What Famous Person do You Look Like?

With the cold weather I’ve been a bit wheezy. Only at night, when I get into bed and the windows are open and the last remnants of the “Antarctic Vortex” have insidiously spread their tentacles into my bedroom and the temperature has dropped to a freezing 20 degrees Celsius.

Yes, as I lay on my bed last night, my teeth chattering in the tropical nightmare of evaporated sweat, I reached into my handbag to fish out my Ventolin inhaler and noticed it was three years out of date. What would happen if I used it? I wondered. Maybe I’d turn into Spiderman or something. But I didn’t end up using it and just breathed through my nose until the wheezing settled.

I’m not an asthmatic but I do get asthma, just not very often. I get it if I laugh too much, if there’s cold air, if I eat pickled onions and drink some brands of orange juice… or if I drink rum and coke. I persist in drinking rum and coke, but always ensure I have my inhaler on hand because I’m a real Queenslander; bloody oath I am and I’m tough as bricks. What’s a bit of asthma when there’s rum and coke on the table for fudge's sake?

We noticed little Pablo the Chihuahua, was wheezing like a ninety year old emphysema suffering, chain smoker the other night and I looked up on Google to see if dogs get asthma and guess what?… they do.

One of my school friends had asthma when she was young and I remember adults whispering it was “an emotional thing”. Back when I was a child, asthma was associated with a highly strung, delicate personality. It was apparently brought on by a weakness in the thorax and a penchant for the dramatics. In other words, it was a sissy disease. Sufferers were advised to take up swimming or move to Darwin.

But now, I find out even dogs get it.

I went to the chemist to buy a new inhaler today and the girl behind the counter asked me if I was breastfeeding or pregnant and she didn’t even have the usual smirk on her face. I pretended to be unsure. “Noooo, I don’t think so,” I giggled self-consciously. “Let me see, what’s the date?” Then I began counting on my fingers with a ditzy look on my face.

I found it flattering in a way. The trouble is when you get to my age you take anything you can get as a compliment, anything. Although sometimes people think they’re giving you a compliment but you don’t fully agree with the sentiment.

Like the time a guy walked up to me in a night club and told me I reminded him of Cher.

Would you think that was a compliment? Think about it. 

I didn’t.

I’ve also been told I look like Annette Benning and a little known actress, Jenny Agutter.

Annette

Jenny

 Morticia has poked her dark head into comments regarding my appearance as well, quite a lot actually. I really need to rethink the same hairstyle I’ve had since I was fifteen.

I wish...

I've also been told I look like Mrs Bean. That knocked the wind out of my jowls, I can tell you. That friend was put in the 'people I secretly hate but force a smile when with them' file.

I know this post sounds like the roundabout, drunken ravings of a lunatic woman but I think the asthma medication has gone to my head a bit.

The Big Question: Is Life Pointless?

Boyhood

Scotto and I watched the first 2 hours and 35 minutes of Boyhood yesterday. It runs for 2 hours and 46 minutes but for reasons known only to its spiteful, unpleasant self, the Internet decided to be an arse. 

Scotto was very angry, called the Internet some very rude words and did an imitation of what he thinks the Internet actually looks like.

Scotto as the Internet

We were watching it on Netflix which has been a bit contrary of late and it just stopped and refused to finish the movie. I googled the end of the movie this morning and according to someone on Yahoo Answers (which is my absolute go to for expert advice), it wasn’t worth the film it was printed on anyway because nothing happened. 

Nothing happened for the entire movie when I think about it. 

A boy grew up... big whoopie do.

Boyhood won the 2015 Golden Globe for Best Motion Picture and was nominated for the Oscar so I suppose I don’t know everything after all (although I'd like to know who votes for these things).

The most poignant part of it for me was when both her children had grown up and were nicking off to college and Patricia Arquette broke down sobbing at the kitchen table and uttered the three words that really resonated with me… “What’s the point?”

Lately, I find myself driving along the road on my way to the shop and all of sudden I’m overwhelmed with an empty, maudlin emotion. My insides feel as though they’re falling through space and I have a horrible sensation that everything I do and say, is utterly and inevitably pointless. 

I’ve also been thinking about my children and how they’re all grown up and don’t need me anymore except for when they want me to look after their bitey dog or borrow a potato masher.

I had to write a descriptive paragraph for the online writing course I’m doing the other day and this is what I wrote…

Pinky stepped along the cracked, concrete path where green ants scurried in frantic confusion around a bloated, dead lizard. She ducked under a glittering web where a Saint Andrew’s cross spider hung like an exquisite, yellow jewel and inhaled the sweet air of last night’s rain deep into her lungs. A few more cautious steps around the corner of the trail and she’d see it. Something rasped in the undergrowth with a guttural squawk, making her jump to the left and graze her arm on the bark of the old mango tree. Her children had climbed that tree many years ago, singing out to her from its branches to come and see how far up they had negotiated its sturdy branches. Pinky could almost hear little Lulu’s gurgling laughter as she’d cling to the lowest branch, hanging upside down like a precocious fruit bat. Suddenly, there it was; the cubby house, obscured by meandering vines and its frame bleached by the weather, like the bones of a prehistoric monster discovered in an ancient rainforest jungle. She placed her hand on the ladder, feeling the slimy moss under her cold fingers. It had served them well, this wooden skeleton, this relic. It was going to take a crane to reclaim it from the garden and carry it to its final resting place. But for now, she would sit in it for a while and listen to the babble of her memories.



Is that not a tad sentimental? A jot schmaltzy? 

It’s not me at all, is it?

Not that I want the five hairy creatures hanging around me all the time with their cynical remarks and critical evaluations of my wine drinking habits, but it does seem I did quite a lot of work over the last twenty years to be now relegated to the pitiful nuisance I seem to have become to them.

Do you think they’ll ever come back to me once they’ve established their independence?

Am I just suffering from the empty nest syndrome I always laughingly joked would never strike me?


Or is life just pointless after all and we may as well get fat on Tim Tams and champagne?

Does Your Husband Like Shopping?

A Room with a View

We’ve been fixing up the house before we put it on the market. Today, all our wooden venetian blinds were taken away by a nice man who’s going to clean and polish them. 

Scotto painted the outside of the house on the lower level and we had professional painters come in and refurbish all the wooden window frames. We’re getting the wooden floor in the foyer sanded and re-polished, new carpets and having our front lawn re-turfed.

What am I doing to clean up the house? Not that much really. I did wipe down the window sills today and pulled a quick on my finger so I'm resting for a while.

We needed a new set of curtains made for the living room and Scotto noticed there was a closing down sale at a local shop so we went in after he’d recorded the window measurements.

We fronted up to the counter on a Saturday morning and the older woman behind the desk looked up at me expectantly.

“We’re looking for some curtains to be made on runners and we heard you’re having a sale,” Scotto said to her, smiling in his charmingly boyish manner.

She looked at him curiously, then even more curiously back at me. I was feeling a bit off for some reason; dull, tired and lackadaisical (that means, ‘couldn’t give a stuff’ if you’re reading this Kaz). I just stared back at her with the vague expression of someone who’d rather be set on fire than be where I was at the present time; a discount fudging curtain shop.

“The width will need to be about 2500mm and the height, 2130 mm,” Scotto continued cheerily. “We’re looking for something sheer in a cream colour.”

Again, the woman looked at me, but sympathetically this time. I think she thought either I was a bit simple or Scotto was my gay butler.

“It’s usually the woman ordering curtains, not the man, isn’t it,” I finally found the energy to mutter.

This time she appeared to be positively startled, shocked that I wasn’t a daft mute after all.

She managed to find us some suitable material and took down our order but didn’t really pay me any attention after that.

What’s my point in telling you this?

Nothing. Just that I hate curtain shops. I also hate any shop to do with storage, gardening stuff, carpet, tiles, bathroom fittings or computer parts.

Sometimes, Scotto tricks me and says he has to call in to his favourite computer shop to pick up a T.W.A.I.N. interface (that stands for ‘technology without an interesting name’ and sadly has nothing to do with Shania, true by the way).

Techno talk is so out of my bandwidth.

Occasionally I go with him, but sit in the car and stare into space, fuming, for the hour he seems to spend in there. It’s a tiny, little shop but I swear I’ve seen at least 300 people enter it while I’m seething in the car and NO ONE ever comes out.

It’s like the freakin TARDIS! Everyone who enters is of the male persuasion, naturally. I think it must be a fight club or something. One day I’m going to sneak in and see what they’re doing in there. I suspect foul play. I think they’re all playing stupid computer games or something and laughing cruelly about their gullible wives sitting outside in the car. 

It has a different time dimension as well. When Scotto eventually emerges from its seedy confines I screech in an insanely enraged voice, “What took you so fudging long, buster?” and he answers innocently, “What? I was only gone ten minutes.”

The worst thing is, I can’t even punish him by dragging him around to discount curtain shops.



Does your husband like curtain shopping? Does he make you wait when he goes into shops?

This Post Could Possibly Offend Someone

This post could offend someone or alienate them. I sincerely hope not. I know how deflating it is to be left out so please get up me in the comments, if somehow I've left you out of the list below.

The mild-mannered and reserved, Hugzilla, wrote a list of things she called, The Idiot's Guide to Not Being a Wanker at Networking Events which has started the ball rolling for posts concerning the ProBlogger Training Event which will take place at the Gold Coast in August.

I am going, even though I closely matched all the 'wanker traits' described by the delightful Hugzilla.

One of the things I'm most terrified about is forgetting names and who goes with which blog. Because of this affliction of mine I have made a 'ready reckoner' of all the Australian blogs I read and the names of the authors.

If you are going too, you might find this helpful.

Not all of these people will be attending but it's a good reference anyway for replying to comments etc.

I follow all of these blogs either on Google +, Twitter, Facebook, Bloglovin or my favourite method, email!
I know, get a life Pinky!

If you'd like to follow Pinky Poinker on email please click on the subscribe link on the right hand side of the blog.

Here's the list... (in reverse alphabetical order for a change).

Happy reading, you'll never have to buy a magazine again!

These bloggers cover travel, fashion, personal development, fitness, parenting, cooking, giveaways, writing, book reviews and a liberal amount of humour!




Z.
Zamamabakes : Dannielle

Y.
Yin Yang Mother : Kathy

W.
Woogsworld : Mrs Woog

Where the Wild Things Were : Lydia

Write of the Middle : Min

With Some Grace : Grace

Wild Western Australia : Bonny

V.
Veggie Mama : Stacey

The Vinyl Edition : Gael

U.
The Urban Mum : Monique


T.
Toilets Aren't For Turtles : Mumma McD

The Thud : Lauren

Tamzen Temple : Tamzen

This Charming Mum : Lara



S.
Sand Has No Home : Dani

Six Little Hearts : Jody

The Sharpest Pencil : Lana

Simplify Create Inspire : Holly

Shauna Round the Corner : Shauna

The Stuff that Comes Out of my Head : John Anthony

Seeing the Lighter Side : Rebecca

Smaggle : Carly

Sonia Styling : Sonia

Styling You : Nikki

Surely Sarah : Sarah

R.
Random Acts of Zen : Lisa

Reservoir Dad : Clint



P.
The Plumbette : Bec

Peachy Keen Mumma : Jess

The Pineapple Cake : Andrea

The Parenting Files : Tahlia

Peace O Mind : Ronnie

Putting in a Good Word : Susan

O.
Our Urban Box : Fleur

Our Parallel Connection : Natalie

N. 
New Life on the Road : Lisa

Nessville : Ness

M.
My Little Drummer Boys : Trish

My Life's a Marathon : Char

The Mummy and the Minx : Robyna

Melting Moments : Kaz and Ang

The Modern Parent : Martine

Max the Unicorn : Di

My Midlife Mayhem : Louisa

Mummy Wife Me : Renee

Musings of the Misguided : Tegan

Middle Aged Mama : Janet

The Multitasking Mummy : Eva

My Home Truths : Kirsty

Making the Mundane Merry : Sue

Mumabulous : Brenda

My Brown Paper Packages : Malinda

The Miss Cinders : Miss Cinders

Magneto Bold Too : Kelley

Meet Me at Mike's : Pip



L.
Life Love and Hiccups : Sonia

Life at Number Five : Lauren

Life Behind the Purple Door : Cate

Life & Other Crisis : Kerri

Life from the Attic : Louise

Living My Imperfect Life : Sanch

The Laney Files : Laney

Lisa Heidke : Lisa

Life Style Fifty : Jo

The Little Mumma : Angie


K.

Kylie Purtell: A Study in Contradictions : Kylez

Keeping up with the Holsbys : Danielle

Kirsten and Co : Kirsten

Be a Fun Mum : Kelly

Kimba Likes : Kimba


J.
J. F. Gibson : Jodi



I.
I Opened My Mouth and it Ran Away Without Me : Rae

I Give You the Verbs : Annette


H.
House Goes Home : Alana

Handbag Mafia : Amy

Hugzilla : Melissa

Have a Laugh On Me : Emily

Help! I'm Stuck! : Ann


F.
Fabulous and Fun Life : Ingrid

From the Left Field : Sasha

Finding Myself Young : Toni

Fifty Shades of Age : Kathy

Fat Mum Slim : Chantelle

Francesca Writes Here : Francesca

Free Range Scotto : Scotto



E.
EmHawker Blog : Emily

Ever-changing Life of a Mum : Erika

Essentially Jess : Jess

Emma's Brain : Emma

D.
Deep Fried Fruit : Leanne

Debbish dotcom : Deb

Denyse Whelan Blogs to Connect : Denyse


C.
Create Bake Make : Lauren

Cooker and a Looker : Amanda

Crafty PJ Mum : Beck

Clairey Hewitt : Clairey


B.
Big Words Blog : Bianca

Bake Play Smile : Lucy

Boy Eats World : Aleney

Barbie Bieber and Beyond : Mandy

Baby Mac : Beth

Boiled Eggs and Soldiers : Victoria

Budget Travel Talk : Jan



A.
A Life Less Frantic : Kelly

Always Josefa : Josefa

Awesomely Unprepared : Kez

An Organised Life : Michelle

The Annoyed Thyroid : Sam

Adventures in Domesticity : Zoe

Agent Mystery Case : Raychael

All Mum Said : Kell

Audio Thing Blog : Bec

A Parenting Life : Rhianna


Okay... who did I accidentally leave out?
Any suggestions?

Linking up with Grace from With Some Grace for #FYBF

How Pinky Hacks Life!

My blogging friend, John Anthony James, wrote recently that he’d just completed the fourth draft of his manuscript, “The King Amongst the Shadows”. 

I almost died of shock. Who in their right mind would fiddle around with a manuscript that many times? Surely I’d rather burn it than become a slave to it? Who’d have the patience for that? 

A crazy man?

It was about a week later, I realised that I’d planned on calling the second draft of my manuscript, The Bronze Edition, the third draft, The Silver, and the fourth draft (yes, I said fourth) the Gold Edition. 

This is what I do you see, I regularly fool myself into thinking any daunting task I have to do, is not really what it is. I give it another name so I don’t think I’m doing it. I like to break things down into steps too, so that the tedious task I’m currently doing, doesn’t seem like what I’m actually doing.

For example, yesterday, I knew I had to wash Willy, my silky terrier. He was so filthy he looked like he’d been rolling around in volcanic ash. He looked like something you’d see in a museum in Pompeii and I knew it was going to be a most unpleasant task, possibly inviting a nasty bite which may or may not require a tetanus shot. 

Willy

So I filled the tub in the laundry with hot, soapy water and made myself a cup of coffee, relaxed and pretended I was going to leave it at that. After ten minutes, when the sound of running water was a distant memory in Willy’s mind, I walked out casually to where the matted dog sprawled, sun-baking on the concrete and swooped down on the unwitting creature before he had a chance to bolt. 

I swiftly carried him into the laundry before he had time to blink and plonked him in the tub so that only his head appeared above the rapidly browning bubbles. I let him soak for a bit while his eyes adjusted to the dim light, then pulled out the plug and doused him with a surprise bucket of rinsing water. Before he’d had time to catch his breath, he found himself back outside, wrapped in a fluffy towel with his toenails painted. 

It was more of an alien abduction/kidnapping than a bath really, only there were no anal probes.

When I have to vacuum, I tell myself I’m not really going to vacuum; I’m just getting the vacuum cleaner out of the spider infested cupboard under the stairs. After I’ve done that, I send a few tweets or answer an email and when enough time is passed, I eventually pull that annoying, twisted cord out of its hole and plug it in. 

I might then wipe the kitchen counter down and file my nails before actually switching it on and giving the kitchen a good going over. Once I’ve done the kitchen, I’ll bring a few things in from the clothes line and check the mail. Bit by bit, the entire bottom floor is vacuumed but somehow I’ve tricked myself into thinking I’m not really doing it.

Getting out of bed and going to work can be challenging so I tell myself I’m not really going to work, I’m just getting a coffee to take back to bed. 

As I’m driving to work I imagine that once I’m there I’m just going turn around and go home again. When I’m in the classroom, I tell myself that at morning tea I’m going to feign illness and go home. 

By lunch time, the day is almost over so I make a promise to myself I’ll be taking a sick day off tomorrow and surely I can get through one more hour. I do this right through until Friday when it’s the weekend. On Sunday night, I begin the entire ridiculous charade over again. 

Cooking dinner; I get the saucepans out then I sit with a glass of wine and watch the local news. After that I might pour some oil into the saucepan and take the meat and vegetables out of the fridge. I’ll go back and watch more television. Later, I might cut something up and chuck it in the saucepan. I’ll meander in and out, sipping wine and watching the telly. In my mind, I’m not really cooking; I’m cruising in the kitchen and having a nice time.

It doesn’t always work of course. Sometimes, silly and gullible as I am, I can’t even fool myself.

What's your favourite life hack?

Linking up with Jess from Essentially Jess for #IBOT

Dear Harper Lee: The Rainbow Connection

To Kill a Mockingbird

Dear Ms Harper Lee,

For the last two days I’ve been reading your book, “To Kill a Mockingbird” (or “To Kill a Monkingbird”, which is how Scotto and I saw it incorrectly labelled in a video shop one day and fell about laughin’ fit to die until we thought we might be kicked out by the pimply teenager in charge of the store).

Heck, I read your book in grade twelve under the duress of my teacher, then again when I was a more mature thirty year old, and then yesterday.

I’m sorry for the peculiar fussing that went on regarding your book Ms Harper.


First there were rumours you didn’t write the book and that it was your childhood friend, Truman Capote, who wrote it and now people are casting doubt that you, now 88 years old, wrote the sequel, Go Set A Watchman (which is about to be released), set 20 years after your first book. 

I reckon back in 1960 there would be some backlash to a woman winning the Pulitzer prize, but questioning your authorship today is just ‘plain damn mean’, as Scout Finch would say.



I know this seems mighty pretentious but I have to mention to you my favourite quotes and pretty turns of phrase in your book. 

Not only that, but in light of the recent Rainbow= Equal marriage rights debate, I cannot help but feel your book’s relevance today. The principles and concepts your book is founded on, perfectly reflect the unjustifiable fear, judgement and suspicion surrounding the concept of gay marriage today. The Christian hypocrisy evident towards the African Americans back then seems mighty similar to what's going on now.

I know it was naïve of me but the day Barack Obama was elected president of the United States I went to work, whistling in joy, thinking… well that’s it then folks, no more race problems; the most powerful job in the world has just been given to an African American, no one can be racist now, can they? Hmmm. didn’t quite work out like that did it? 

I'll bet you cheered that day though, Ms Harper.

Anyhow, this isn’t a book review, just a tribute to some of the luscious description you’ve used. Golly gosh you’re a genius with words Ma’am. I’m afraid I sat like a ding bat as I read, scribbling down the particular phrases that struck me as pure gold.

I love the way Scout described her ancestor, Simon Finch as a man, “whose piety was exceeded only by his stinginess.” It made me chuckle and brought to mind a few people I know.

One of my favourites was this quote,

“Ladies bathed before noon, after their three o’clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweet talcum.”

Made me want to eat teacake and cover myself with baby powder…

In describing the teacher you said, 

“She looked and smelled like a peppermint drop.”

Although Atticus Finch was such an admirable man you captured his strength and Scout’s respect for him with descriptions like these,

“His voice was like the winter wind.” “He pinned me to the wall with his good eye.” And “His voice was deadly.”

Your description of Mr Ewell on the witness stand was so outstanding I had to read it several times before I could go on,

“… a little bantam cock of a man strutted to the stand, the back of his neck reddening at the sound of his name.”

Your account of the women at the missionary meeting made me laugh and cringe.

“She played her voice like an organ.”

And

“Her voice soared over the clink of coffee cups and the soft bovine sounds of the ladies munching their dainties.”

But although I wallowed joyfully in your melodious words the messages in your book truly hit home.

Scout: “Atticus had said it was the polite thing to talk to people about what they were interested in, not about what you were interested in.”

Aunt Alexandra on inviting Walter Cunningham home for dinner: “I didn’t say not to be nice to him. You should be friendly and polite to him, you should be gracious to everybody, dear. But you don’t have to invite him home.”

Scout: “Now Jem, I think there’s just one kind of folks. Folks.”

Atticus: “You never really know a man until you stand in his shoes and walk around in them.”

Scout: “Atticus, he was nice.” Atticus: “Most people are Scout, when you finally see them.”



Ms Harper, you gave the reason you never followed up with another book after “To Kill a Mockingbird”, was because you’d said all you had to say.

Why shoot, I reckon I can see your point. But I damn well can’t wait for the next one.

Love Pinky xxx

Do you scribble down beautiful phrases as you read or am I the only one? Have you read this timeless book?

Linking up with Grace from With Some Grace for #FYBF

What Do You Remember From When You Were Eight?

When I was in grade two at school there was a spiteful, old crone, Mrs Sharp, who’d come in to the classroom for ‘hanky inspections’. 

She gave all the kids in our year level a ranting, venomous lecture regarding the different varieties of hankies available; checked, floral, striped, bordered… whatever the fudge you can think of. If you didn’t have a presentable hanky on inspection day pinned to your uniform, you were smacked, with stinging hostility, on the hand with a ruler.

I never had a hanky because my forward-thinking parents didn’t believe in them so all I had to present was a severely crinkled white tissue I’d stuck up the side of my knickers. 

“Dirty, filthy things tissues are,” she’d scowl at me as she whacked my pink palm with glee. Meanwhile, the other kids would all have their snot-smeared cotton hankies safety pinned on the front of their tiny, bacteria infused bodies and she’d smile at them ingratiatingly. “You’re a good clean girl,” she’d say, glaring back at disgraceful Pinky in contempt.

Teachers were arseholes back then weren’t they?

Anyway the reason I’m writing about this is because I’ve just done a reading from a module from a course I’m doing with the Australian Writer's Centre on Creative Writing.

Yes, yes, yes I know... I just finished writing the first draft of an entire novel, but I like to do things backwards. You know… when all else fails- read the instructions!

One of the readings, talked about doing a type of stream of consciousness from when you were only eight years old. It’s not that easy!

This is what I came up with…

Monkey bars and kids breaking arms once a week (mainly boys), Miss Callaghan’s short, bristly brown hair and bitchy, holier than thou attitude, playing out of bounds in the park next door, squishing tamarinds underfoot, skidding on tamarinds and eating tamarinds with my mouth and gums peeling back at the sourness. Playing ‘tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief’ and being laughed at because I was going to marry a beggarman (I married a Weaver so take that!), white bread cut in triangles, camp pie, boys scaring the girls with a grasshopper carcass, sitting on my front lawn in a Virginia Woolf type of reverie and my crush Stephen McDowall driving past in his father’s ute after soccer training and telling everyone the next day how he saw Pinky, sitting like a dork on her front lawn, Mum’s dressmaker, two identical gingham dresses in pink and purple, the hairband I insisted on wearing and sneaking to school against my mother’s wishes, vampire movies (Count Yorga) at the drive in. Even at eight, sucking my thumb and squishing a singlet to my nose for comfort, constant earaches, tonsillitis at Taronga zoo, the neighbour’s kid having hepatitis which made me scared I’d catch it, being on a local TV show with a clown and getting into big trouble for being a show off, watching Daktari on Saturday afternoon with Clarence the cross-eyed lion and Judy the chimp, running all around the house with tinsel in my hair because I wanted long hair because my Mum made me wear it like a boy, packing up Cuisenaire rods and my teacher cracking up at me for getting confused.

It was an interesting exercise, I’m sure there’s plenty more. 

What do you specifically remember from when you were eight? Anything?

Do You Have a Bitchy Resting Face?

Today was the last day of school and we teachers walked our primary kids up to the senior section of the college to watch a talent show. It was pretty good as far as talent shows go and I enjoyed all of it.

“You didn’t look too enthralled with the show,” commented my friend Lee-Lee when we were sitting in the staffroom later on.

“What do you mean?” I asked, draining my coffee cup and staring at the bottom wishing there was more.

“Well, every time I looked over at you Pinky, you were scowling at the stage,” she said. “You looked as though you wanted to rip out your throat in boredom.”

“Really?” I was shocked. “That was probably just my Bitchy Resting Face,” I shrugged in disappointment.

I’d been trying to look encouraging and animated the whole time so I was surprised she thought I looked so sour. I deliberately kept the corners of my mouth upturned and my eyes twinkling in a merry, kindly sort of way. Possibly though, I’d looked as though I was sneering or something.

Then it occurred to me that maybe that’s the reason why some people take an instant disliking to me.

Perhaps that’s why the deli lady didn’t want to serve me the other day.

Maybe that’s why I never win anything or get any awards for anything. It’s why I’m never nominated or remembered… it’s why I’ve never managed to talk my way out of a speeding ticket.

It’s my demonic BRF. It puts people off.

I’m not much of a laugher either. Not many people can make me laugh out loud. Scotto can, especially when he does his South African veterinarian/Northern England miner impersonations, but he savours those moments when I giggle uncontrollably because they’re so rare. Usually I just nod my head in acknowledgment if I think something is hilarious. It’s awful that I don’t laugh. I love people who laugh all the time; I’m drawn to them, especially if they laugh at my jokes, so why can’t I laugh?

I know… BRF.

It’s why I love social media. I can write, ‘LOL, LOL, LOL! Rolling around the floor! Just spat out my coffee! Lol!’… even if all I’ve done is breathed out a subtle, ‘He he he’ and smiled a bit.

Inside I’m lolling though.

At school, my teachers would often put down their chalk, interrupt their lecture and say, “What in God’s name are you frowning at Pinky?”

I wouldn’t be frowning at anything. It was just my earnest ‘I’m paying attention’ suck up look.

Some people look like they’re smiling all the time. People with protruding teeth and dimples always look happy and friendly. The thing I fear the most is that my face is only going to get worse as time marches on and gravity really gets a hold. I’ll be known as a disagreeable, bitter old woman when all the time on the inside I’ll be laughing and smiling in hilarity.

We were having a class general quiz the other day and one question I asked my ten year olds was, “What country does Lego come from?” (Answer is Denmark)

One of my favourite tiny terrors piped up with, “Legoland!”

It struck me as highly amusing and I burst out laughing in great hiccupping guffaws.

The class just stared at me in horrified fascination. I don’t think they’ve seen me laugh at all in six months. Their little eyes were bulging and I think they thought I was choking or having some kind of old lady convulsion. Slowly they began to smile when they realised the miracle that has just occurred. Mrs Poinker had laughed.

I suppose the only solution is surgery. I need to have a couple of huge choppers implanted and then it would look like I had a permanent smile.

What do you think? Do you laugh out loud a lot? How’s your resting face?

Would you like your son dating an older woman?

Thaddeus, my 25 year old son and Jonah (24), are in Vietnam. They went on holidays with their mates (Newman and Dazza) and for a tiny moment I thought I should worry about them... but then I heard both of them bickering on my couch before they left, like old dithering women, about who managed to get the best deal on travel insurance and I realised that no… they’re responsible grownups now.

Not so, my delightful eighteen year old daughter Lulu, who sent me a text today.

“Do we have any hereditary stomach diseases in our family history?” she’d casually texted.

My knees buckled and my heart rate quickened.

Was she at the doctors? She’d seemed fine last night as she’d scoffed down her spag bol. What the hell was going on?

So I texted back a nonchalant, “Why?”

“I’ve just been to a psychic and she said I might have a hereditary stomach problem,” she answered.

I was instantly frenzied with self-centred curiosity.

Me: No, no stomach problems in the family. What else did she say? Did she mention me? Am I going to die soon?”

Lulu: No. But she did say you were moving house soon.

That’s true, I thought, maybe this psychic's the real deal.

Me: “Did she say I was going to become a famous writer?”

Lulu: No. Lol! She did say you might be going to go on a holiday at the end of the year on a boat.

Oh well, I thought. At least I’m still going to be alive at the end of the year. So far so good.

Me: Did she say anything about me at all??????

Lulu: She said you were tired and you needed a change. She said you are a well-respected woman.

Well. That was enough to put me in a good fudging mood for the rest of the day. If a clairvoyant said I’m a well-respected woman I’m going to take that as gospel. It must be bloody true. I’m WELL respected. Not just respected. WELL bloody respected.

But by who, I wonder?

Anyway, my mood was further cheered up on my way home by running into my colleague Megan, who has the exact same car as me, at the service station. I know it’s childish but I had to take a photograph of the ‘twins’.

The Evil Twins.

But then my jolly demeanour was severely diminished at the deli counter at Coles a mere fifteen minutes later.

I glanced over surreptitiously as I crouched in between the lettuces and broccoli and seized on the glorious fact that not only was there nobody at the deli counter waiting to be served, but there was actually a staff member standing behind the counter. No need to do star jumps to get their attention! Bonus! 

I maneuvered that shopping trolley over faster than it takes a Cole’s avocado to turn brown in the fridge.

The woman behind the counter was packing chicken legs in one kilogram bags like she was packaging crack for a drug run and completely ignored me. About ten minutes later, a wizened, elderly woman sidled her trolley up next to me while I waited. She smiled at me benevolently. 

I knew this wasn’t going to end well.

We both watched the sweaty deli assistant packing up the bags, bag after fudging bag, until eventually she finished and looked up at me and asked absently, “Did you want seven kilograms or eight, luv?”

I stared at her in disbelief, tapping my foot in impatience. “I didn’t order chicken legs,” I replied, a tentative glint of insanity in my eyes.

She shrugged, bored, then she turned to the old lady, “Can I help you, dear?” she asked, ignoring me completely.

The beautiful old lady gestured towards me, as I slouched and scowled like Gollum behind my trolley, angry and belligerent. “This lady was before me,” she said kindly.

I was soooo pissed off. I could never allow myself to be served before an old lady, even though I knew I was there first and had already been waiting for a bloody inordinate amount of time.

I cracked the shits.

“Never mind,” I said through gritted teeth, waving my arm dramatically and stomping off. “You go first!”

Both of them looked at bit startled, I think. It wasn’t the old lady’s fault. Stupid, annoying deli woman.

Anyway, back to the psychic. Lulu said the tarot card reader prophesied that one of her brothers was going to meet and form a relationship with an older woman. That could be good or bad. I can’t decide. I don’t really want a forty year old daughter-in-law.


It better not be anyone I know… just saying.

Do you find the deli to be an excruciating part of your shopping?

Do you think I should embrace this possible older woman into the family?

Should You Do More with Your Life?

Hey! Saint Peter!

I know many of you aren’t religious, but as I pad reluctantly through the gloomy, inexorable corridor towards death (I’m 54 after all) I sometimes dread facing up to my slack attitude and indiscretions of the last five decades.

I can picture it now... Saint Peter watching me slinking up to him as he stands there at the golden arch; a mullet wearing, tattooed bouncer at the gates of heaven.

“Ermagerd! It’s that PINKY!” he’d snigger to the angels standing astride him. “Can’t wait to hear what bullshite this little tart’s got up her sleeve.”

“Morning Pinky!” he'd remark cheerily, stealing sideways mocking glances at the archangel Gabriel and the others. “Shall we get started then love?”

I’d stand, my feet shuffling and my right eyelid quivering with nerves.

“So, Pinky. Please explain your annoying penchant for feigning helplessness whenever the toner at the photocopier needs replacing?”

I’d stammer, “Bbbbut… the office ladies are so good at it. I didn’t want to deprive them of their jobs. They like doing that stuff...”

There’d be sniggers amongst the angels.

“Please clarify, Pinky, why, when you are in a bad mood in the morning you persist in doing squealies as you pull out of your driveway?” St Pedro would continue mercilessly.

I'd be quaking in my ugg boots as I shakily replied, “I just hated it when my electric garage roller door always made me late because I have to get out of my fudging car and push it up manually because my husband won’t put WD40 on it because he thinks it might drip on his stupid matte-finish car.”

Saint Peter would shake his head in disappointment, pause, and say, “There’s no need to blame others, Pinky. Please enlighten me as to why you haven’t cleaned your windows even once in the thirteen years you’ve lived in your house?”

I'd lower my face in shame and my bottom lip would tremble.

“What about illuminating us all to the fact as to why you wore your bra for three days in a row without washing it?” The angels would guffaw and poke each other, sniffing under their arms in contempt.

“I don’t sweat!” I’d scream. “For the love of GOD! I don’t sweat!”

“Okay, we can understand you don’t sweat. But can you please provide explanations about why you persist in wasting time writing tipsy Twitter hashtags late at night that aren’t even slightly funny, annoying friends on Facebook with photographs of your irritating Chihuahua accompanied by tedious, unamusing captions, writing lacklustre short stories and entering competitions much to the chagrin of the organisers and continuing to bore the public with stupid, inane blog posts about your unfortunate children and the like?”

I would shrink like a … shrinking violet, a tear would roll down my cheek.

“But what about the time I fostered all those children?”

“You never did that, Pinky,” he’d frown.

“I walked around Australia to raise money for a charity!” I’d triumph.

“No, you didn’t.” Saint Peter would sigh.

"I was sponsored for shaving my head and being doused in an ice bucket!" I'd entreat.

"Not in this life honey dolls." The chorus of angels would double up in mirth.

“But I did raise one thousand dollars for the children’s hospital once,” I’d whimper.

“That’s not good enough!” he’d roar. “You should have done more with your life you silly woman!”

And that’s when I wake up.

I think I need to do more with my life. It's almost gone and I've done so little.



What do you think? Would you like to do more? Or do you think sometimes the whole "Look what I'm doing for other people" thing is a bit more like 'Look at what I'm doing.'