not a shred of guilt.

 'I wonder if he’ll let me use one of his excellent photos on my blog or will he make me use the rubbish photos I take on my inferior Samsung phone?' I mused, sipping leisurely on my white wine.

Good eh? Pulitzer Prize for Photography?

Every now and then I’d hop out to the front lawn dodging bindi eyes to peer at the moon.

“It’s overcast on the Gold Coast so good luck to them!” he gloated in what I thought was a bit of a spiteful, photographically competitive manner.

“I’ve never heard of a blood moon until a few years ago. Is it a new thing?” I asked a non-responsive Scotto. “Surely not. The moon’s been around for at least a hundred years so why am I just now hearing about it?” 

Solar eclipses were the only thing I ever heard about when I was a kid and all I was told was DON’T LOOK AT THE SUN! YOU”LL GO BLIIIIIND! That advice came from my mother when I was eight years of age and it frightened me to death. I was too scared to go outdoors in case I accidentally glanced at the sun.

Scotto continued to ignore me and grumbled under his breath while fiddling with his lens.

“It’s not red, it’s hardly even pink!” I said, squinting at the orb in disappointment and smelling Scotto’s chips burning in the kitchen.

“I think it’s a rip off Scotto! I want my money back!”

I huffed back to my laptop and looked it up just to prove myself right. The term Blood Moon has only been around since last year and even though the moon doesn’t really turn as red as blood the media like to make everything dramatic (who knew?).

Before that it was called a Lunar Tetrad which is much less exotic.

There’s a Christian prophesy (Joel 2:31) which declares a Blood Moon to be the harbinger heralding the end of days but since the year dot there have been sixty-two lunar tetrads and we’re all still here. Someone wrote an entire book about this particular 2013-2014 lunar tetrad arguing it's a sign the world is about to change because the dates coincide with the Jewish Passover in April and the Jewish Feast of Tabernacles in October.

But clearly the world didn’t end last night so I wonder what the ‘change’ might be. Perhaps the Blood Moon signified another more specific revolutionary transformation; possibly the ending of an era. 

Maybe the Blood Moon is a sign from the heavens symbolising the fact Pinky has retired from her cooking duties? 

Thanks to Scotto's Photography

If you would like to see some more of Scotto's photographs of the Blood Moon go to this link!

Should I feel guilty for making Scotto cook his own dinner?


Do you think Pinky may have delusions of grandeur?

Stop with the Crap!

The Bachelor

Stop, stop, stop with the crap!

Every time I turn on the television someone is talking about what a cad the “Bachelor” is for dumping the girl he proposed to on a fake television show, using phoney wannabe models in a simulated scenario. Why is this tripe even in the news?

Number one… who cares? It’s fake! To call this a ‘reality’ show is like saying ‘The Office’ is a documentary because the actors look at the cameras. 

Number two… isn’t this vitriolic, relentless attack on Blake the Bachelor akin to the ‘bullying issue’ the media is always more than ready to sweep up and run with on any available front page? I call hypocrisy and it’s gone too far.

For my own reasons I didn’t watch ‘The Bachelor’. They were pretty much the same reasons I don’t and won't watch that banal program where dreary, unattractive people are locked up together in an artificial house for a period of time and proceed to progressively stab each other in the back Brutus style until only one winner remains. Yawn.

I get more entertainment watching my fox terrier chase a fly around the lounge room. Honestly... it's hilaire.

Or that equally fudge-witted show where a select group of ordinary blokes dress up as geeks and are matched up with made-up ‘beauties’ who pretend to be as dumb as dog sh#t and then magically fall in love with the transformed ‘geeks’.

How stupid do the television executives think Australian audiences are? No wonder piracy is rife...

Can we please get rid of this mind-numbing swill and get back to some quality drama or comedy.

Grandma Pinky is retiring for the night with a good book before the pus in her brain crusts over and her head caves in.

The Friends that Live in My Computer!

Pinky and her Cyber Buddies!

My eldest son Thaddeus, came over for a roast pork dinner last week as it was his twenty fifth birthday. 

I suppose now I have a twenty-five year old son I should probs think about growing up. You know, by avoiding the use of abbreviations like 'probs' instead of saying 'probably'. 

Or saying things are 'Hilaire' instead of hilarious.

Hilaire!

I spotted this at Dan Murphy's liquor outlet the other day and just like a teenager felt compelled to Instagram it, then tweet it to my 'blogging bestie', Lee-Anne. 

As I said... I should, like totally grow up.

As Thaddeus was trapped on my couch awaiting his celebratory feast I thought it might be a good time to force him to read a couple of my posts. I particularly wanted him to read the post I wrote titled, Muslims and Me which I thought he might like.

I watched him like a hawk as he scanned it. "Yes," he nodded. "Very quaint, mother."

"Quaint?" I shrilled. "I don't think quaint is the correct word, Thaddeus. Don't you mean poignant?"

"Okay, it was very poignant then," he agreed, looking at his watch then squinting towards the kitchen with a ravenous look on his face.

"Anyway, who are all these people commenting on your blog mother?" he asked in a mocking tone. "Do you know any of them?"

"Yes. I do, Thaddeus," I replied defensively. "They're my friends!"

"But you can't call them friends, Mother! Who's Jo Wake then?" he challenged.

"Jo is a lovely English lady who lives in Canada and writes about cooking and ten pin bowling and is married to Matt so there!" I replied.

"Kez?" he continued.

"Kez is a real sweetie who has a toddler son and writes inspirational posts. See! I do know them all!"

"And what about Liz?"

"Liz is a substitute teacher living in southern California who enjoys knitting," I recited.

"Linda?" he tested.

"I adore Linda! She lives on the Gold Coast but is originally from South Africa. She has older kids and hot flushes just like me!"

"Deb?" he sniffed.

"Deb lives in Hervey Bay and writes about lots of stuff, like book reviews and weight issues. She's awesome."

"Who's this Louise Allen?"

"Thaddeus! I'll have you know Louise is a General Practitioner, author and is far too smart to be reading Pinky Poinker's rubbish and even though she does live in Tasmania I don't hold that against her."

"Okay..." he paused, "Lee-Anne? Who's sh... Oh! I know Lee-Anne! She's that hot chick we had drinks with in Sydney and I ate all her dip and cheese.

Kathy? Who's Kathy when she's at home then?"

"Kathy," I replied with a self satisfied grin, "Is a lady of my vintage who has spent the last six months doing a road trip around Australia and owns a Labrador and a really nice camera."

"Rae?" he sighed.

"Rae is from Perth. I've met her and love her even though she tried to pick up Scotto in the bar at Pro Blogger, so there!"

"I bet you don't know this Yin Yang Mother my dear mother!"

"Oh yes I do Thaddeus Smarmy! I've met her too! She is an ex television journalist, has two adorable children and I'm going to be using her excellent meditation videos with my students!"

"Tell me about Denise!" he dared.

"I met Denise at ProBlogger too Thaddeus. Stunning Irish lass who writes about blogging and writing and things."

"I suppose you met Mummy Wife Me there too?"

"I did actually," I replied triumphantly. "And her name's Renee!"

"Middle Aged Mama too?"

"Yep. That's my friend from Brisbane, Janet."

"Alana Maree?"

"I haven't met her yet but we've plotted to get together for a knees up at some stage..." I smirked. "You should read her blog Thaddeus. She's pretty dope."

"Why are you saying 'dope' Mother? Don't you think you're a bit old to be using that jargon?"

"I can see you changing the subject because you're losing the argument Thaddeus," I scowled.

"Can I also add that I also regularly communicate with the hilaire Hugzy from Melbourne, Lydia who writes very thoughtful posts about all sorts of things, Kat who lives in Cairns and is married to a professional soccer player, Rebecca who writes about being a mum AND a plumber, Emily who's a funny New Zealander, Queenslander hybrid, Lisa who is very zen, Ness from Sydney, Brenda from Coogee, who's an excessively amusing and clever nut case, Alison my Scottish freind who used to blog but gave it up to do psychology  and Louisa who writes about middle age and her annoying children... children just like you, Thaddeus."

He gave up after that.

But there were two amazing revelations I gained from our debate.

Firstly,

I really have met some wonderful people since I began this blogging journey. I'd like to thank you all for being so supportive and I hope I give back to you as well. 

Secondly,

The longer you leave a roast pork in the oven the crunchier the crackling.

Who did I stupidly forget? Slap me now!

Where's My Fudging Birthday Present?

Image Credit

I’ve been in a bit of a quandary over the last few weeks. I’ve been in Struggletown.

Struggletown Upon Avon, actually.

Remember back when I wrote a post (here) about the glamorous, signature fragrance enveloping Australia’s most popular blogger, Mrs Woog from Woogsworld?

And how, if I can’t have a blog like hers the least I can do is try to smell like her? 

Well fortunately, Mrs Woog left a comment on that post alerting me to the name of her perfume thus enabling me to persist with my stalking behaviour. 

As I had a birthday approaching I decided to ferret around to determine the availability and pricing of said fragrance.

A few weeks ago I wandered into a shopping mall after work to check if the specialty fragrance store had it in stock.

After a cursory glance at my inelegant ensemble the twenty- something guy sitting behind the counter continued to play on his iPhone and ignored me. 

To be fair, I was wearing my sports teacher get-up incorporating dirty runners and elastic-waisted shorts and everyone knows if you want aristocratic shop assistants in posh shops to pay you any attention you have to look like you have more than a five cent piece and a half eaten packet of Mentos in your purse.

“Excuse me,” I said in the hoity-toity voice I save for these occasions. “Do you happen to have a perfume called Balenciaga?”

He opened a drawer and took out his catalogue of rare and high-class toilet waters.

“Yes we do,” he replied. “It’s $189 for a 100 ml bottle.”

“Okay,” I swallowed, “I have a birthday coming up so I’ll be back.”

Way too extravagant for a peasant teacher, I thought.

He shrugged. “Just so you know we’re closing down in a few weeks.”

“Oh!” I chirped. “So will you be having a closing down sale?”

The indolent sneer was back. “Our fragrances are already heavily reduced,” he sniffed.

But the desire for a bottle of the liquid gold did not stop there.

Every week I would return to the mall and sidle past the fragrance shop peering in to see Lord Snooty hunched over his phone. There were no signs of the shop closing and my birthday came and went.

“You didn’t buy me anything for my birthday,” I accused husband Scotto, in my whimpering voice last night.

“That’s because you haven’t ordered the perfume you want from the chemist, Pinky!” he replied in exasperation. “I told you to do it last week!”

“I know,” I grinned. “Just making sure you haven’t forgotten.”

I’d found out I could order it from the chemist you see, but it was at the same exorbitant price as Malfoy had quoted me and I was digging my parsimonious heels in.

I was waiting for that closing down sale; patiently biding my time like a crouching vulture waiting for the cheetah to leave the wildebeest carcass so it can pick the bones.

I decided today, being the last day of school holidays and my ninth present-less day, I’d go back to the mall for one final scavenge.


Lord Snooty was gone; and so was half the stock. A small blonde girl stood in his place playing with her iPhone.

I rushed in breathlessly.

“Do you have any Balenciaga?” I trembled, sweat beading in my moustache.

She pulled out a gift box with not only a 100ml bottle of the perfume but a complimentary bottle of body lotion. Best of all it had a big red sticker on it delightfully declaring it was on sale at $120!

Fudging FANTASTIC!

You paid WHAT for this???

The moral of the story is… A handful of patience is worth more than a watched pot that never boils because the pot is clearly broken and will never boil.

What's the most frivolously expensive thing you've indulged in?

Pinky's Original Sin!

Happy Birthday Kaz

It was two am when the taxi dropped me home this morning. 

I’d been out with the girls at Kyles’ place to celebrate my friend Kaz’s birthday.

We’d had a great time and I giggled quietly at the memory whilst fumbling with the combination lock on the front door.

“Who the fudge turned all the lights out?” I hissed. 

Hopelessly fumbling with my phone to throw some light on the combination numbers, I gasped as it slipped through my fingers and landed with a thwack on the concrete. 

“Fudge!”

But it wasn’t broken.

Eventually, after several unsuccessful code insertions, I hit on the correct numbers. Taking care not to let the cat slip past me and breathing heavily, I made it inside the house.

The very last thing I wanted to do was wake Scotto. He can be a cranky bugger when he’s woken from his slumber. 

Scary even. 

Besides, it was two o’clock in the morning and it was best he was not alerted to this fact.

I took off my heels and tip-toed up the stairs blindly feeling my way along the banister and wall; one false step and the game would be up.

Carefully I opened the bedroom door. Celine the fox terrier sat up in bed with her ears pricked. “Shhhh…” I whispered. 

Scotto snored peacefully.

There was one particular thing on my mind. A shower. I urgently needed to have a shower to wash away the scent... 

The musky scent of another guy.

If he smelt it when I slipped between the sheets my life would be over. All trust and loyalty would fade away and our relationship would be irrevocably altered… forever. 

I couldn’t let that happen.

It wasn’t my fault you know. He was irresistible. I couldn’t stop myself gazing into his gorgeous black eyes from the minute I saw him across the room. 

He had the eyes of a pirate.

I slipped off my dress and patiently waited for the shower to warm up; the shower that would wash away my sins. 

My wicked indulgence, my transgression would soon be lathered away with Dove Beauty Bar suds and circle the drain before being swept out to sea, far, far away.

Once satisfied my debauchery had been eradicated I emerged, carefully dried myself and slithered between the cool sheets. 

I felt him nuzzle against me and sigh in contentment, oblivious to my betrayal.


‘I’ve done the right thing. He will never know’ I thought in guilty relief. 

Pablo my Chihuahua will never know about Jasper, Kyle's Japanese Spitz.

Jasper who spent ALL night humping Pinky's leg!

Pablo: The real love of Pinky's life.

What's your favourite breed of dog?

Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace for FYBF!

Muslims and Me

I never write about anything contentious because… well basically I’m a gutless wonder.

But today, sick and tired of inflammatory misinformation spread by global sensationalist media, I want to write about the only Muslims I’ve ever come across.

I’ve only ever met a few in my life. There aren’t that many in North Queensland really.

Let’s see…there’s my doctor, my dentist… my gynaecologist and my tax agent. That’s probably it.

Oh yes... there was one other Muslim I met once. She was a mother at the Catholic primary school I sent all five of my kids to.

She had about six kids but one of her daughters was in my nine year old son, Hagar’s class.

I can’t remember the little girl’s name because it was eleven years ago. Hagar’s teacher had asked me to direct a play for the class entry in the local Eisteddfod. I decided to cast the little Muslim girl in the lead role of our dramatic portrayal of the antics of thirteenth century Sherwood Forest. 

She was entrancing… a natural, an exuberant charismatic talent; far more comfortable on stage than any other student in the class, including my son Hagar.

“Just make sure she wears long pants,” whispered Mr Cook the teacher. “It’s to do with her religion.” 

That was cool. She was playing Robin Hood. Robin Hood could wear long pants.

I sat beside the Muslim girl’s mother a few months later at a school basketball day. Hagar, although pretty crap as an actor, was a brilliant basketball player. He’d been allocated a key supervising role for the day and I watched him scooting around the court, passing the ball to hopeless, gangly newbies. He encouraged them, never criticising or condemning the terrible lack of skill and physical dexterity going on around him.

“I love Hagar,” commented the Muslim mum beside me dressed in her strange Hajib; strange to me as an ignorant North Queenslander anyway.

I turned in surprise.

“He has such cute eyes,” she continued. “I tell him he has cute eyes all the time when I see him after school and he blushes,” she laughed.

We sat there for the rest of the game gushing to each other how gorgeous we thought each other’s kids were.

That’s my experience with Muslims.

Just one mum talking to another about our children.

Problems with Living in a Two Storey House

“I don’t suppose you have a spare USB stick in your bag do you?” husband, Scotto asked me when we were sitting in the downstairs lounge room watching the news.

“Have you been looking through my bag?” I gestured to the bag on the floor beside me.

“No,” he replied defensively. “I just thought you might have a USB stick in there.”

“As a matter of fact I do have a brand new USB stick in my bag but I need it,” I sniped. “How did you know it was there?”

“I didn’t! I just thought you might have one.”

Yeah right! I knew what he was up to. He just didn’t want to climb the stairs to the bedroom to get his own stupid USB. He’d seen the brand new, unused one in my bag when he was snooping around pretending to look for lozenges. 

Lazy, bloody bugger.

“You can use mine if you want,” I begrudgingly agreed. “But it’s still in the packet so you’ll have to buy me a brand new one if you do.”

He sighed theatrically.

“It’s okay,” he relented. “I’ll go upstairs and get one of mine.”

Scotto was half way up the stairs when I shouted, “Can you bring down my reading glasses while you’re up there please?”

It’s a constant source of competitiveness in our house as to who has to go up and down the stairs to retrieve urgent items.

But there are worse things about living in a two storey house than the constant effort of heaving ourselves up and down eighteen steps every day to retrieve a fudging tissue.

There’s the secrecy, the murky unknown of what’s actually going on in the house on the next level.

There we were sitting on the couch; Scotto back from his epic USB pilgrimage, thinking we were alone in the house when who should walk downstairs but nineteen year old son, Padraic. He was dressed in a t-shirt and jocks and as pale as a White Walker.

“Have you been here all day?” I spluttered, spilling my Chardonnay all over the fox terrier who at the time was fixated on my face, begging for her daily exercise.

Please... throw it Mum?

Apparently Padraic had been here all day; ensconced in his day time coffin, sleeping off his horrific hangover, his car abandoned at the scene of the crime.

Meanwhile Scotto and I had thought we’d had the house to ourselves all day. 

We might have unknowingly frolicked naked in the lounge room, held an African dance party in the front room, gone skinny dipping in the pool… unaware of Padraic’s languishing presence in one of the upstairs’ bedrooms.


It made me wonder who else might be living here without our knowledge...

What short cuts do you take if you live in a two storey house?

Why my Dog will Never be Famous!

“What the hell is that ad about?” I griped every time the Ergon Energy telly commercial with the llama came on last night.

“Maybe the llama is supposed to be like the grim reaper or something,” mumbled Scotto, annoyed with my endless, picky complaints.

“But that’s just bloody stupid. Why would they use a llama for fudge’s sake?”

“No idea, Pinky” he sighed with an unnecessary element of irritation in his tone.

Not wanting to ruin Scotto’s Friday evening, I decided to ask my trusty and patient friend, Googlishis for an answer and you won’t believe it but Scotto was correct.

The Brisbane advertising company who concocted the ad apparently decided to use a llama dressed up as the Grim Reaper to frighten people into being more careful when working near electricity in the house.

Why a frickin’ llama though? A bit obscure don’t you think?

Here’s their justification…

Marianne Harvey, creative director at Clemenger BBDO Brisbane, explains that llamas are natural sentinels.

Says Harvey: "They're used by sheep farmers to warn flocks of danger. Plus, those big, black eyes stare directly into your soul. How could you forget a look like that?"

I don’t know about you but I’ve lived in Queensland for over fifty years and have never seen a wolf stalking sheep….

I’ve never spied any llamas cavorting around the sugar cane fields either for that matter.

Somebody clever left an astute comment on the site,

“Somehow I think the natural sentinel qualities of Llamas will be lost on Joe average at home.”

It seems Pinky is a Joe Average.

Couldn’t Clemengers have chosen a native Queensland animal to drive the message home?

You know, like a Grim Bandicoot, or a Grim Cassowary?

I mean… if they insisted on using a South American animal they may as well have used a Chihuahua as the key protagonist.

This Chihuahua perhaps…

Grim Chihuahua

We could have finally made money out of the useless woodland creature.

He eats us out of house and home you know. Scotto reckons he’s made of dark matter because he’s incredibly heavy for something so small.

I saw a dog on the telly yesterday making a mint for his owners by having his photograph taken dressed up in men's attire.

Why can’t we have a dog with a Linkedin profile?


Oh… that’s right. Our dog has no class.

Warning: The following contains offensive material especially for anyone under 18 or over 25. Also… anyone with taste.

Pablo the Porn star

I hope this isn’t too graphic but if you look closely you’ll notice Pablo’s amour is merely a pillow and not another woodland creature.

What's the weirdest ad you've seen lately?

On My Deathbed

As I approach my 54th birthday the usual demons and evil birthday fairies begin to whisper sinister things in my ear.

What have you done with your life, Pinky?

Why have you wasted so much time?

What purpose has your life served?

Do you really think writing blog posts about talking plants are a productive use of your time?

Scotto and I have a deal where we give each other a budget of two hundred bucks to spend on our respective birthday presents.

“It’s two days until your birthday Pinks, so you’d better get cracking and tell me what you want!” he shouted from the shower this morning as I lay in my bed, sipping my coffee with eyes shut willing them to open just a tiny slit so I could find my mouth.

So I spent today trolling around the shopping centres until, overwhelmed with agoraphobia, I scuttled back to Golden Boy and hightailed it back to my insidious nest where I felt safe from all those prying eyes. Yeah... I'm weird like that about shopping centres.

I couldn't find a thing I wanted. The truth is… I don’t need or want anything.

When I’m on my deathbed I’m not going to be longing for trinkets and jewels. I have plenty of them… and what use are they anyway?

I’m not going to be worried about what I wore to a particular occasion back in 2014 so I’m not interested in shoes and clothes. They perform a perfunctory and superficial role in my life.

I’m not going to regret the fact I didn’t have that crystal lamp, Japanese dinner set, Thermomix (whatever the hell that is), or a facial from a disinterested beautician named Mystique who tells me in great detail about her boyfriend who’s just won a title in the local body building championships.

What I really want for my birthday is that my kids remember my day this year without me having to leave post it notes on the fridge.

I mean… they are all adults now so they should remember shouldn't they? Not like last year when not one remembered until I sent them a pissed off text message at ten o'clock in the evening.

And what I will really want on my death bed is for my five children to be there holding my hand. And Scotto of course. And more than anything, my poopies.

My poopie Pablo's paw.

That to me is what life’s really all about… just a thought.

Finishing off bottle of Gin and going to bed now :)

What matters to you in life? I'd love to hear...