Deceased Estate

Last week our hare, Mixy, died. Scotto found her in the hutch. We don’t know what happened… possibly a heart attack because we just found out that hares are prone to heart attacks (which goes to show what eating too much kale will do to you). 

The highly expensive enclosure and hutch we bought for her, now stand empty and forlorn.

My neighbour, Mrs Nutty, suggested I put it on Airbnb because it’s barely been used.

Here’s my ad… 

Luxury Gold Coast Hinterland Cottage

· Stunning views over the Gold Coast hinterland

· sleeps two (relatively short-statured) people in a large, loft style, open, upstairs bedroom

· pets are welcome

· although there are no kitchen and laundry facilities, Wi Fi access is a possibility

· fully air-conditioned, well-ventilated and fully treated for fleas

· only 40 minutes to Surfers Paradise and 20 minutes to Dreamworld

· No microwave, VCR or TV but battery operated CD player on request

· Open-air style bathing in fresh rainwater

· Innovative and state of the art rooster-themed wake up service

. highly rated, ingratiating hosts who are committed to providing great stays for guests no matter what your species or gender preference

· one recent guest has said that this home was sparkling clean

· luxurious and healthy breakfast provided 

. Quiet surrounds with the sounds of frogs, crickets, cicadas, magpies, kookaburras, wasps, geckos, falling branches, possums, fornicating koalas, the next-door neighbour's Harley as he leaves for work at 4:30am, and the resilient neighbour who refuses to accept his lawnmower has died in the arse.

NB: No parties or events 

       No smoking



One review

Mixy     

Pinky’s cottage is comfortable and has fantastic views. Pinky was also welcoming and helpful, however, I felt that her host description was a bit misleading as it sounded like she was the only one in the adjoining house, and when I arrived, I discovered four dogs, a cat and twelve chickens. It was only when I saw the toys and bones all around the garden and asked her if she had a dog that she said yes. Having said all this, the bedroom was comfortable, and the views are amazing. Wait… I already said that didn’t I?… Oh well, the location is also very convenient, close to the beach, the tram and the centre of Surfers, so I would still recommend it – even though I’m a hare and I couldn’t go to any of those places because I didn’t have transport, which sucked balls big time. Anyway, have to go now. Must have eaten something that didn't agree with me... lol.

Jokes aside... R.I.P. My darling Mixy xxx

All Animals are Equal...

Scotto is away for a few days in Melbourne. He went to his niece’s wedding. She held her wedding midweek... just like her sister did, and I’m beginning to suspect his family hates me and doesn’t want me attending family ceremonies and thus plan their weddings around my work schedule. 

Hmmm.

Anyway, I’ve been stuck here with the eighteen animals while Scotto is gallumphing around in the big smoke.

Juggling parent teacher interviews after school and making it home before dark to feed the menagerie, has been a challenge. 

One evening, just on dusk, I arrived home to find twelve chickens standing resolutely at the back door, pecking ravenously at the glass and staring at me with an evil gimlet eye. It was like a scene from The Birds. 

The twelve psychotic chickens at the back window were framed by the silhouettes of my insatiable German Shepherd (think a starving Cujo) and the Silky Terrier (think a very angry Benji). Their tongues slobbered onto the veranda in menacing anticipation of meat.

The usually resentful and elusive hare, Mixy, somersaulted around in her cage like an expert aerial performer in Circus de Soleil in an attempt to get my attention. The Chihuahua and Fox Terrier yipped around my feet whilst the cat clawed a chunk out of my ankles as I rushed past her in a desperate stagger towards the pantry and the canned food.

With trembling hands, I dithered about who to feed first, but quickly elected to appease the German Shepherd at once (in case he lost his Teutonic composure and tore my bloody arm off in a ravenous fit of savagery... or attacked an emotional  chicken).

Amidst a cacophony of cackling, crowing, barking, yipping and caterwauling, I somehow sated the crazed feeding frenzy without any of them eating each other… or me.

Just so you know… they all get fed breakfast.

One morning before work, I walked down the yard to let the chickens out of the coops and I saw about eight alien chickens foraging in the garden. The neighbours’ chickens had clearly heard rumours about the cushy conditions at our place and found a hole in the fence.

Pablo, the Chihuahua, immediately recognised the intruders weren’t ‘of our flock’ and chased them back through the hole, scoring some delicious plumage in his muzzle.

I wasn’t even positive they weren’t our chickens at first. They looked exactly the same. They were black with feathers… so I don’t know how the Chihuahua could tell.

Intra-species racism? Next he'll be building a wall.

Anyway, it's all been chaotic and I will be glad when Scotto returns home because I’m frightened it’s turned into Animal Farm here.

You know what I mean… all animals are equal but some animals are more equal than humans.

Free-Balling

Driving along in my car to my walking destination, I suddenly became aware of the fact that although I’d remembered my Nicorettes, asthma inhaler and sun visor, I’d forgotten to wear a bra.

I was three quarters of the way there already so I screeched to a halt and weighed up my titillating situation.

Do I waste petrol and go back home or do I air the girls in public in the nonchalant manner of a truly progressive, enlightened woman?

After peering down and acknowledging the twins were reasonably disguised by a black t-shirt with a large, all-encompassing chicken decal, I decided to save the petrol and free-ball it.

Every time I passed another jogger/walker, I pretended to scratch my opposite ear which provided a decent barrier between my nipples and probing eyes and also steadied any overt jiggle-jiggle. 

Nobody would even know!

Can I say the experience was liberating in the extreme? The cool breeze, the lack of diaphragmatic restriction and the absence of an errant bra strap slipping down my shoulder requiring constant adjustment produced a much more comfortable walking event.

At one point, a family of tourists pulled up beside me.

“Excuse me,” enquired a lady in the front passenger seat. “Can you give us directions to Main Street?”

I began to scratch my left ear with my right hand.

After the initial thrill of being tagged as a local (the lack of a bra probably helped), I delivered some complicated directions involving complex turns, knotty loops and obscure landmarks.

They smiled in a baffled manner and thanked me before driving off.

I felt proud of the fact that after two years living here, I finally felt confident to help tourists find their way around the byzantine roads of the maze-like mountain.

I felt proud that I did it without wearing a bra.

I felt proud for about three minutes, until it dawned on me that the road I’d set them off on with such self-assurance, actually led down and off the mountain and nowhere near Main Street.

I figured it would take them twenty minutes to realise and another twenty to get back up the mountain to find me and abuse the shit out of me so… I skulked back to my car, dodging from shrubbery to shrubbery and taking shelter behind large ferns.

You can never play it too safe can you?



Ever been out without a bra?

When a Man Gets a New Toy...

Golden Boy (my ex-Suzuki Sport) is sold... and all credit goes to Scotto, who vacuumed/polished and cleaned him up, arranged for the dint to be fixed and basically did all the Gumtree stuff I didn’t know and didn’t WANT to know about.

Scotto’s commission for the sale of this treasured car, was a Nerf Gun in order to fire at the chickens when they start eating our plants, as they do, frequently and annoyingly.

Sadly, due to the Weapons Act of 1991, there are no Nerf guns to be found in any toy store in Australia. I was very pleased at this because I assumed Scotto would just forget about it and I wouldn’t have to spend money on frivolous, silly things like ammunitions against poultry.

“Look!” I exhaled impatiently one day when I had returned from yet another fruitless attempt at buying a missile-like weapon from the two dollar shops. “I can only find water pistols. They’re the same as the hose as far as effectiveness in scaring off chickens goes. How about you look for a drone and then you can swoop on the unsuspecting victims from above.”

I never thought or even suspected Scotto would recall this conversation. I thought, well that’s the end of that then!



Today, even though I had long forgotten about my extravagant and insincere offer, Scotto came home with a drone.

He was clearly exhilarated, overly excited, intoxicated with a Bruce Willis type of innocent, inner aggression, and stood in the backyard with his mouth gaping like a six year old boy finally allowed to shoot his Grandpa's shotgun.

The Fox Terrier was so excited by the strange, electronic, flying object, she fell off the deck (she's okay).The Chihuahua, the German Shepherd and the Silky Terrier couldn’t have given a small shit about the whizzing machinery, and the chickens… well frankly they didn’t even notice it.

But Scotto… I probs won’t even see him until after winter.

Shopping with Pinky

New Boots!

“I need a new pair of jeans for winter,” I said to Scotto last weekend.

“Well, do you think you can buy a pair that actually fit you for once?” Scotto arched his eyebrows at me.

He knows I usually buy clothes about one to two sizes too big because I’m too lazy to go into change rooms so I round up to the nearest five kilograms when buying clothes off the rack.

It was with Scotto’s specific directive that I embarked on a shopping expedition with my mother yesterday morning. I needed to purchase a pair of 'sexy jeans', not a pair of grandma jeans with a slowly descending crotch that sometimes falls to my knees when I walk too quickly.

First we had to stop at the library. My mother loves the library.

The Gold Coast is currently hosting the Commonwealth Games and naturally the baton relay was taking place in the library car park as we pulled in. Some harried looking security officer kept yelling at all the elderly library patrons (including me) because they were parking in the wrong place. I’d hoped to avoid this scenario by a self-prohibition of driving down to the coast during the games.

Inside the library were a lot of very old people. While I waited for my mother to choose her books, I decided to read some New Scientist magazines but all the oldies had taken any available seating.

I waited until a ninety-eight year old man left his seat to dodder off for another newspaper then cleverly snaked into his deserted chair before he returned. Hmmmpf. I’m almost a senior too.

Mother came to fetch me soon after and we arrived at the mall soon after I’d managed to knock over several witches hats in the library car park on the way out.

As well as desperately requiring jeans, I needed boots, ballet flats and an asthma puffer.

I’m allergic to the hare. 

I know… that’d be bloody right, huh? I’m still keeping her though. I’ll just use my puffer when I my breathing hole closes up. It's not a drama.

After a carefully orchestrated operation involving the purposeful scouring of every single shoe store in the Robina Town Centre, I found a pair of cheap, suede ankle boots which are guaranteed to antagonise my bunion and elicit quite a lot of complaining during the winter months. 

They look nice though.

Finally, we reached the clothing store where I hoped to discover a pair of jeans which would ignite the lusty fire in Scotto’s loins and which I would not be able to just pull up over my hips without undoing them because they’re so baggy. (This does save time in the toilet, I must point out.)



“Oh, how gorgeous,” exclaimed my mother, holding up a highly desirous item she’d pulled off a rack.

I scanned the price tag. It seemed to be in my parsimonious range.

“Do you think the style is a bit young for me?” I asked, hoping she would say no.

“Well it’s too young for me but you could probably get away with it,” Mother assured me, rubbing the soft material against her face in admiration of the fabric.

She shrugged and tottered off to the back of the store to look for tea towels with chickens on them.

My mind struggled against its natural penchant towards frugality. I hate spending money on clothing.

Eventually, visions of my forlorn, empty wardrobe defeated the alarmed screaming from my inner penny-pinching muse and I tentatively made my way to the counter; wallet open and credit card clutched in my trembling fingers. 

I was going in, baby.

Soooo… this is me in my new outfit. 

What do you think? Do you think Scotto will like it?

Forgiveness at Easter

Moon on Good Friday 30/3/18 by Scotto (with a hand held camera)

We just saved Brienne of Tarth (chief chicken), from the jaws of our German Shepherd. Normally, they get along fine but Brienne must have poked her beak in the middle of his feed bowl while he gobbled his dinner and he clearly resented sharing with a farmyard bird.

She seems okay but now she won’t come out from under the deck and there are white feathers littering the lawn.

Never mind. I’ll be home to watch over them all for the next two weeks because it’s the Easter holidays!

My Stations of the Cross liturgy went well yesterday despite ‘Jesus’ not turning up on the morning. You can only imagine my utter panic and horror at this state of affairs.

I elected another unrehearsed, little boy to get dressed in the Jesus costume, pronto.

“You’ll be fine,” I coerced the trembling child. “You just have to walk around with the cross on your back for a bit and then die on the cross with grave sincerity and a great deal of solemnity. Don’t let me down, or else.”

The stunned little boy gazed at me dubiously then finally nodded in reluctant assent when he saw the desperate look in my pleading eyes.

Thankfully, the real Jesus turned up at the eleventh hour. Not the ‘actual real’ Jesus of course. That would have made a truly excellent Stations of the Cross though. Can you just imagine the kudos I’d get for pulling that out of the bag?

I must admit, this was the best class I’ve ever re-enacted this liturgy with. I screamed and ranted much less than usual during rehearsals and no one was sent to the office for being silly; not even once.

My Jesus didn’t accidentally clock anyone on the head with the cross and the technology didn’t break because I had my beautiful friend and colleague, Kath, operating it for me, as my hands were shaking too much to work the volume knob.

My husband, Scotto and my parents even made the hour long drive out to the school to watch it.

I think this is my seventh time presenting this particular liturgy and I finally nailed it.

Sorry.

I gave my class Easter eggs at the end of the day and someone accidentally left their eggs on the window sill.

Seamus, one of my ‘energetic’ students, spotted the abandoned eggs. “Can I have them, Mrs Poinker?” he asked wistfully, a curious gleam in his eyes.

“No,” I replied. “Go downstairs, Seamus.”

“Please?” he insisted.

“NO! You have your own eggs. Go downstairs and wait for your mother. Whoever owns them will probably be back in a couple of minutes.”

I walked back into the classroom and tidied up. Ten minutes later, I walked out and spied Seamus, still loitering around the window sill, staring longingly at the eggs.

I made him walk downstairs with me. He dragged his feet dramatically the whole way and kept glancing back at the window.

I went into the staffroom and said my goodbyes. As I walked to my car, I observed little Seamus, standing underneath the stairwell and scrutinising the windows in a doleful, forlorn manner.

“No one came for them,” he whispered to me in a sad voice as I swept past him. “No one came back.”

I’m pretty sure that as soon as my car drove away, Seamus snuck back upstairs and nicked the eggs.

But that’s okay. I didn’t care.

By that stage of the day I was like an amoeba reacting to stimuli. My brain was on automatic.

And anyway, Easter is all about forgiveness, don’t you agree?

Let me take this opportunity to wish you and your loved ones a very happy and safe Easter. I'll catch all of you on Facebook on Easter Sunday xxx

Happy Birthday to Everyone Born after Ash Wednesday!

Tamborine Mountain Heritage Centre

I went to phone my daughter yesterday and noticed the option of using Facetime. I miss seeing her adorable face and immediately buzzed her. An image of her in the car wearing a seatbelt, manifested on my screen. I gathered she was driving home from gym or something. She’s so health conscious that girl.

“I’ll hang up,” I breathed urgently into the phone. “I don’t want you to have an accident, sweetie.”
“It’s okay,” she replied. “I’m in the queue at KFC.”

Hmmmpf… so much for the gym.

I think part of the reason my kids don’t like where I live is because there are no KFCs. There is no Maccas, Guzman Y Gomez, Domino’s or Hungry Jack’s either and I hope there never will be.

Can you believe Tamborine Mountain doesn’t even have a single traffic light? Actually, we don’t even have street lights. It makes driving in the fog around treacherous, curvy cliffs very exhilarating.

I love the rural atmosphere and have resolved to open a petting zoo here in my retirement. Scotto supports me fully and happily listens to me list the animals I will have in my zoo. He’s even promised to help me with all the mucking out of stables and pens. I’m not sure what ‘mucking out’ means but I’m positive I will like it.


We go walking on weekends and lately, we amble along a circuit that travels past the Tamborine Mountain Heritage Centre. We snuck in today (even though it was closed) so I could take a photograph and an older man frightened us by seemingly popping out of nowhere.

“That sign is spelled wrong,” I commented, pointing to the TAMBOURINE mountain sign in a know-it-all, teacher fashion and attempting to divert him from the fact we were trespassing.

“No,” he corrected me. “It used to be spelled that way until 1920 when this was built.”

He went on to inform us that as the legend goes, there was a local business back in the day which had a truck, and the sign on it said TAMBO on one side and URINE on the other. Apparently the general population took offence and changed the spelling of the mountain.

After our walk, we went to the Mitre 10 hardware store to look for stuff to make a crown of thorns for my little Jesus. My class is performing Stations of the Cross on Thursday and Jesus is currently sans headwear.

Unbelievably, there didn’t seem to be a Crown of Thorns aisle in the shop and we left empty handed.

We will have to fashion one from something in the garden. Naturally, we won’t use anything with real thorns because it’s only a representation and I don’t want my Jesus to bleed in front of the preppies. Nailing Jesus to the cross will be quite enough for the under-fives to witness, I feel.

On Sunday, Lent will be over and I can annoy people on Facebook again.

Even though I haven’t been ‘liking’ or commenting or posting, I have been taking a peek at it now and again. Of course, I was still private messaging as well because that’s the only way some people will communicate with me.

My teaching buddy, Catherine Mary, told me she thinks that it all sounds very dodgy and shouldn’t be counted as a Lenten sacrifice since I have pretty much been stalking everyone on Facebook the whole time.

Hmmmpf… I’d like to know what Catherine Mary gave up.

Oh! I forgot to tell you! We sold Golden Boy! When the mechanic checked the car for the roadworthy he told Scotto my six year old brakes were almost at 100% function.

“Does she ever slow down?” the mechanic asked Scotto in astonishment. Little does he know I never speed UP. I drive to conditions even when there are no conditions.

That was my week.

But, I have a question for you...

Will you visit my petting zoo?

and also...

Did you even miss me on Facebook?

Autumn is coming... no wait... it's here!

“Can you smell that?” asked Scotto this morning, as he inhaled deeply and stretched out in bed like a languorous Tom cat.

“Do you mean the chicken poo?” I replied blinking vacuously.

“No,” he arose from bed and opened the curtains.

“Did you fart under the sheets again?” I eyed him suspiciously.

“No, not recently,” he answered, flopping back on the bed and making me spill my coffee.

“It’s not the neighbour’s septic tank again is it?” I croaked in dismay. (The neighbour’s septic tank smells like burnt pubic hair. It’s gross. I’d say it was our tank... but we don’t burn pubic hair so, nah).

“No, Pinky. Can’t you feel it in the air? Can’t you smell it? It’s autumn!”
I attempted to feel autumn in the air. I sniffed in a sincere manner. I cupped my hand to my shell-like ear to try to hear it. I used my Shaman techniques.

It didn’t feel any different to the day before.

Scotto is very sensitive to the seasons because he originally comes from Melbourne where they have seasons.

I come from the tropics where the only season we have is cyclone season and a brief two week window where you need to wear a cardigan until 9:00am.

Anyway, because it is autumn (apparently) I have updated my banner with cheeky chickens and a rambunctious hare.

No wait… that’s spring.

Oh well. My banner is updated.

Please thank Scotto.

Ten Reasons Why Owning a Hare is Not Boring!

Night Vision Camera on Hare

1. Even though they are nocturnal creatures, you can watch them sleeping for hours on end.

2. You can’t teach hares cute tricks because they are wild animals, but when you give them food they will creep down from their hutch and eat it long after you’ve gone to bed.

3. They like to be patted but you have to hold them very firmly or they will push their strong hind legs against you and scurry away and hide in a tight space where you can’t reach them.

4. They will never love you because they regard you as a predator, however, they don’t actually hate you; they’re just horrified by your presence.

5. They will NEVER get to like your other pets, however, your pets will be frenetically curious and strangely obsessed with what could be hiding all day in that mysterious hutch.

6. You can’t wear perfume if you wish to handle a hare because they will have a panic attack and scratch you to death in order to escape the pungent odour of your scent.

7. You can’t give them toys to play and frolic appealingly with because they will eat them and most probably die.

8. They will never answer to their name because they don’t want to have anything to do with you, so why the hell would they come when they’re called.

9. When they are frightened, which is any time you are near them, they flatten their ears and look like guinea pigs. In fact, they may as well be a guinea pig for what it’s worth.

10. When you tell people you have a hare, they think you are lying and that you are granting asylum to an illegal rabbit and you can see the person wondering about whether or not they should dob you in to the authorities.

(When Scotto went to pick up some pellets the other day, the girl serving him said, "Here are the pellets for your long eared-guinea pig!")

Should I get another one to keep it company?

I'll Make You an Offer!

Source

For the last two Tuesdays, I’ve stayed at home because flood waters prevented me getting to school.

“You’re making it rain aren’t you, Pinky!” my deputy principal accused on the phone. “It’s because you hate taking the kids to swimming lessons on Tuesday!”

Whilst it’s true I hate swimming lessons, I haven’t managed to control the weather yet.

I say ‘yet’, because one day I might work out how to do it.

Both Tuesdays, I awoke to the 5:30am alarm, dressed, packed my lunch and drove for twenty minutes before one of my colleagues rang me to tell me the road was closed.

It’s only one bridge that’s closed and that bridge is five minutes away from the school. I can’t imagine why the council doesn’t raise the damn bridge. 

I offered to buy a rubber dinghy and park my car on the side of the road and row across, but my deputy started carrying on about workplace health and safety rules and kept saying ‘If it’s flooded forget it, Pinky’.

I offered to go and work at another school for the day but was informed it would be a ‘conflict of interest’.

This response afforded me a great deal of relief because I can’t think of anything worse than going to work at another school for the day and when I offered, I didn’t really mean it on a sincere level.

It was one of those ‘token’ offers, like the rubber dinghy.

Also like when your husband drops his ice-cream on the ground and you offer him yours. Or when your husband is going out with the boys and you offer to pick him up when he’s finished, really late at night. Or when the dog vomits on the bathroom floor and you say, 'I’ll clean it up, darling, you stay in bed'.

You don’t make a token offer and anticipate it will be accepted.

When you make a token offer you have to make sure the recipient knows deep down that it would be outrageously insensitive to accept it. You have to direct your prey into believing that what you are offering is a ridiculously extreme and contemptible expectation to ask of another human being.

When making the token offer you should make your body as small and pitiful as possible. You must use a childish, plaintive tone and compose your face into a timid, humble expression of servitude. That is a challenge when you are doing it over the phone but can be managed with practise.

Indeed, you can even do it via text messages.

Example: Hi honey. Noticed we are low on milk. I’ll pick some up after our late staff meeting if I can find a servo that’s open on the lonely highway at that time of night. Love you xxx

Remember, you must make yourself the victim in order to engage your target.

Don’t worry; it’s mainly Scotto I use this skill on.

I would never use it on you...

What token offers do you make?

P.S. If my boss is reading this I'd totally LOVE working at another random school for the day.