Twenty-Three Things I Wish My Mum Told Me

I don’t know about you but I hate inspirational quotes. 

They annoy me greatly.

At my lowest point in life, as an unemployed, divorced, single mother of five primary school aged children, my favourite quote (which I stuck on the bathroom mirror) was

“The light at the end of the tunnel are the lights of an oncoming train.”

For some reason this gave me hope. It was comforting in some sick sort of way. If I expected the worse then I wouldn't be in for any nasty surprises. Thankfully, things did get better. Nonetheless I still gag when I see over-optimistic and unrealistic platitudes plastered all over my Facebook page.

1. Challenge yourself with something you know you could never do- a fruitless exercise. You can challenge yourself as much as you want but you already know you can’t do it… duh.

2. It is never too late to be what you might have been- except young and fresh again, or a classical ballerina or the next up and coming lingerie football player.

3. All our dreams can come true, if we have the courage to pursue them- but when you see a cliff don’t be silly and brave thinking you can fly off it by flapping your arms really hard like you did in your dream last night because it won’t come true and you’ll most likely hurt yourself a lot.

4. Life is 10% what happens to me and 90% how I react to it – and 60% studying for that maths test in Grade 10 because what you ending up doing with the rest of your life is 80% how you do at school and 20% about how pretty you are... whether you’re a male or female.

5. You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take- which to me means you’ll have less of a hangover the next day.

6. If opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door- but add a peep hole in case opportunity is trying to con you via a pyramid selling scheme or a new phone company contract.

7. Failure is the condiment that gives success its flavour- and failure tastes really sour so success must sometimes be a lemon.

8. Luck is a dividend of sweat. The more you sweat, the luckier you get- unless you’re trying to pick up in a bar or hanging by your hands on a metal pole over a river of hungry crocodiles.

9. What counts is not necessarily the size of the dog in the fight–it’s the size of the fight in the dog- unless you’re a Chihuahua fighting a German Shepherd.

10. Many of life’s failures are experienced by people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up- but if they had known they would have kept on going and ended up as a success and wouldn’t be counted among the failures so the advice is still relevant… I suppose. 

11. I will not follow where the path may lead, but I will go where there is no path, and I will leave a trail- yeah, so someone, anyone can find me and rescue me as I stumble blindly in the shrubbery, covered in mosquito bites and dying of thirst.

12. I haven’t failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work- and now, after all that wasted time, my life is almost over so I guess I failed after all.

13. It’s not whether you get knocked down, it’s whether you get up- because if you don’t get up it means you’re probably dead or critically injured but you shouldn’t get up anyway until it’s been confirmed you don’t have a fractured disc because you could injure yourself further by moving.

14. That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger- but sometimes what doesn’t kill us makes us so weak we’d rather be dead, or at least in need of an entire weekend sleeping and eating toasted cheese sandwiches watching Seinfeld repeats.

15. The only thing we have to fear is fear itself- well it’s not the only thing. There’re also spiders, snakes, earthquakes, death and seeing your boyfriend’s severed head being bounced by a madman on your car roof but I guess fear is pretty scary too.

16. Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned- unless you actually throw it then it might hit them and that would be funny and quite therapeutic.

17. The best way out is always through- unless you’re on a bear hunt and you have to go under it, over it, in it, etc.

18. I don’t know the key to success, but the key to failure is trying to please everybody- except your boss, the taxation department, your parents and everyone that reads your stupid blog.

19. Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted- which I think means money doesn’t count but you can’t count your health and family. But you can count your family. One, two, three, four, five, six… there, done it.

20. It wasn’t raining when Noah built the ark – but it was raining when I was sitting at work today picturing my only clean sheets on the washing line so Noah must have been really psychic or had higher connections with the BOM than me.

21. The difference between ordinary and extraordinary is that little extra- annoying five letters.

22. What you do speaks so loudly that I cannot hear what you say- especially when you’re talking to me while you’re stuffing things down the damn garbage disposal.

23. Actions speak louder than thoughts- Well get off Facebook and go and save a frickin rescue dog or something.

24. If the facts don’t fit the theory, change the facts- this is the backbone of every principle I’ve let guide my life thus far. Can you tell?

Scotto read this and told me I’m a bitter and twisted old woman.

Do you agree with him or are you sick of these platitudes too?

Can you Sing?

I’d like to explode a widespread myth that even I, at one stage in my life, fell for like an unco-ordinated middle-aged woman on a random piece of salami.

Yes, I have recently slipped over at Coles on a piece of salami discarded by a trolley-sitting toddler who’d freshly paid homage to one of those ladies who hand out bits of free salami.

I think she orchestrated the whole incident to tell the truth, all because she was pissed off when I said, “No thanks, I’m on a diet,” when she’d offered it to me and she just thought, “Yeah, well I’ll show that bi-artch a diet.”
Anyway it did hurt because I strained my neck trying to counter balance and people saw and I was considerably embarrassed so my feelings were hurt as well.

Salami pushers should be banned.

My point however, is that not everyone CAN sing.

I agree you can learn to basically follow a tune but most people don’t possess, and never will, the correct anatomy to produce an even remotely agreeable sound.

It would be the same as if you bent a flute via a welding thing-a- ma-bob. It would still play but the key would be wrong and the notes would be just a tiny bit off.

At one stage I fancied I could be a singer. I enrolled in expensive singing lessons and went for at least eight weeks of coaching. My secret dream was to leap up on the stage one night at Karaoke and belt out a Britney Spears number in front of my unsuspecting friends bringing the house to its knees with my talent. I could picture the tears gleaming in their eyes and the stunned congratulatory praise when I eventually, after three or four encores, left the stage begging for a break. They’d all buy me drinks and say how much of a dark horse I was.

That, needless to say, never eventuated.

Believe me I practised. The kids would complain as I trilled up and down the scales in the car. I managed to perfect one note and walked around the house la-la-ing that note over and over to get my diaphragm working and drove my then husband insane.

I just don’t have the plumbing to be a Shirley Bassey I’m afraid.

But I love singing and the only opportunity I get is at school when the entire community stand and sing their hearts out to Advance Australia Fair. My tuneless unmusicality is drowned out by the other 800 voices and boy do I let it out.

Britney would be proud.

But the kids in my class often turn around and stare at me in mild amusement.

They can’t figure out why Mrs. Poinker loves the National Anthem so much.

Somehow I managed to score a role in the chorus of the local production of Camelot.
There was no call back for any other productions.

Can you sing? Do you have a secret talent?

Linking up with Jess from Essentially Jess for #IBOT!

Is My Dog Smarter than your Child?

If you ask a child (usually younger than five years of age) which stick is longer when you have two identical sticks laid out together, they’ll say they’re the same. But if you move one stick to the right or left they’ll say one of them is longer even though they’re the exact same sticks and of course the exact same length.

This is a developmental thing and eventually all kids will ‘get’ it. Some take a bit longer than others which is part of the reason teaching maths in grade one and two can be so difficult. It;s called conservation of length.

There’s also conservation of volume and conservation of number. Thank you to Monsieur Jean Piaget for enlightening us all about children’s cognitive development.

But you’d think if a four year old child fails to understand the concept, it would be impossible for a dim-witted Fox Terrier and surly Chihuahua to comprehend… but somehow ours do.

We give them a milky treat every morning and evening and sometimes I run low and have to give them a half each. 

They’re fully aware of this aberration and will sit on the end of the bed, livid, eyeballing me and licking their lips in scandalised disappointment.

How can they tell I've short changed them? How do they know they’re only getting five centimetres of doggy lolly instead of ten?

Are my dogs smarter than a four year old?

Ermahgerd! Merlk trerts!

Mind you the milky treats smell delicious, a bit like those milkshake lollies and even I’m tempted to eat one, especially after dinner when I feel like something sweet. Scotto had a bite one evening and gave the thumbs up commenting that they’re thoroughly enjoyable.

I might take him to the vet for his heart worm needle tomorrow.

The dogs become very excited when it’s time for their milky treat but there’s only one thing that sends them into an absolutely uncontrollable spiral of delirious gyration; the arrival of my son Thaddeus on spaghetti night.

I reckon he must slip them something under the dinner table when I’m not looking.


Why else would Pablo act like he loves Thaddeus more than he loves me?

Different Forms of Torture

When I was a really little girl, but a dot, my kindergarten took us on an excursion to the zoo. We had a zoo in Townsville back then. It consisted of a bedraggled, destitute lion, a mange-ridden, stinky bear, and a few other exotic animals trapped in depressing cages biding their time in the North Queensland heat until they died after ingesting a chocolate milk carton fed to them by an unassuming kinder student (not me I promise).

It was a disgrace our zoo and it was either closed down or the guy running it went broke. I know not.

But my point is not how cruel and horrible zoos are; it’s about how I bet you my last glass of Chardy the Kindergarten teachers back then didn’t have to fill out a Risk Assessment form before we climbed into the un-seat belted bus and went to view a dismal array of moulting and miserable safari animals.

If they had to fill out such a form I reckon they would have said, “Get stuffed. I can’t be bothered with this shit. We’re not going.”

Everything is so complicated now. Everything needs forms. I hate forms. I really hate forms. Stop the bus and let me off.

Forms for performance reviews stand out in my mind as being particularly appalling…

and the subsequent reflection forms.

I think they should have a special form for us to explain why we shouldn't be obligated to have to fill out pointless, airy fairy forms.

Why do you hate forms?	They’re useless and nobody reads them properly anyway. In fact you're probably skimming this right now.
What do you think we should do instead?	Eat a banana.
How do you think your performance rates?	Pretty fudging good considering the amount of futile forms I have to fill out thus wasting my valuable fudging TIME.
What do you think would improve your performance?	Having more time to actually do my work and less time having to fill out needless, inane forms would help.
What do you intend doing about it?	Write a blog post expressing my frustration thus leading to the possible cessation of my employment.
What will you do to evaluate your development?	Look up and memorise as many words on my Thesaurus I can that mean senseless, worthless, stupid, purposeless, aimless and wasteful to write a really colourfully worded evaluation. Or I might just copy and paste last year’s reflections since no one will read it. I hope.

How do you feel about forms?

Cloudy with a Chance of Bullshit.

Imagine if you were violently electrocuted by lightning hitting your house because you were on your (charging) laptop, manically looking up the B.O.M. (Bureau of Meteorology) to check if there was the possibility of a thunderstorm approaching. 

Would that be irony? Or stupidity? Or a dodgy safety switch system?

I do it all the time, even though Scotto yells at me when I do.

The trouble is, where we are in Townsville, North Queensland, we always seem to miss out on the cooling rain and storms. It’s something to do with the bloody topography.

We lust rain here. I’d give away my first born for rain. In fact he’d probably give himself to you if you paid off his HECs debt.

This has been the hottest summer I’ve ever experienced up here in frontier land.

But if there’s one thing I hate, it’s whingey, whiny blog posts, so I won’t tell you about how I can’t even tell anymore if I’m having a hot flush or if the mercury level has burst through the thermometer and seeped into my brain.


I won’t even tell you about the kids in my class who come to me with blue lips and their teeth chattering, begging, “Mrs. Poinker, for the love of Jesus, can you please turn the air-conditioning down?” and how I just reply, “No. Bugger off and bring a jumper to school tomorrow.”

I won’t go into the grim details of how my yoghurt curdles in the short trip to work or how there are mushrooms growing between my toes because of the humidity.

Instead I want to tell you about an idea I’ve had and I need your imput.

I want to be a weather person thingy.

I want to be ‘unaccountable’.

I want to say things like, “Tomorrow there’ll be a 50% chance of storms.”

Can you imagine if I was sitting in a parent teacher interview and I said,

“Your son has a fifty per cent chance of passing but only if the south winds form a trough that provide a cool breeze that intercepts with the upper atmosphere moisture. There’s a chance of his scraping through mathematics but his literacy is light and variable, depending on the tides. He’s a bit foggy in the morning but that should clear at morning tea when he eats his first food for the day when it may become windy. We usually expect unstable and inclement weather after lunch when he’s had his salt and vinegar chips with an iced coffee chaser.”

I just love the way weather forecasters hedge their bets.


New career for me?

What career would you like to switch to?

“So Mrs. Poinker, will you be going up to Grade Five next year with us because you’ll have learned everything in Grade Four?” asked a little cutie in my class today.

“No sweetie, this is my sixth year in Grade 4,” I replied despondently.

She looked at me with a soupcon of pity. 

“What a dumbass teacher Mrs. Poinker is,” she must have been thinking.

The truth is I don’t know if I’ll even have a job next year what with our tree change to Mount Tamborine and all. Unlike Pete Evans, I don’t look in the mirror and see a youthful teenager staring back at me. I see a woman of advanced years with glazed eyes, a relaxed jawline and a possible penchant for furtive drinking.

Scotto keeps encouraging me to write application letters and get my name out there but I’m scared. I haven’t written one of those types of letters for decades… centuries even.

I don’t even know what my strengths are: an ability to exploit highly expressive and ludicrous voices when I’m reading stories to the students in order to hold their attention? 

I don’t think that would cut it.

Maybe my prospective employers will take one look at my resume, have a good snort over it when they spot my age and chuck it in the bin.

Perhaps I should look for work outside of teaching.

Most teachers I know, exhausted at the end of term, say they’d quite like to work at Bunnings. They’re particularly specific about it being Bunnings. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because there are lots of aisles you can hide in and slide under with a nice magazine.

Or it might be that there are rarely any children to be seen mid-week at a Bunnings outlet.

I don’t fancy Bunnings myself. I don’t know the difference between a Sphincter Valve and a Grease Nipple Kit.

I could see myself working in a second hand bookstore though. Preferably one I owned myself. I could take my dogs to work with me and sit around in a rocking chair with a shawl over my knees sipping tea and ignoring customers. I own enough books to have a book store. But then I’d probably sell them and have to order more and I couldn't stand the paperwork. Besides I don’t think second hand books are much of a money spinner.

Of course I could incorporate local wine tastings into the second hand book shopping experience. We could have poetry readings (where I got to use my silly voices) and wine sessions to raise extra revenue. Although I’d most likely drink all the wine and end up with a hangover I suppose.

But then I’d get to sleep in every day because no one wants to buy books in the morning do they?

I could open the shop at 11:00 am and have a nice breakfast before work. I’d have eggs and sausages I think. 

I could learn to paint watercolours and have a corner of the shop set up with my works for sale. I might become famous and rich… it’s not impossible. 

Is it?

Yeah I know. I’d better write those bloody letters and get my name out there.

I’m not fishing for compliments but can you think of any hidden strengths I might have?

Does anyone want to write my resume for me?

The Amazing New Amoeba Diet

This week, proponents of the Paleolithic Diet are reeling in shock after a new hypothesis emanated from experts and fanatical adherents to weight loss regimes. 

The latest diet, the Amazing Amoeba Diet has surpassed the Paleo diet in popularity stakes and dominates the conversation topics of fashionable A Listers such as the Kardashians, Paris and Nicky Hilton and their little brother, Perez. 

The theory behind the popular Paleolithic diet is based on the premise that before the development of agriculture and animal husbandry, humans satisfied their nutritional needs with foods readily available at the time. Modern human metabolisms have been unable to adapt quickly enough to cope with foods such as grain, dairy and Macca’s Fillet o Fish, thus leading to a breakdown in our digestive system’s ability to cope and leading to insidious disease and a lot of unnecessary fatty boombahism.
Paleo exponents recommend we eat a diet matching early Stone Age man in order to place our metabolisms back on track.

How about we do a Maccas run instead tonight?

However, leading experts now purport that we, as a society, need to re-evaluate our calculations to even further back in history and examine the original source of life 3.5 billion years ago; when single-cell marine organisms first appeared.

Dr Rocky Crust, Senior Professor from the Crock Swindler Institute states,

“The one-celled creatures living in the cradle of Earth’s life provide the true revelation of where our digestive systems should be at. The amoeba didn’t need to go and enter silly marathons, Colour Runs or pay expensive gym memberships in order to prevent diabetes, tooth decay and obesity. 

In fact, the simple creatures did very little exercise apart from a lazy swim around a warm pond. The crux of the matter is this; you can’t get much thinner than a single celled creature can you? I think that pretty much sums up our argument. The amoeba’s exceptional secret to a bikini bod was its impeccable diet.”

But what did the single cell organism actually eat all those years ago? 

In light of the fact the amoeba was not in possession of a centralised organ (a.k.a brain) it still managed to maintain a regulated nutrient supply. 

“Much like a teenage boy,” declared Dr Crust. “the amoeba sucked up protein and sugar from anywhere it could in a 2:1 ratio. It was a ravenous scavenger.”

Professor Fay Kerr from Crock Swindler has already written and published a book on the topic, “The Euphoric Prehistoric Cook Book” with accompanying suggested recipes such as the delicious sounding, Archean Primordial Soup. The professor is also working on her second book whilst touring the country promoting her upcoming television series, “The Dubious Nucleus Rules”.

When asked for his opinion on the new diet, self-professed Paleo authority, Pete Evans had this to say, "It's a load of f#*&ing garbage."

The jury is still out on the Amazing Amoeba Diet but the evidence looks promising.



Warning: This diet is not recommended for anyone under the age of 3.5 billion years.

Why aren't they called Cockatoo Smugglers?

I was having a quick, condensed, twenty minute conversation with some colleagues in our staff room the other day and I won’t name who it was because one of them recently threatened to sue me for alleged defamation on my blog (hi Shazza). Two of them were male colleagues and the other was Lee-lee.

For some reason; I think it was the impending swimming carnival, we were discussing budgie smugglers, banana hammocks, lolly bags, DTs (aka dick togs) and whatever else they’re called.

“I can tell you an embarrassing story about budgie smugglers!” I said.

Four forks full of microwaved leftovers clinked down on plates and four sets of eyes stared at me in unadulterated fascination.

“What?” hissed Lee-lee. “Tell us, Pinky!”

Lunch time in the staffroom is pretty boring.

“Well…” I tantalisingly drawled, enjoying my fifteen seconds of fame. “It was when my kids were little and having swimming lessons. The swim coach wanted to talk to me about their progress and he was standing there dripping wet in his budgie smugglers and I had a fleeting glimpse at his bulging manhood.”

“What? You mean you looked at it?” choked J.B. one of my male colleagues in absolute disgust.

“I had to!” I squawked in my own defence.

“You had to?” he echoed with barely disguised contempt.

“I couldn’t help it!” I said. “It was like my eyes were drawn to it! You know when someone has a mole the size of a twenty cent piece in the middle of their face with hairs sticking out of it and you can’t help staring? I didn’t want to look at it!”

“So what did he do? Did he catch you looking?” asked an enthralled Shazza.

“Yep, he knew I’d glanced at it alright. He just sort of stopped talking for a few seconds and sneered at me in distaste, then kept talking about Thaddeus’ doggy paddle style.”

“And what did you do after that?” asked O’Reilly.

“I think I blushed, and very soon after that changed swim schools,” I replied, picking at my chia seed health bar thoughtfully.

I’ve never forgotten the incident which occurred about twenty years ago. It still makes me cringe in shame.

The trouble with budgie smugglers is that there’s only the sheerest of nylon between the pulsating thing enclosed and the outside world. It’s impossible to maintain eye contact when you’re talking to a man wearing nothing bar a nylon tissue standing two feet away from you without peeking and I think this is why women hate them so much.

We don’t want to look but we sort of have to. It’s not nice but it’s true.

It’s a similar thing when you’re talking to someone who’s cross-eyed and you don’t know which eye to look at so you just stare at a spot in the middle of their forehead because you don’t want to inadvertently address your concerns to the eye that's not really looking at you.

Anyway, at the end of the day I think the little chat with my male colleagues was beneficial because they both wore board shorts to the swimming carnival yesterday, praise the lord. 

Either that or they’re now afraid of me.

Nothing Ever Bloody Works

My friend Mailer Daemon

I received a shite load of emails the other night from someone called ‘Mailer Daemon’. 

There were over two hundred, all up. Ms or Mr Daemon sent them to me straight after I’d opened a strange email from a friend of mine which contained an advertisement from that irritating crowd who market Cambogia Garcinia weight loss tablets.

My friend had been hacked and by opening the email sent to me it seemed I too had been violated; e-Raped.

If you get a weird email from me telling you to try Camdodgier Farcinia belly fat tablets, then don’t open it. I would never promote this product in a million years because… well, it clearly doesn’t frickin work despite what the ‘celebrities’ say.

This is how I know.

If it really worked no one in the world would be fat.

If there really was a miracle cure for fatness everyone would buy it and there’d be no fatties left, including me. I’d guzzle those tablets like they were Tic Tacs.

When everyone became thin as a twig it wouldn’t be the preferred shape anymore and everyone would want to be fat again. We’d be spammed by Sara Lee instead of tamarind extract. 

Models would waddle down the catwalk and we’d all be a lot less p#ssed off.

As I’m always telling Scotto when he stares longingly at the telly, it’s the same with those heinously expensive baldness cures you see advertised.

If they worked do you think this terrible situation would exist?

Do you think this very wealthy man would go around looking like he scraped the hairs from Pamela Anderson’s shower drain and glued them to his head if there was a real solution? 

It's not as if he can't afford it.



I’ll tell you something else that doesn’t bloody work the way they do on the telly; fast food joints.

Every fudging time I go via the drive thru thingy they say, “If you wouldn’t mind just driving forward and waiting in that bay, madam.”

My brother-in-law Pedro, just grouches, “Nup,” when they ask him to park and wait. “This is supposed to be fast food, bring me my fast food!” he says defiantly and sits behind the wheel in steely resolve. They can’t call the police can they? They just have to cook his burger really fast, like fast food should be cooked.

Varicose vein creams don’t work either. Magical face creams never give you the same result as a face-lift. You'd be better off pulling your ponytail extra tight.

Under garments that are supposed to make you look 10 kgs lighter just push the fat up under your arms. Fake nails wreck your own nails the same way eyelash extensions wreck your own eyelashes.

And don't get me started on computers and the like.

Technology NEVER works properly. I’m yet to attend a conference where the speaker is unimpeded by ‘gremlins’ in the system when attempting to show a carefully constructed video they laboured over for hours and which is intrinsic to the presentation.

In fact I think technology is THE most unreliable product in the universe. Literally. #See Mars Rover.

Nothing works like they say it does. Nothing. Everything is substandard rubbish.



What have you been hideously disappointed with lately?

A Valentine's Day Quicky

An author/blogging friend, Susan Lattwein prompted a Flash Fiction challenge for Valentine's Day.

Susan has written and published two books, Arafura and its sequel which are available on Amazon.

Pinky's Flash Fiction

Lola stuffed the corner of the letter under the bread container where she could be sure Chris would find it. 

‘Ha!’ she thought, ‘A nice little surprise for him to find when he arrives home.’

Suddenly, with nervous afterthought she decided to check it one more time. Sliding the note out and opening the folded paper she reviewed her shaky writings.

Dear Christopher,

Firstly, thank you for picking me up from the airport last night and wining and dining me at our favourite restaurant by the river. You called me every night I was away to check I’d opened one of the seven cards you’d so eloquently penned and left concealed in my suitcase; one for each day. ‘Such a romantic man,’ I thought. ‘My soulmate.’

The flowers, the quartet of violins, the private terrace and your romantic proposal, gosh, last night was like a fairy tale.

I awoke this morning to find your note telling me to enjoy my lie in and to let myself out of your unit at my leisure. I luxuriated under the doona thinking about our future and your beautiful words to me last night. I held the diamond ring up to the sunlight streaming gloriously through the window and watched the carats sparkle.

I’ve never felt so warm, contented and safe. Our lives could not be more perfect, Chris.

Then I found them.

Was one week too long for you to wait for me, my virile Narcissus? Did you endeavour to fight your carnal desire but discovered seven days was just too long a time to resist quenching your animalistic needs?

The three long, blonde hairs on your pillow slip were hard to miss.

At first I tried to come up with an explanation. Your housekeeper’s hair perhaps, I desperately grasped at straws. Then I recalled Mrs. Cheeseman’s short, matronly, grey bob.

Well Chris, I’d like to say thank you for the good times. I can see this relationship meant much more to me than you.

As the ancient Chinese saying goes, I hope you rot in hell.

Lola.

P.S. The diamond ring is in the toilet bowl and I’ve concealed the bag of prawns from your fridge somewhere special. I’m sure you’ll sniff them out eventually.

Satisfied the note was adequately pithy, Lola heaved her handbag over her shoulder and pulled the deadlocked door of the unit closed; a symbolic closing of one rather large window in her life.

Trembling with emotion, she walked past Chris’ spoiled Afghan hound lounging on the patio and stopped. She’d miss Sheba. Despite her constant slobbering, Lola found her to be an affectionate old mutt and she felt sad she’d never see the dog again.

Lola stooped to rub the dog’s neck just behind her furry ears. It was the place Sheba loved to be stroked the most.

It was then Lola noticed the long blonde hairs all over the patio decking and the penny dropped.



She glanced back in horror at the deadlocked door and wondered why she’d never asked Chris for a key.

Don't forget to check out the first five chapters of Lee-Anne Walker's exciting new novel, "Eyes of Violet" on Pinky's Previews

Fifty Shades of Foreplay

This is my Valentine's Day post.

Toenail Clippings

1. Sets air-con in her bedroom to below freezing.

2. Locks the front door with wicked relish.

3. Wipes down her dusty bedside table to clear away odd fluff and toenail clippings.

4. Polishes wine glass until it sparkles.

5. Puts  crisp wine in fridge to chill.

6. Prepares low fat cheese and fruit plate.

7. Covers plate with Glad Wrap and puts in fridge.

8. Cleans teeth.

9. Flosses teeth and spits blood. Cries a little at disintegrating-body-syndrome symptoms.

10. Uses mouth wash.

11. Showers with delicious, coconut body scrub.

12. Washes and conditions hair with products that smell like strawberry shortcake. Feels hungry.

13. Shaves her legs and puts toilet paper dots on cuts afterwards.

14. Applies silky body lotion with sensual strokes avoiding stinging cuts on legs.

15. Scrapes dead skin from her feet with pumice.

16. Brushes dead skin off bed onto carpet.

17. Blow dries her hair in sexy fluffy waves.

18. Applies cherry lip balm to her dry lips.

19. Puts fig-scented moisturiser on bedside table for later.

20. Changes the sheets on bed. Thinks it must be about a fortnight since last change. Can't recall. 

21. Fluffs her pillows.

22. Sprays expensive perfume around room to disguise pervading doggy aroma.

23. Closes blinds.

24. Opens blinds again and checks street for strange cars after hearing German Shepherd in backyard barking head off.

25. Straightens wedding photo on wall.

26. Smiles wistfully at the youthful faces in photo.

27. Notices gecko poo on photo frame.

28. Scratches off poo with fingernail.

29. Files broken fingernail with emery board.

30. Checks phone for messages.

31. Sees message from eldest son asking obscure question about the life of Mao Tse Tung.

32. Turns phone on to silent.

33. Fires up laptop.

34. Answers urgent emails regarding periodontal appointment confirmation.

35. Becomes engrossed in video about cats terrorising dogs.

36. Snaps laptop shut with steely willpower.

37. Checks self in bathroom mirror with stomach sucked in.

38. Checks self in mirror for front on view.

39. Tries to stifle bitter tears.

40. Checks self while squeezing stomach fat and pushing it to the side, out of sight.

41. Sees distant possibility of nice body after six week 500 calorie a day diet.

42. Feels slightly optimistic.

43. Does a little dance in front of mirror and feels sad again when sees how much jiggling is occurring.

44. Puts on flattering (loose) nightie.

45. Goes downstairs and retrieves wine and cheese plate.

46. Takes upstairs and places on bedside table.

47. Pours chilled wine in glass.

48. Pushes arrogant Chihuahua off her side of the bed.

49. Slips between cool sheets.

50. Dims lights.



Turns on Kindle to read latest Marian Keyes book and at last feels completely and utterly satisfied.

Today I lost 85kg but gained 55 back.

So... are you ever coming back Dad?

This morning Scotto flew off to work in Cairns for a week. The dogs were a bit peeved about it.


But my 18 year old daughter, Lulu arrived back home today after two weeks of partying in Melbourne… alive.


She phoned me last week all in a huff.


Apparently she was scolded by a train officer for putting her feet on the train seat and given a $200 fine.


“Did you tell him you come from Hicksville where we don’t have frickin trains?” I asked her in panic as it suddenly dawned on me she’d probably spent all her holiday funds and would have to borrow the money for the fine from me.


“Yes Mum,” she replied. “But he didn’t care. He went off his brain.”


Bloody, officious train people.


So I thought I’d pen a letter to voice my concern.


Dear Mr. Fat Controller,


Recently my daughter, Lulu was visiting your fair city of Melbourne and made the mistake of restin’ her pinkies on one of your train seats. I heard you did ya lolly with ‘er. In her defence I’d like to point a few facts out if it’s not too much bother to ya and I hope ya not goin’ to go off at me like a bucket of prawns in the hot sun, like ya did to my daughter.


Ya see we don’t have no trains up here in this necka the woods in North Queensland. Bugger me, we don’t even have no buses that run past drinkin’ time. Why, my kids don’t even wear shoes up here unless they have to cross the bitumen road, and there ain’t too many of them to be seen here either. Mosta our roads are the dirt kind.


Fair dinkum, I remember takin’ my kids to the Pacific Fair Shoppin’ Centre at the Gold Coast so’s they could ride up and down the escalator thingimebobs for a few hours as entertainment. They’d never seen movin’ stairs before. It was like some kinda miracle. Even then the security guards were very understandin’ and let us go without callin’ no boys in blue.


The only trains North Queenslanders know about is them cane trains and they don’t have no seats at all! You can ride in ‘em but you gotta make sure you hop out before they arrive at the sugar refinery ors you might end up as molasses.


I knows it must be hard for youse all to do your job with all those kids slashin’ seats and puttin’ their chewy and graffiti all over the place, but me little girl ain’t done nothin’ wrong like that. I’d be real cheesed off if that was the case. She’d be in for a walloping if I ever caught wind about those types of shenanigans.


Up here in North Queensland we put our filthy feet up on’n everythin’: the seats in the thee-aters, the doc’s surgery, the cinemaplex and sometimes even up on the dinner table. That’s if we’re lucky ‘nough to have a dinner table and not just be using a crate of four x beer left over from the Sundee roast chook.


Crikey, we even pick things up with our feet up here. If I’m cookin’ dinner and a pea rolls off me husband’s plate I just pick it up with me toes and put it back on the plate.


I’ll have a good chinwag with me daughter when she gets home this arvo and tell ‘er about how much more culturated youse Melbournians are and how ya don’t do things like plant your drongo feet on a train seat.


I know ya work on a train but I’ll bet ya don’t have tickets on yourself and won’t mind pullin’ your head in for once. I know indignants is no excuse for the law but it’d be really grouse if you could kinda forget about that fine because she needs to pay to have ‘er car fixed and has Buckley’s chance of gettin’ the dough outta me.


Cheers Big Ears,

Pinky xx

How do you reckon that'll go down?

P.S. Scotto just rang to say he's only 75kg not 85kg. 
Soz.

Linking up with Jess at Essentially Jess for #IBOT

Dummy Knobs

Dumb as a door knob.

“I have to stop in at Bunnings when we’re out shopping Pinky,” said Scotto yesterday morning.

I grunted my disapproval. I hate going to bloody Bunnings with all its dusty aisles full of boring rivets and screws.

“I need some dummy knobs,” he added.

“Isn’t that tautology?” I asked.

He rolled his eyes. “You’re a dummy knob, Pinky.”

“No, you are,” I replied with the quick wit I’m renowned for.

We have to start fixing up our house since we’re putting it on the market later in the year.

The dummy knobs are for the lounge room doors which my five kids have gradually wrecked after thirteen years of careless yanking.

There’s a big crack in the upstairs hallway wall which Hagar and Jonah created many years ago during a particularly violent altercation over a mystery ten dollar note.

Of course the carpets all need replacing due to nail polish, paint and Macca’s coke spills; especially the one in the corner bedroom where a certain eighteen year old spewed all over the middle of the floor after celebrating his inaugural drinking birthday. No matter how hard I scrubbed the stain never came out and that was seven years ago.

The walls all need painting after a generation of fifty grubby, little fingers covered in Nutella then later mechanic’s grease, were smeared all over them. Not to mention the blu-tack stains dotting every centimetre; the result of Michael Jordan or Justin Bieber posters from days gone by.

Even the tops of the door frames are heavily soiled from when my young men grew bigger and would jump up to see how tall they were getting... every time they walked through them.

Each set of blinds in the house needs to be replaced since every single one was snapped after one of my baby bear cubs viciously pushed the other into the blind's vicinity during a fight over television channels, access to the only computer in the house, or whom stole the other's rubber thongs.

Three bedroom doors need to be restored; the constant slamming has almost ripped them from their hinges.

The wooden floors in the downstairs’ hallway need a re-polish after over a decade’s worth of scuffing basketball shoes, footy spikes and a gaggle of teenage girls in high heels on their way to a party.

Our grass is destroyed after Monday spaghetti nights when all five kids descend like fruit bats for a feed and park their cars on our front lawn. It’ll need re-turfing for sure.

There’s so much work to do.

And so many precious memories of a happy, growing family will be erased so that the house is sparkling and fresh; ready to welcome a new, young family, who’ll hopefully have as much fun as we did while wrecking it all over again.

How long have you lived in your current house? Would moving be a monumental effort for you too?

On a less sentimental note! Please check out my friend Lee-Anne Walker's new novel, "Eyes of Violet" on Pinky's Previews.

I'll be posting the first five chapters of Lee-Anne's enthralling novel each day this week.

Enjoy!

Don't Do Drugs!

We were probably tempting fate when we named our Chihuahua, Pablo Escobark, after the infamous drug lord.

Scotto pulled up in the driveway after work on Tuesday to find a highly distressed Pinky, pacing the front patio with a bedraggled Chihuahua draped in a towel in her arms.

“Don’t close the garage door!” I shrieked melodramatically. “We might have to rush to the vet! We have a situation!”

I’d arrived home from work, made a coffee, began reading the newspaper then noticed Celine the fox-terrier had followed me upstairs but the Chihuahua was nowhere to be seen. This was uncharacteristic of him. I called out and waited for the familiar rat like, scuttling noises up the stairs… but none came. 

I sighed and wandered downstairs.

Honestly, it’s like having a three year old; gawd knows what the little shite was up to.

I heard a raspy, hacking, Joe Cocker type cough coming from the lounge room.

Pablo staggered out, foaming liberally at the mouth with eyeballs rolling around in their sockets.

I’d witnessed this grisly scenario before. It was a clear case of ‘cane toad crack head’.

High as a kite.

I scooped the perma-fried speed freak up and stuck him under the laundry tap while he spluttered and belligerently protested.

“Leave me alone, man! I just wanna get high. You suck man!”

As soon as Scotto arrived, he drenched Pablo under the tap and washed the dog's mouth out again while I made an anxious phone call to the vet.

“He looks a bit weird,” I told the girl. “His eyes are staring in different directions.”

“He’s probably just a bit stoned, you know… off his face,” said the receptionist after consulting the vet. “Keep an eye on him, but he should be alright.”

Luckily for him, the wee junkie ferret recovered quickly then developed a raging case of the munchies and ate Celine’s dinner as well as his own.

I’ve lost a dog before as the result of an insidious addiction to the hallucinogenic effects of cane toad venom. That dog died in the back of my car on the way to the vet. It was his fifth O.D. He was totally burned, that dog.

Cats don’t often go for toads. Cats are too fudging streetwise to take drugs from dodgy dealers.

Once dogs get the taste it’s hard to break the craving. I’m going to have to watch this little stoner closely from now on.

For example, I’ll have to put my foot down if Pablo starts making noises about wanting to go to music festivals with friends who have names like 'Dude', 'Numba One' and 'Big Daddy'.

If I come home and find Pablo playing the guitar along to The Grateful Dead, lying flat out on a bean bag  and wearing a Pink Floyd t-shirt, I’ll have to start administering a urine test on a weekly basis.

And if I discover he’s been watching Cheech and Chong movies, I’ll book him in to rehab. We’ll orchestrate a family intervention and include the cat; although the cat probably lured the toad into the house in the first place seeing as how much she hates the dogs.

Later that night, we discovered the filthy, slimy toad skulking evilly under a bookcase. It was a huge mofo who must have opportunistically stolen in when the back screen door was left open.

Bufo Marinus: Cane Toad

Scotto trapped Bufo Marinus in a plastic bucket and flung it across the road with immense propulsion and at an extremely high elevation. I doubt it survived.

I reckon cane toads might be from where the term ‘hophead’ originated, what do you reckon?

Poster Boy!

Have you ever had a pet poisoned by a toad?