Dodgy Stuff

We walked into a restaurant for lunch today and I insisted (as I always do) on sitting so that I faced the entrance.

“I have to sit facing the door,” I declared to Scotto, “because, if some drug crazed, ice addict maniac comes through the door wielding a fudging knife, I want to be able to escape quickly.”

“You would give me a heads up he was coming though?” Scotto asked, glancing behind him and looking a bit nervous.

“You’d notice me jumping off the balcony,” I replied, sipping my champagne with a sense of airy nonchalance.

It’s not that we frequent restaurants in dodgy areas with rampant ice addicts much.

I said the same thing in the school staff room last week.

My colleagues just nodded in agreement and continued eating their ham salads. They get me.

“You’re an overly superstitious person, Pinky,” Scotto scoffed, and knocked the salt shaker over whilst dramatically gesturing to make his point. 

Salt went everywhere.

“Which shoulder am I supposed to throw this over again?” he queried anxiously.

“Throw it over your left shoulder,” I whispered in a sinister fashion. “The devil is hiding behind your left shoulder.”

“I don’t believe your rubbish,” he said as he tossed the salt, “But there's no harm in playing it safe.”

“What do you believe then?” I challenged.

“Well I do believe that if you’re driving and there’s a crow in the middle of the road and it doesn’t get out of your way, then you have to turn around and go the other way.”

“What if you don’t hit it because you swerve?” I asked.

His brow furrowed, “I think that would be okay.”

Personally, if I ever ran over a crow I’d pull over immediately and call a priest. I’m terrified of bloody crows.

But the point of this post, my friends, is dodgy restaurants. 

We went to lunch at a quite posh winery a few weeks ago.

I should have known it was a bit strange when the butter came out in those little foil packets and the bread rolls were enveloped in cling wrap. That's bloody weird.

As we were leaving, Scotto had to use the toilet so I walked through the foyer and stood out the front, twiddling my thumbs and scrutinising the sizeable bill.

I suddenly had the urge to turn around and who should I spy through a random window but Scotto looking very studious whilst performing his ablutions?

Not sure what he was grinning about.

Interesting concept for a water feature, I thought to myself.

“Hello sailor!” I said to his face, framed adorably in the window.

He looked up and grinned sheepishly…

What a lovely greeting for all those tourists arriving on the bus that pulls up out the front…

some random bloke taking a whizz.

Well that’s my blog for the week.

Hope you’re all well and love you all!

Pinky.

Gratitudes on Mother's Day

As you are aware, today is Mother’s Day and this morning there was a knock on the door and a young delivery man presented me with a bunch of flowers from my four kids who live up north. This was thrilling as last year all I got was dog shampoo.

But when I transferred the flowers into a vase, I spilled water all over the floor.

“Be careful of the water on the kitchen floor,” I warned Scotto after I’d mopped most of it up.

Literally two minutes later, I barrelled back into the kitchen, completely forgetting about the wet floor, and fell down landing on my right elbow with my head ricocheting violently against the kitchen cupboards.

Scotto came out of the bedroom after hearing the crash and my subsequent moaning.

My elbow had split open and there was a lot of blood on the floor which the Chihuahua and Mini Fox Terrier immediately began to lick up with relish.

Please note, this all occurred before midday and I had not been drinking.

I know what you all think about me and drinking.

Naturally, all three doctor surgeries were closed as well as the ambulance station. We caught the chemist ten minutes before closing time.

“You need stitches,” the pharmacist commented on viewing the cut.

“Can you see the bone?” I asked cautiously.

“No…” she said, avoiding eye contact.

I’m pretty sure she saw bone.

It hurts like a mofo.

We put some butterfly sticky things on it and I’ll get it looked at tomorrow. Maybe I will if the Chihuahua hasn’t developed a blood lust and devoured me in the night, anyway.

The mini-foxie won’t be able to eat me because she had six teeth pulled out on Friday. Thank God for small mercies.

We went to lunch with my mother, father and my son, Hagar. It was quite nice but I kept worrying about brain haemorrhages and septicaemia which spoiled my barramundi and chips a bit. Plus the agonising aching of the elbow and vague headache took a modicum of pleasure away.

Hagar gave me a nice cream jacket as a present but I couldn’t try it on what with the blood pouring out of my elbow.

I sent my daughter, Lulu, a photo of the flowers to say thank you and she exploded in rage when she saw them.

My flowers

I tried to explain to her that they just haven’t opened up yet.

I wasn’t complaining... but she was furious. Apparently the photo of what she thought she was buying looked nothing like the flowers I received.

Anyway, I really hope you all had better day and didn’t fall over or get the wrong flowers, like I did.

We must all be grateful for what we have, mustn’t we.

If life gives you lemons take them back to the shop and ask for a refund.

Whatever doesn’t kill you probably will next time.

Good things come to those who wipe down their kitchen floors properly.
There’s no "I" in team, but there’s an "OW" in elbow.
Okay. I’ll stop now.



Happy Mother’s Day you lucky, lucky people.

What Would Your DNA Reveal?

This morning I stood gagging at the bathroom sink, desperately attempting to summon up a quarter of a teaspoon of spit.

You’ve no idea how hard it is to produce spit on demand.

If I’m talking to someone important and I don’t want to spit… well it just comes flying out, doesn’t it? All over their shirt usually, or on their arm where it sits sparkling in the sunshine and we both pretend it’s not there. But if I’m deliberately trying to produce saliva, my mouth goes as dry as the Sahara.

The sight and thought of spit makes me gag.

Even my own spit.

It’s quite a revolting bodily emission.

I was contributing a sample of my DNA, you see.

Not for a criminal investigation silly… but for an analysis of my DNA ancestry.

I’ve forked out a considerable sum of money to AncestryDNA to be precise.

Pre spit donation

This analysis won’t give me any clues as to my health but merely inform me from where from my ancestors originated.

I could have originated from any race really, what with my pointy ears (Vulcan), short legs (Elven) and propensity to lose my temper and scream (Dothraki).

“I reckon it will say you’re 40% Chardonnay, 20% Nicorettes and maybe 40% Anglo-Saxon,” quipped the ever witty Scotto.

He’s very unoriginal. I could easily have made that joke if I’d thought of it first.

In truth, I reckon it will come back saying I’m 90% American Indian.

Mainly because I had an imaginary American Indian friend when I was a child and I have a deep seated belief I am reincarnated from an Indian princess. Plus I have a penchant for wearing plaits.

I’d fancy being anything except Ango-Saxon really, because let’s face it, it’s a bit boring.

All those bad teeth, weak chins and negative outlooks on life; you know... winter is coming, and all that moaning.

I wouldn’t mind it if I was Scandinavian; preferably directly linked to those good-looking Vikings on the television.

Even a direct relationship to the female members of ABBA would be okay. Not the male members though because they were ugly.



If it comes back and says I’m bloody Anglo-Saxon with NOTHING at all exotic in the mix I will be bitterly disappointed.

On the other hand, if it comes back and says I’m part Chinese or Italian or African, I will be redecorating my house, dress style, music playlist and accent, accordingly.

I will fully embrace the culture and drive you all mad.



What would you expect to see from a DNA report?

P.S. Sorry to all my Anglo-Saxon friends. Particularly my husband.

Are You Smarter Than Scotto?

I bought a mini whiteboard and stuck it up beside the pantry a short while ago. It was for urgent family communications.

Scotto and I can be like ships in the night since I started leaving home at 6:30 am and don’t get home until 5:45 pm. Sometimes he’s out on a job when my little yellow car pulls into the driveway and I don’t know if he’s fed the dogs or not.

The dogs are pathological liars and carry on as though they’re starving to death if they think they can dupe us and get fed twice.

Luckily, I’m smarter than a dog.

But I came home to this note on Friday and panicked.

Had Scotto gone mad? Why the hell had he fed the dogs champagne in the fridge?

Dogs don’t drink champagne do they? And it’s bloody cold at the moment up here on the mountain so why did he put the dogs in the fridge? And how did he squeeze the German Shepherd in? I anxiously hoped there wasn’t hair all over the yoghurt and margarine.

I shrugged to myself thinking what a weirdo I’d married and fed the poor, hungry things some proper dog food.



Sometimes I use the mini whiteboard to set tricky challenges or leave words of wisdom. I have a lot of wise sayings if you want to read them. My Wise Sayings

Last week I wrote this up as a little contest for Scotto and Hagar (my 24 year old son).

If you can solve what 

this word represents, 

I will give you $2.

"Ghreati"

I kept finding scraps of paper everywhere with hundreds of random jottings where one or the other genius had attempted to puzzle it out.

Hagar gave up trying out of boredom but Scotto was slowly going mental and kept pestering me for hints.

“One of my Grade 4 students solved it without a hint!” I sniffed. “You can do it. Surely you’re smarter than a ten year old. Even the Chihuahua could solve it if he could read!”

But sadly, he could not puzzle it out so I still have that $2 in my wallet.

If you can solve it I promise I will send you the $2.*



Go on. Give it a go.

*Conditions Apply
It has just occurred to me that it would be just my luck this post will go viral and I will have to send 100 000 people $2 in the mail and I really don't want to be licking all those stamps so only the first person to get it will win any money. K?

What Not to Use Instead of Face Cream

What my face looks like...

Last Saturday night, I ran out of my cheap, very economically-pleasing night cream (the night cream for my face... so get your mind out of the gutter).

My other ‘night cream’ is very special and I would NEVER let it run out. If you are wondering what I’m talking about then ask a 50 plus woman what she regards is ‘night cream’ and she will surprise and delight/disgust you all at the same time.

So anyway, I thought I could survive by using my ‘day cream’ in my never-ending struggle against the relentless skirmish between gravity and my face. I can't really go shopping during the week what with my two and a half hour commute to the bush every day.

My super cheap ‘day cream’ has a sunblock in it which probably contains zinc so naturally after two nights of application, I awoke with two pimples the size of my nose on my dial.

In fact I could hardly tell which of the lumps WAS my nose.

There are no pharmacies that sell my extra cheap night cream within a 70 km radius so I was flummoxed as to what to do.

Then I had the amazing recollection, almost a religious revelation, that I had economically-mindedly scraped a free sample of face cream from an ancient Women’s Weekly my mother had passed over to me, in a second-hand, frugal but recycling-type fashion, a few months ago.

I scoured through my handbag like Harold Steptoe sorting through the trash pile and within ten minutes had unearthed my secret treasure.

I must admit after I had snipped the plastic sachet open and scooped out the contents, I was suspicious that it might be a bit off… perhaps it had even ‘separated’ like rancid milk.

It seemed a bit oily, but I persevered and rubbed it into my face with the gusto only a dried out, desperate, stingy crone is able.

After ten minutes of the cream not being absorbed by my dehydrated pores, I thought it might be a good idea to check what I was actually massaging into my face.

I squinted at the sachet through my glasses and discovered that I’d been smothering my face in Moroccan hair oil.

I shall keep you posted as to whether or not I wake up with a glossy, detangled and fuller bodied face.



Surely it can’t look worse than it was.

What would you have used?

How To Buy One Thousand Turkish Men on a Tight Budget

When the alarm goes off at 5:20 am, I shuffle out of the bedroom closing the door behind me so I don’t disturb the still slumbering Scotto. 

The two small dogs follow me out, I let the big dogs out of their cosy beddings in the laundry and we all perform our morning ablutions in a musical unison. 

Then I make a coffee and sit and watch the sunrise over the Gold Coast. I then immediately make another two cups of coffee, give all the dogs their treats and return to the bedroom to deliver Little Lord Fauntleroy his morning cup of coffee.

This morning, as I re-entered the bedroom I was bowled over with the stench of a thousand Turkish men who had seemingly simultaneously farted in an asphixiating steam bath located in my bedroom.

I plonked Scotto’s coffee down and exclaimed quite loudly for the time of morning, “What the hell? It smells like a thousand Turkish men farted in here!”

(I don’t know why I picked on Turkish men)*

Scotto merely reached blindly for his coffee and ignored my exclamation with a grunt.

I have drawn a few conclusions to solve the enigma of the mother of all methane bombs.

1. All four of us: the two dogs, Scotto and I, spend all night passing wind during the night creating an abominable cloud of sulphur/methane fumes which could be a deadly and injurious fire hazard if one of us smoked cigarettes.

2. The septic toilet in the ensuite is emitting fumes during the night generating an apocalyptic death gas.

3. Scotto farts his head off when I leave the bedroom to have my morning coffee because he thinks I won’t notice.

I thought about it all day at work and queried Scotto again tonight in order to investigate the source of this vile entity.

“Do you just fart your head off when I leave the bedroom in the morning because you think I won't hear you?” I asked gently.

He looked very sheepish but denied any guilt in regards to my subtle accusations.

But I’m highly suspicious. I’m putting Gladwrap over the toilet bowl to cancel out the possibility of the septic tank stinking.

Tomorrow night, I will Gladwrap the dogs’ bums.



After that… who knows.

*Seriously, no offence to Turkish men. I'm sure I'd love them.

Stations of the Cross Lady

Only one more day and Lent is over so I can start irritating people on my personal Facebook page again instead of just reading my notifications and getting twitchy fingers.

Because it really wasn’t much of a sacrifice only half giving up Facebook for Lent, I arose slightly earlier than usual this morning to get ready to suffer penance a bit in church.

When Scotto saw me getting ready, he decided to come too. He probably suspected I was up to something nefarious as me going to church, especially in the morning, is quite abnormal behaviour. The last time was about three years ago actually.

The beauty of this Stations of the Cross service was that it was at 10 o’clock which meant I still got to sleep in and not suffer too much.

When we arrived and sat in the pew, a man handing out response sheets ran out of them just before he got to us. Typical.

The nice, very pious-looking lady sitting a few seats away, moved next to us so we could read from her sheet. She was absolutely teeming with knowledge. “We’ll have to get up and follow the priest around the church as he goes through the Stations,” she coached me.

I didn’t fancy this idea because I prefer to sit… but what the hell... I mean heck. I listened closely to all her instructions and tried to impress her with my saintly and angelic demeanour.

Then the nice lady said she’d seen me around the church before but not for a VERY long time. I explained that I’d been a few times the previous year because I’d worked at the school but now I taught at a different school and went to the church there. She smiled at me sweetly, recognising a fellow companion in religious devoutness.

“There aren’t many people here! It’s a disgrace!” she sniffed in disgust as she perused the congregation.

“Maybe more people will come on Easter Sunday,” I offered meekly.

“This is a more important service,” she scoffed.

I nodded sagely. After all, I was there wasn’t I? Where were all the other heathens?

The priest began the service. “Why aren’t the fools getting up and following the priest,” she hissed in my ear with a sense of what I could only describe as brutal outrage. She went to push me and Scotto forward but then thankfully she noticed NO ONE was moving and the priest didn’t seem the least bit perturbed.

The service was quite long, fourteen stations long, with A LOT of praying in between. 

Scotto had trouble kneeling what with his gammy knee, and not being a Catholic he had to pretend to know the right responses by mouthing random words and making a dull, humming noise.

Finally at the end, I turned to the nice lady to say Happy Easter (even though I felt it might be irreverent to say the word ‘happy’ because of the whole crucifixion thing). Before I could get the words out she leaned past me and poked Scotto in the ribs.

“Excuse me, but you were chewing gum throughout the entire service. You know you shouldn’t chew gum in church!” she looked at him scathingly.

With a bit of tongue dexterity I managed to manoeuvre my own chewing gum to the inside of my cheek so she wouldn’t notice I had a chewy in my gob as well.

“No!” I agreed, nodding, frowning at Scotto and holding the gum clenched tight. “You shouldn’t chew in church, it’s very disrespectful.”


“How can you take Holy Communion while you’re chewing?” she continued to rail.


“Yes Scotto,” I concurred. “You can’t have Jesus AND chewing gum in your mouth at the same time!”

Scotto broke into nervous giggles.

“It’s no laughing matter,” the nice lady chipped.

“No. It’s not.” I gave him a stern look. “Not funny at all.”

Then the nice lady hugged me and told me to have a happy Easter but she didn’t hug Scotto.

I was secretly thrilled because most people ALWAYS prefer Scotto to me.


She probably thought he was beyond the reach of redemption. Lol.

The Ultimate Secret Of True Love

I was sitting on the toilet in our ensuite tonight, staring into the mirror. 

Not my most flattering angle but we’ve all done it when we’re a bit bored. You know... let’s see how much I can look like a creature from the depths of hell while I’m sitting on the dunny?

What? You haven’t ever stared at your face when you’re sitting on the loo and pulled a horrible, devilish face?

Bloody liar.

Anyway, I decided to pull the completely, and most utterly, ugliest expression I could manifest, in the mirror… as most people do from time to time.

What? You haven’t ever done that?

Weirdo.

So it just so happens, at the exact time of my having this impulsive impulse to pull my silliest and most spew inspiring expression in the mirror, my front tooth denture was missing and I looked a bit like an Ork with periodontal disease.

Not only that, but I pulled my chin down so it looked as if I had eight chins and I then I went the extra length and super bulged my eyes, all the while staring into the mirror in gleeful evilness. 

I rejoiced in my hideousness.

Because the universe is so serendipitous, it was at this exact moment my husband happened to casually saunter past the bathroom door and witnessed me pulling my most unappealing possible face, ever.

He paused for a millisecond and I naturally expected he would recoil in disgust and sink into the foetal position in fear. I thought he would form the cross with his fingers and start shrieking a Hail Mary and start spraying garlic everywhere.

But he just burst into laughter and tried to pull an even uglier face.

He failed... nothing could surpass my repugnance, but at least he tried.

That's true love.

That’s true love.

How I Improved My Bikies Pinky Mother In One Easy Lesson

My dear old Dad surrounded by bikies.

It started off as a sedate Saturday lunch with the oldies and my visiting sister, brother-in-law and nephew. 

I was elected to choose the venue and I suggested an authentic and charming pub down the bottom of the mountain. We’d never eaten there before but Scotto and I had been a few times to have a Sunday arvo drink and listen to the band.

As we disembarked from our cars in the parking lot, our eardrums were assaulted with the sound of a zillion motor bikes flooding down the hotel driveway. We were stuck in the middle of the road with big, black sinister bikes milling around us.

It was like a scene from Mad Max. They were huge and scary looking bikies with skull masks, chains, tattoos and black leather. They had mohawks and pierced bits everywhere.

I spun around to check on my elderly mother and was alarmed to see her trotting way ahead of us in a somewhat hurried fashion. Great, I thought. I’ve brought my senior citizen, fragile parents to a bikie pub and have probably scared them into apoplexy.

“Quickly!” Mum shouted at us as we struggled to keep up behind her. “We need to order before all these bloody bikies get to the counter. I’m hungry and I want to get in first.”

She had a point. There were at least two hundred of them. The bar staff must have panicked.

We found out, via my brother-in-law, Pedro, (who went for a cigarette and got chatting with one of them) that they were on a memorial ride for a member who had died the previous year.

“Probably died in a violent motorbike crash,” commented Mum, always one for a bit of drama. I scanned the beer garden and wondered if it was more likely a death via a cholesterol related issue. They were all rather big boys and they were wolfing down the deep fried chips with a vengeance.

“She’s going to regret all those tattoos when she’s an old lady,” my mother remarked in a scathing tone and with far too much volume for my liking as she stared at a bikie chick over my shoulder.

“It’s her choice, Mum!” I hissed under my breath. “Don’t talk so loud.”

“Look at her! She’s got writing and pictures all over her body,” Mum continued, not adjusting her bellowing by even a degree.

I deliberately did NOT look at anyone and just put my head down and stared at my palms which had begun to sweat and shake. Sometimes I think my mother has a death wish.

Fortunately, they turned out to be very nice bikies and after a couple of glasses of Dutch courage I quelled my reservations and asked two of them for a photo.

Pinky: A woman of the people.

They were very well-spoken and polite I must say.

They even said I could put their photos on my blog, Pinky Poinker.

They were super keen actually.

I always ask for permission before putting pictures of people on my blog.

Especially bikies.

You never know who they might be hiding from and I’d hate to be the one to expose them.

That’s a joke. I suspect that many of them were accountants, lawyers and school teachers.

In fact, the grade two teacher at the school I work at is a bikie which is funny when you think about it.

There are two different types of bikies you see. Sweet natured, respectful ones and the ones that....

Never mind. Best not dig myself any further in my grave.

Know any bikies?

The Family

# Yes, I'm still typing my key words into the title generator. I love it.

Everything You Wanted to Know About Snake Bites and Were Afraid To Ask

I’m officially on two weeks school holidays so naturally now the tables have turned and instead of ME getting up at five am, shivering on the couch whilst clutching my first coffee in the lounge room watching the sun rise and then taking his Lordship a fresh coffee at 6:00 am, now Scotto has to bring me my morning coffee.

Ha!

But I’ve noticed a vague resentment when Scotto heavily plonks my coffee down on my bedside table. He would deny it but I can tell he is condemning me with his disparaging manner.

It’s the expression on his face, the forced smile and the weightiness of the aggressive kiss he lumps on my forehead as he delivers my cup down beside my Nicorettes.

When he leaves for work, he critically observes me reclining on the bed in my PJs at ten o’clock in the morning and I can see the disapproving glint in his eyes.

Fudge you, I whisper to myself. Fudge you, judgmental man.

But this morning I felt a bit sorry for him because his car, the Batmobile, which is still under warranty and just had the engine replaced, was towed away a mere 36 hours after he picked it up from the workshop (after FIVE WEEKS in the garage).

When he left in the pathetically incapable courtesy car (his third one) to go on a job, I was sitting on the couch on my laptop reading about how a chicken failed to recognise its owner because of a new haircut (thanks Rae Hilhorst) and I suddenly thought, my husband thinks I’m an Internet layabout.

Naturally, I had to correct this silly opinion he seemed to have formed in his head.

So after I’d finished watching the very captivating chicken video, (and then another hypnotising video about how you can use a piece of string to peel onions)  I went out with my gardening gloves and weeded the front garden which has been allowed to go stupid for at least 6 months. It was so bad even our neighbours had been making jokes about it.

It took a while to weed (about an hour and a half) and when I came in puffing and wheezing, I suddenly noticed two fang marks on my wrist and naturally assumed I’d been bitten by an Eastern Brown snake. 

Sorry about the age spots

I googled how long it takes for symptoms to manifest and what the symptoms are. It can take up to an hour for death to strike.

I hadn’t actually seen a snake but plenty of people get bitten and don’t realise it. I felt my heartbeat escalate and my mouth went dryish. I may have dribbled in fear despite the dry mouth.

I had a coffee and then a wine and waited for an hour and nothing happened so I think I’m okay. I did get a mild headache but it passed.

But if you never hear from me again you know I died from a venomous snake bite, so thanks for reading my blog all this time.

If I’m dead tomorrow you know whose fault it is, K?



Does your other half get jealous when you have holidays and they don’t?

These 5 Simple Cyclone Tricks Will Pump Up Your Sales Almost Instantly

Caveat emptor: There are no cyclone sales tips, I'm still using the click bait title generator.

On Monday and Tuesday, with great dismay, I stared at the BOM radar images watching the cyclone approaching the North Queensland coast where four of my five children are ensconced.

I knew in my heart the cyclone would not hit Townsville, but I sent all my beloved children texts querying their welfare. 

One sent back a text saying, “It’s a bit windy”. 

One sent back a text saying it was “all good, Mother”. 

One ignored me completely. 

One asked if he could possibly borrow 100 bucks until he got paid on Thursday.

One thing that really stuck in my craw was that the schools were bloody closed up there for two days. 

I was furious. How dare they?

If I was still working up there I would have had two days off. 

Hmmmmf.
Bloody sooks. A bit of rain and they cancel school. The cylones NEVER hit Townsville. Everyone knows that. They cancel school when it bloody spits rain up there.

So anyway, the cyclone has turned into a rain depression and has moved down South to my area and guess whose school is closed for two days????

Hardy ha ha Townsville, you bloody fakers.

P.S. It’s very boring staying home when you are locked in a flood bound house with your ‘work at home’ husband who slightly resents your annoying and unprecedented presence.

P.P.S. I’ve run out of crosswords and it’s raining very bloody  hard, there are gale force winds and I fear for my chickens’ livelihood.


P.P.P.S. The dogs are being very sooky and I think we may be all about to die. Dogs know stuff like that.

Fascinating Rooster in Love Tactics That Can Help Your Business Grow

It appears my rooster, Hodor, has fallen in love with me. 

Mum and Dad were over last weekend and he jumped on my lap and sat there listening to our conversation the whole time. He follows me around everywhere, endearing himself so he won’t be given away. He’s gaslighting me with his cuteness. He’s trying to act all coy so I will convince Scotto to let me keep him.

I re-located Hodor into a new coop with his own little harem, the four silkie chickens, Theon Greyjoy, Joffrey and two new gingers, Ygritte the Second and Tormund Giantsbane. 

Ygritte and Tormund

His other girlfriend, Jon Snow, has turned all broody and is currently sitting on nine eggs fertilised by none other than 'imself.

He’s a bit of a lad with the ladies even though smells like a petting zoo and kicks them in the gizzards when they take his bread.

Speaking of the rustic life, I’ve seen about a million cows this week and killed a plethora of cane toads and one silly unfortunate bird who failed to see my car until too late.

R.I.P inattentive bird; I felt sick to my stomach for half an hour after I hit it.

The road leading into the country town I work at is highly susceptible to flooding and this week I found myself taking a rural detour adding another 25 minutes to my already lengthy journey. On Monday I didn’t realise the road was blocked so I had to backtrack which meant my commute to work took three, fudging, ashmole, bastard hours.

I have to divert to a grazing community where it’s so rough the school zone speed limit is 80 kms an hour. I wish I was joking.

Country kids are very tough and can run pretty fast apparently.

We had a twilight meeting at school that night too so I had to drive home along an unfamiliar, one lane country road in the fudging dark. 

It took eleven One Direction songs on my USB just to get to a vaguely urban area with one flickering street light. 

As if that wasn’t punishment enough, when I finally reached the foot of our slippery, twisting mountain road, it began raining heavily and when I at last reached the summit, the cloud cover was so thick I couldn’t see more than two metres in front of me.

I’m starting to think someone wants me dead.

Is God punishing me for taking sneaky looks at FB?.

The boss at work suggested I check the local council Facebook page to check for road closures. But I told her that since I’ve given up FB for Lent, she would have to do it for me and ring me by 6:30am. She directed me to the Bureau of Meteorology instead.

My daughter Lulu has been trying to bait me to break my FB promise by posting extremely provocative taunts online. My friend Kathy from 50 Shades of Age has also been tagging me with adorable Chihuahua posts. 

You’ll be pleased to know that I have remained resolute (except for very quick peeks). I just get Scotto to comment on my behalf.



Go on… try to tempt me to post on FB. I bet you can’t.

Randy Rooster!

The Ultimate Secrets of a Fire Fighter

Image Credit

* Still using title generator, lol.

Last night, at about three in the morning, I reached over to grab my water bottle and as I sucked thirstily on the life force within, I felt something light-footed and sinister, scrabble down my delicate wrist. It felt like either a small spider or a cockroach crawling along my arm.

In my dazed state, I flicked whatever it was over to Scotto’s side of the bed, rolled over and went back to sleep.

I think I might have woken up about an hour later and casually mused on the possible locality of the diminutive but possibly vicious invertebrate. 

Could it be back on my side of the covers, snuggled against my thigh, ready to sink its fangs in? Frankly, I didn’t give a shit at that stage because I was delirious with exhaustion.

The next morning, Scotto regaled me with an animated (but slightly boring) story about how he woke up in the dead of night because he sensed a cold blooded creature which had unceremoniously landed on his back.

He expressed concern that it might have been a spider but he thought it looked a bit more solid in the dull light of dawn. "Perhaps like a bug, or a cockroach," he said thoughtfully. An hour later he felt it land on his arm. He’d still failed to get a good look at it though, so he couldn’t be sure what it was. A scorpion? A Toe-biter?

I just kept my mouth closed about my own personal, moderately distressing incident with the unknown organism. No need for Scotto to know about my lack of concern for his nocturnal welfare. 

He didn't need to know I’d possibly flicked a funnel web spider onto him in a willy-nilly absence of attention towards his personal welfare.

After all, he is supposed to be a tough fire fighter and all.

Sexy firefighter husband

But it’s funny how I’m not scared of spiders in the middle of the night when I feel sleepy but I’m absolutely terrified of them when I’m fully awake, don’t you think?