For F F F F F Formal's Sake!

                          

I’ve just returned from buying the dress I plan to wear to Lulu’s formal next Friday night.

You already know what I’m about to say don’t you?

Now that I have it home I hate it… and I mean REALLY HATE IT…typical Pinky, huh?

I took it downstairs to seek out a second opinion.

“It’s alright, but it wouldn’t look any good on you,” commented the ever subtle eldest son, Thaddeus. “Maybe a teenager could get away with it.”

Whose dress did he think I was showing him?

I’m going to wear it anyway even though it accentuates my tuckshop arms and pot belly. It’s not the dress at fault you see, it’s the untoned, flabby, porker in the mirror that I’m most p#ssed off with.

And just for once, I won’t give a damn because I have far more pressing issues to agonise over.

Next week is going to be a hell-raiser. 

My baby boy, Padraic 

and baby girl, Lulu 

are both attending two end-of-year formals each, on Wednesday and Friday night, for not only their own school but for that of their partners as well. 

We’re talking about four separate schools here guys.

There are two dresses to be picked up from the dressmakers, two lots of make-up and hair appointments, two corsages to purchase, two suits to spruce up, two cars to organise and two valedictory ceremonies to attend.

I don’t know how I can possibly be in two places at the one time. Even though I’m only expected to attend Lulu’s formal, I want to be at the arrivals for all four of them to take photos of the significant occasions and ooh and aah with the other parents.

Formals are just so damn… formal nowadays. When I graduated from high school all we had was a crappy dance at the local lawn bowls club and then threw eggs at each other on the last day of school.

As soon as the formals are over Padraic and Lulu are both taking off to Airlie Beach for a week of Schoolie’s celebrations. Pinky will lie in bed each night, eyes protruding towards the blackness, gnawing at her fist and worrying about her babies, whilst they are whooping it up on the money they’ve managed to extort from me.

School, for my two babies is finished forever. I don’t have to nag about study or assignments, attend boring speech nights, fossick through the dirty washing for a lost uniform, attend parent teacher interviews or sell dodger tickets for the school fete ever again.Hang on… yes I do. I forgot. I’m a teacher.

My Son the Lawyer

I’ve never lived vicariously through my children which is why it sometimes irks me when I bump into someone I haven’t seen for a long time and they ask, “So what are your kids up to now, Pinky?” 

Deep down I know how they want me to reply.

They want me to say, “My kids are great! What are yours up to?”

Their question is a ploy… a ruse, because all they want is to do is regale me with lofty tales of their own golden childrens’ exploits.

“Oh, Nathan’s a chief accountant for a big multi-national company in Hong Kong, it’s terrible really because we hardly ever get to see him, Raphael’s an obstetrician (which is ironic because he married a gynaecologist) and little Monique is a classical dancer with the Australian ballet,” they’ll respond with an affectation of modesty.

It’s true. They’d never ask me what my kids are ‘up to now’ if their kid was doing ten years non-parole in Long Bay would they?

It seems at last, after twenty-four years, Pinky has bragging rights too.

Jonah, my twenty-two year old son, has finished his law degree and requested my presence at his graduation ceremony in the big smoke at the beginning of December.

I wonder how many ways I’ll discover to weasel the phrase, “My son the lawyer” into conversations from now on?

“That’s a nice coloured shirt you’re wearing! My son the lawyer has one just like it!”

“Sorry I’m late. I was just talking to my son the lawyer on the phone.”

“We need a table for two please; my son the lawyer will be joining us.”

“We’ll need two Meatlovers pizzas delivered thanks, my son the lawyer’s coming over and he has a huge appetite.”

I could keep going but I won’t.

As I’m going to the expense of jet setting down especially for this auspicious occasion anyway, I thought I might book into a health resort on the Gold Coast for a week. Visualise Pinky, all alone in luxurious accommodation, hidden away from the vultures picking at my bones in this household.

It would sort of be like rehab, I thought; enforced non-drinking, compulsory exercise and a prescribed organic-only diet.

I imagined myself reclining on a lazy-boy with slices of cucumber over my eyes and an exotic umbrella-adorned mocktail beside me.

But when I looked at the websites there were all kinds of unsavoury activities on the list of options.

I couldn’t picture myself going to Laughing Yoga classes; especially when my diet would most likely consist of lentils and bean curd. The mind boggles at what may transpire.

The resort boasted Australia’s longest flying-fox. Hurtling at a rapid speed from the top of one telephone pole to another is not really my cup of tea. Besides, that would take up I’m guessing, three minutes of my time, so unless I was like those kids at Dream World who keep going back on the same ride again and again, it hardly seems worth the effort.

The five day package also included a fifty minute massage. To be quite honest the thought of a stranger rubbing me all over my body for almost an hour is unsettling so I’d probably wind up skipping that too.

Mountain bike riding, daily health lectures… meh.

So instead of rehab I’ve decided to fork out extra money for lucky Lulu to accompany me on a shopping holiday. We’ll stay at a hotel in the city and spend our days bonding like only mothers and daughters are able, gorging on delicious food and clothing boutiques.

Of course Lulu’s also looking forward to catching up with her big brother, Jonah. Did I mention that he’s a lawyer?

My Sister Sam and Sibling Rivalry

                               Pinky at four, and Sam one.

My first memory of her was when I was about three and a half. “Come and look at your little sister, Pinky!” Cooed my mother from her bedroom where she was changing baby Sam’s nappy and playing ‘bicycle legs’ with her. I peered at the cherubic baby jealously. My mother never did that to me, I thought resentfully.

From then on most of my childhood memories involve me unjustifiably getting into big trouble, while little Sam was the source of the mischief in the first place.

For example, shopping with an eighteen month old Sam one day I passed her a pretty blue cellophane toilet deodorant cake to play with in the shopping trolley when my mother’s back was turned. Who got the blame when the dribbling baby unwrapped the packet and took a bite out of it? Pinky… that’s who.

When I was about six and she was three years old we always took a bath together. It was my job to look after her but one evening, bored with the tedious task, I drained the tub and spread soap all over the floor of the bathroom.

“Look Sam! We can skate all over the floor!” I squealed in wicked enticement.

Sam, unco-ordinated baby that she was, slipped over splitting her eye open. She was rushed to the doctor by my panicked parents. The gushing blood and gaping wound probably scared them a bit but it was ME who copped the blame after the event. Sam still bears the scar today… not that it mars her beauty at all. The scars I bear from the false accusations still gurgle on the surface of my fragile schema though.

To further denigrate my wrongly besmirched character, about a week later we were left at my Grandma’s place for a couple of hours. “Come into Grandma’s bedroom, Sam.” I coerced my sister. “I can make your eye look all better.” I smothered the bandage with Grandma’s thick, oily blue and green eye shadow. By the time I’d finished with her she resembled a grease-painted peacock in drag.

I was just applying the finishing touches to my masterpiece when our parents arrived to pick us up. 

“What have you done, Pinky?” cried mum hysterically. “Look at her…it’s all gone inside the bandage and into the stitches!”

Another late night trek to the doctors ensued and I was sent to my bed without dinner. “That’s it,” I thought vengefully. “They love her MORE than they love me.”

The day Sam shoved a glass bead deep into her nasal cavity and almost died from inhaling it was also apparently my fault. It was my glass bead, one of many I’d left carelessly on my bedroom floor after being told countless times to clean them up. I was mightily peeved after my mother bought Sam a toy for being so brave when the doctor poked a foot long pair of tweezers up her snout. Where was my toy?

But the worst thing I was blamed for was on Christmas morning when Sam was three. We shared a bedroom together and Pinky had woken at sparrow’s fart in typical six year old exhilaration.

Noting with thrill, the pillow cases stuffed with presents at the foot of each bed, Pinky went about clinically unwrapping all the gifts, setting them up and enjoying a good hour long play with each and every one before the parentals woke up and hit the roof. 

They said I ruined Christmas that year.

Many years have passed since those days and my dear little sister is about to celebrate a very significant birthday. Naturally, our parents are making a special airplane trip up to celebrate such an auspicious occasion. 

Did they make the same effort for Pinky?

Well… they didn’t have to because three weeks before my big event they were still living, gosh, around the corner from me. 

Instead, they deemed it more fitting to pack up, sell their house and move one thousand miles away just prior to my birthday. I told you they love her more than me.

All joking aside though, my sister is my closest and bestest friend and I love her to bits. Happy Birthday Sammy!

                               Sam at 16 and Pinky 19

A Post about Princess Rachael

                            Princess Rachael

“Did you read the post I wrote yesterday about Melbourne Cup Day?” I asked my teaching buddy, Rachael this morning at a fund-raising brunch our dear friend Kyles, was graciously hosting.

“Yes Pinky, I looked at it,” she sniffed indifferently.

“So? Did you like it? Did you laugh?” I needled her, desperately hoping she’d throw me a frickin bone.

“Are you talking about the post where the horses are talking to each other?” Rachael yawned. “It was alright I suppose.”

“Alright??” I squealed indignantly. “Just alright? Did you actually read it?”

“Not really, I’m not really interested in talking horses.”

But… I’d spent hours researching it, I thought sullenly. It was my attempt to be creative, abstract... original…

“OH… so you only like the posts I write about YOU?” I hissed, suddenly remembering who I was talking to.

“Yep,” she acknowledged, as she bit delicately into an avocado and cheese croissant.

“By the way, how come you don’t get any comments on your site, Pinky? I clicked on some of those bloggers who’ve made the odd comment on your blog and they get dozens of replies.” Rachael continued cruelly, as she repetitively stabbed a toothpick into a tiny piece of pastry.

She’d struck a nerve. Bloody comments!

Now I realise I’ve written about this bugbear of mine before but I’ve finally decided to do something about it once and for all.

Many years ago, a man I was dating proved to be exceedingly poor in the communication department. What I mean to say is… he never called when he said he would. 

Not being one to respect women who sit waiting by the phone like big losers, I quickly realised I was beginning to obsess about the whereabouts of my phone and anxiously jumping every time it beeped.

I’m sure many of you can relate to this ugly phenomenon.

So... I did what any other unsound of mind, irrational person would do; I removed the battery from my phone and placed it in a glass of water, thus destroying my phone and cutting off my nose to spite my face.

Knowing that I will never possess the persistence and tenacity of all the other bloggers and join up to the myriad of link-ups and whatever else they do, I’ve decided to remove the commenting facility from my blog entirely.

There are two distinct advantages to this system; firstly, I won’t know what I’m missing and will cease sobbing myself to sleep every night and secondly, the pressure will be removed from all of you guys having to create a witty response to my side-splitting, creative talent.

So anyway… thank you to Princess R. for bringing this issue to a head and thanks to the three of you who have dipped their nib from time to time (you know who you are) and made comments. You’re all most welcome to make your feelings known via Facebook or Twitter.

Unfortunately I will be unable to escape the scathing reviews from my very sweet friend, Princess Rachael, as I work in a classroom beside her every day (I’ve just been sentenced to another twelve month stint); however, I’m sure I’ll find a way to get her back some way or another.

The Melbourne Cup: Straight from the horse’s mouth.

Next Tuesday, the first Tuesday in November, the proud nation of Australia stops for the premier thoroughbred horse racing event of the year, the Melbourne Cup!

What goes on in those horses’ heads on the day, I often wonder? The pressure must be unbearable...

According to this sporting website, verbal intimidation is the backbone of physical competition but surely it wouldn't be an exclusively human domain. 

Throughout history, sport has been flooded with unusual characters who possess a flair for the dramatic and I’m certain the commonplace sledging is not confined to the jockeys in the racing industry.

Imagine the trash talk going on between the horses in the stalls as they wait around for the starting gates to open before the race…

Fiorente: (last year’s runner-up) I’m just looking around to see who’s gonna finish second ma homies!
Dunanen: Come on Fiorente! .You've been scratched more times than a lottery ticket.

Fiorente: Horseshit I have! Besides… It ain't braggin' if you can back it up.
Green Moon: Well, you two losers can take a hike. Get your popcorn ready, 'cause I'm gonna put on a show.

Red Cadeaux: Yeah, right Green Moon, I've seen bigger flanks on a Shetland pony.

Brown Panther: Hey! Foreteller! What does Red Cadeaux’s dick taste like?

Foreteller: I don’t know, Brown Panther. Ask your wife.

Dandino: Yo! Ethiopia! Ray Charles has seen more track than you.

Ethiopia: Sorry, I can’t reply to that… I’m a little hoarse… heehaw.

Fawkner: You should be the horse with no name, bro!

Mourayan: Shut your face, Sarah Jessica Parker!

Seville: Nobody talk to Silent Achiever… That mare’s got PMS… Pissed-Off Mare Syndrome, he haw he haw!

Super Cool: You should talk Seville. You're just like a tampon. Only good for one period.

Seville: Super Cool...after the race I'm gonna build myself a pretty home and use you as a bearskin rug, a#$hole.

Masked Marvel: Hey, Mount Athos! So... how’s your wife and my kids?

Mount Athos: Thanks for asking buddy! The wife’s fine. The kids are retarded!

Royal Empire: Hawkspur… ...Hey man, does your trainer know you're out here?

Hawkspur: F#ck off Royal Empire… my left nut gallops better than you do.

Mr Moet: Give it up Hawkspur, when you were born your mother got an apology letter from the articifial inseminator.

Simenon: Don’t sweat it Mr Moet. I heard Hawkspur broke down in his last race and couldn’t giddy-up.

Jet Away: Hee ha hee ha hee ha.

Precedence: Awwww… why the long face Hawkspur?

Forgotten Voice: That’s a clown question idiot.

Just when you thought Pinky couldn't get any sillier huh?

Anyway… Pinky's tip for the Melbourne Cup is….

Never try to heat up a can of peas in the oven.

Ian Botham for his famous cricket sledging comment.
The Bleachers Report from whom I adapted the horsey trash talk!
http://bleacherreport.com/articles/1238737-the-50-best-trash-talk-lines-in-sports-history

Bloody Bustards!

Bloody Bustard

Every Friday my class is scheduled to patronise the computer lab. The kids love it because if they complete their designated task in time they get to play computer games.

I, on the other hand, don’t love it at all.

The revolving chairs on wheels are my biggest issue. Twenty-nine kids in one room with dangerously mobile furniture is a nightmarish state of affairs at the best of times, but throw in the fact that last night was Halloween and they were all hyped up on sugar made it all the worse today.

The task I’d set for them was to research Aboriginal translations for a list of randomly selected words like fire, water, possum etc.

I’d found an excellent website to direct them to with only one drawback. There were a few unsuitable words translated on the site such as, buttocks, vagina, penis, testicles, breasts and various other descriptive bodily processes.

“Guys, when you go on this site you might find some…” I searched for the words I needed. I couldn’t say ‘rude words’ because they weren’t exactly rude.

“Um, … names of your private parts…” I stuttered.

Furtive looks were exchanged. 

Quiet sniggers and muffled guffaws were noticeably audible.

“I don’t want you to be silly when you see these words. Just scroll down and don’t pay any attention to them,” I continued lamely, suddenly suspecting I was waving a red rag at a bull.

Now they’d probably deliberately scan the site for the words, write them in their books and go home and call their father a vagina in Aboriginal and I’d get the sack.

O’Reilly, my teaching colleague, told me he’d once found a dictionary left behind by one of his previous grade four students with every single rude word meticulously found and neatly circled in red biro.

“This kid’s dedication was outstanding!” raved O’Reilly. “He’d found hundreds of them.”

Kids just love dirty words.

Back in my day, dictionaries didn’t have any dirty words. ‘Bustard’ was the only word I could find at the age of eleven after relentlessly scouring the text book. 

A bustard is actually a bird but it sounded a lot like ‘bastard’ and gave us a cheap thrill every time we opened the dog-eared page to stare at it.

                                       Heinrich

Unlike his potty-mouthed Auntie, my eight year old nephew Heinrich, never swears. I was having a discussion with him one day about the books he likes to read. The author, Paul Jennings is his favourite.

“I like Paul Jennings too! I read his books to my class all the time!” I enthused.

Heinrich looked a little shocked. “What do you do when you have to read the ‘C’ word out loud to them?” he asked, with a mortified expression.

Racking my brain I tried to remember if I’d EVER seen the ‘C’ word in any of the Paul Jenning’s series. Surely not? I’d have to speak to the Librarian Sue about this. That’s appalling! I thought.

“OH, YOU MEAN CRAP!” I exhaled in relief when it finally dawned on me. “Oh, I just use a different word instead of crap, Heinrich.”

He furrowed his little brow in confusion. I could see him mulling it over in consternation.

“What… like carp?”

Cute, huh?

Why am I a teacher again?

I’ve read that teachers who were crap at Mathematics as a kid are the best at teaching it because they’ve processed the methods of problem solving in their brains in more simplistic terms. This allegedly enhances the teacher’s ability to explain the formulae at the student’s level.

This theory suits me. I remember sitting at the dinner table while my father irritably attempted to help me with my homework and explain simple algebra.

Eventually, after several cracks at getting it through my dim-witted head, he’d yell something like, “Why don’t you understand? Are you stupid?”

Mum would then yell at him, and I’d burst into tears. Poor Dad. I was seriously as thick as a brick.

Who knew my lack of algebraic nous would make me a more empathetic teacher, eh?

However, this morning I braced myself for what I knew would take me to the outer limits of my sanity; delivering yet ANOTHER lesson on converting mixed numbers to improper fractions and vice versa to my fledgling ten year old students.

Before even beginning the activity I was conscious of the rogue muscle in the back of my neck tightening up ominously.

“So…” I chirped brightly, after furiously drawing illustration after illustration on the whiteboard, “now can you see how four and three quarters equals nineteen quarters?”

I desperately scanned the sea of uncomprehending faces.

Clearly, not one of them 'got' it.

The neck muscle delivered a painful spasm.

Grabbing the lolly jar I extracted five jelly snakes. The lollies ensnared the kids’ attention with twenty-eight faces watching me in rapt fascination as I broke four of the snakes into quarters.

“See!” I enthused, counting all the quarters up to nineteen and feeling like the World’s #1 teacher. 

“Do you understand now?”

“Yes, Gilbert?” I’d noticed his saucer-eyed interest and anticipated his hopefully educated comment.

“Can I have those lollies, Mrs P?”

I looked at my watch. Every muscle in the back of my head was squeezing like a disgruntled python and waves of nausea had set in.

It was ten minutes until lunch. ‘There’s one solitary, squished aspirin in my bag but I really should wait until I can take it with food,’ I thought bleakly.

While the kids struggled through the practise sums on the board, and I walked around wondering if I was actually suffering an aneurism, I planned my attack.

I had roughly twenty minutes at morning tea to eat my salad, make a cup of tea, take my painkiller and go to the loo. It was imperative I get that aspirin into my system as soon as possible BUT... I was also busting to go to the toilet. I couldn’t skip it because I had duty at second break and couldn’t hold on until 3:00pm.

No… I’d take my chances. Food and painkiller took precedence.

Finally the bell rang and I sprinted up to the staffroom, grappled through the fridge to find my lunch and set about pouring the dressing on the salad.

“Who’s on duty in the Grade Two area, Pinky?” boomed Emmsie as she stared out the window at the unsupervised Grade Twos who were enjoying their rare freedom and swinging from the rafters.

“Not me!” I bawled back self-righteously.

“Well how come your name’s down on the roster?” she called back.

“SH#T!”

I’d mixed up my f##king duties.

The salad went back in the fridge to wilt itself away until second break and my throbbing headache was granted permission to expand at leisure.

Pinky revisits her lost youth!

                       Pinky (2nd from left) with the bevy of beauties.

I received an out-of-the-blue phone call last week. It was a young girl called Rachel, the local 2013 Surf Girl entrant who’d exhumed my mobile number from my parents and was contacting all the previous Surf Girls. 

Apparently, it’s the club’s fiftieth anniversary this year.

If you’ve read Pinky and the Surf Life Savers , you will recall back in 1981, Pinky gave the Surf Girl Quest a bit of a whirl and managed to add inadvertent, naked flashing into her dingy resume.

“I’m trying to get as many ‘girls’ as I can down to the beach for a group photo. Are you free to meet up at the clubhouse about 5:00pm this afternoon?” asked the vivacious Rachel.

Mmmm… I thought. It might give me something interesting to write about on my blog, I thought self-servingly.

After I hung up the phone my mind was besieged with paranoid insecurity. Let’s see… If I was a surf girl thirty-two years ago that means there were about seventeen girls who came before me.

Surely I won’t be the oldest… unless the others have all passed away from old age or are in resting homes of course.

I wonder if they’ve all turned to fat? Geez…I hope so, I mused optimistically.

I raced home after work; showered, inspected myself in the mirror from ninety-seven angles, had a bit of a cry, dragged on a pair of tight black jeans and a t-shirt to appear as if I just didn’t give a toss and then meticulously trowelled on enough makeup to sink a Magnetic Island ferry.

I was the first to arrive.

As the lovely ladies trickled in, I came to the slow and tragic realisation that I was, indeed, the oldest chicky-babe in the group.

Not only were they all considerably younger, but the gals were all sans make-up, au naturale, sun kissed and athletic-looking.

Pinky looked like the Joan Collins of the surfing fraternity.

To make matters worse, the press turned up and the first thing the junior reporter asked was, “So who is the earliest entrant here.”

“You mean the oldest,” I mumbled raising my bat-winged arm in disenchantment.

“What was it like way back then?” the twelve year old Lois Lane persisted.

“Oh, we rode in on the back of pterodactyls and wore neck to knee bathing costumes.” I replied.

No, I didn’t say that but I should have.

Rachel had asked all of us to bring in any old memorabilia and photographs we had of our glamorous year.

Many of you young folk won’t believe this... but back in 1981 videos had not even been introduced into Australia yet.

“What’s a video?” I hear you ask.

It was a black rectangular prism we used to use instead of DVDs. People literally fed them into a thing called a VCR which would chew them up into mangled plastic globules.

The only photos I had were faded 5 X 7s my beloved father took of the TELEVISION SCREEN during the judging broadcast!

BUT… I did keep this beauty!

                              Scotto, modelling my sash!

Pinky's Conspiracy Theories

After last night’s expose on cats I thought I’d check the Internet this afternoon to see if Mr Google had ranked my post at all. 

Well guys… it seems like I’m not the only individual to come to the conclusion that cats are extra-terrestrial. When I typed in “cats are aliens”, a whopping 10 200 000 results came up. I must have been hiding in a closet somewhere when this particular conspiracy theory was trending. 

Pinky’s post was ranked on page nine so I guess that’s not bad considering the volume of competition out there.

I do love a good conspiracy theory.

A few years ago I joined the The Flat Earth Society for a laugh.

The website’s mission statement describes how for years the world has been duped into believing our earth is round when in actual fact the earth is flat. The society’s head honchos back this up with ‘scientific data’. It’s all tongue in cheek and poking fun at the bizarre rubbish espoused by the multitude of nut bags out there.

There are some even weirder conspiracies around though.

# Redheads are the offspring of aliens because they all look alike.

This is my mate Greggles…

And this is Ed Sheeran...

Go figure... (I'll be in a sh#t load of trouble for that).

# The anti-Christ is among us.

Yes… it’s the producers of reality television turning our brains into porridge.

# Sonny Bono was murdered on the ski slopes.

Who’s Sonny Bono again?

# All the really famous people in the world (even the Royal family and key role players in political parties) are just disguised ‘Lizard People’ who normally live underground. They’re deviously plotting to take over the world.

                          Ric Okasek: Lead singer of the Cars!
I know...not nice Pinky!



# The Queen ordered the MI5 to kill Princess Diana…

Think about it. If Princess Diana married Dodi Fayed the queen would have been able to send grandsons Harry and William into Harrods for some brilliant discounts, so that just doesn’t make any sense at all.

# The Moon landing was fake.

Well, my dear old departed Grandad advocated this theory but he also supported the view that Harold Holt was kidnapped by Chinese spies in a submarine so I’m not sure how reliable he was.

# Michael and La Toya Jackson are the same person.

Yeah? So what? Donny and Marie Osmond were the same person weren’t they?

Cats are aliens. No joke.

Scotto was sitting beside me on the couch watching this video on his laptop and as I peered over his shoulder I came to a staggering conclusion.

Cats are not of this world. Cats are aliens in a furry disguise. They’re most definitely extra-terrestrial creatures sent to spy on us, and eventually take over the world.

Don’t get me wrong… I’m not saying I don’t like cats, I just think they’re hiding some terrifying secret to do with eventual world domination.

Think about it. Cats were mentioned once and once only in the entire Bible and there’s even some question if the reference was actually referring to a cat at all.

If they weren’t on the Ark how did they survive then?

You tell me. 

I know for a fact cats deplore water, so I’m sure they weren’t doing backstroke otter-style in the flood waters.

The Egyptians, on the other hand, revered the moggy, even mummifying them to be entombed along with the Pharaohs. If a cat died in an Egyptian house the entire family went into mourning just as they would if it had been a family member. Everyone in the house shaved their eyebrows.

 Cats were presented with jewellery… cats were big in the fertile crescent.

Throughout the centuries cats have adapted their vocal ability to… wait for it, this is f#cking scary… imitate the sound of a baby’s cry in order to get attention. 

Does that not sound mildly malevolent? This is probably why you always see firefighters lifting a bedraggled cat from the after rubble of an earthquake. 

The burly and dedicated fireman risks his life thinking he can hear a baby beneath the layers of debris then has to mask his bitter disappointment when he discovers it’s only a cat.

Have you ever wondered why they don’t send cats into space? Apparently the French planned to launch a cat called Felix, into space in 1963, BUT… Felix escaped. Can you imagine the security the French would have had surrounding the mission? And yet the space station was outwitted by an ordinary old cat. That’s freaking bizarre if you ask me. Monkeys, dogs, mice, guinea pigs, fire flies, rats, mealworms and even cockroaches all went off into space without a hitch… but the cat? No fricking WAY. That cat probably had an alien spaceship waiting around the corner for it.

Think about how cats are portrayed in Hollywood; Dr Evil and Mr Bigglesworth, Mr Jinx in Meet the Parents, those sh#tty Siamese cats in Lady and the Tramp, Church from Pet Cemetery to name but a few fearsome felines that raise the hackles on the back of my neck.

I think I’m going to start keeping a closer eye on my cat.
You know… cats spend two-thirds of their life sleeping… but are they actually sleeping? Perhaps that’s when they’re connecting to the mother ship.

Cats can jump up to five times their own height and run at 49 kms per hour. Some experts believe that cats have magnetised cells in their brain that help them to find their way home. Phone home ET??

Even weirder… cats have no collar bone. This means they can squeeze into any orifice their head can squish through. There is a documented story of a cat called Andy who survived a fall from a 16 storey building. Could any other animal boast the same luck? A bird maybe…

I rest my case.

Cats are aliens.

(Just as I was about to post this, an ungodly scream from outside my front door frightened the effing bejesus out of me, seriously. It was the cat… I think it was warning me not to reveal its secret to the world. Now I'm scared.

                    This is my baby smother-er, Chelsea.

Photoshopping: Scotto

What really lazy bloggers do when they can't be a#sed to write.

And coming soon... LINTEREST

(Hand and bellybutton modelling by Scotto)

Pinky's Guide to Ideas for Fete Stalls.

                             Rach, Pinky and Emma.

“So what type of stall are you doing at this year’s fete, Pinky?” queried an indifferent Scotto on the eve of his eighth effort of helping me out at my school’s annual fete.

Scotto has endured working on stalls spruiking ugly, clay pots made by my class of six year olds, lampshades decorated by a similar demographic, cake stalls, a second-hand book stall, a haunted house, showbags and a plant stall.

“We’re doing glow-in-the dark stuff and helium balloons,” I replied nervously.

“I’ll agree to sell the glow-in-the-dark stuff but I’m not going near any balloons,” my big, strong, tough, globophobic manly-man spluttered.

Scotto, you see, is frightened of balloons.

Rach, my teaching buddy, Emma and I, had spent a good part of the hot afternoon preparing our stall and were set to go. The fete was set to launch off at 5:30pm and we waited for the onslaught of excitable midgets to descend like a cloud of bats at dusk. We secretly hoped we’d be sold out of stock by 6:00pm.

So… we waited… and waited… and waited.

Apparently glow-in-the-dark paraphernalia is only appealing when it actually gets dark. Who knew?

We could hear our prospective clientele shrieking in exuberant thrill on the oval where the jumping castles and rides were and the sugar-infused hobbits had no intention of visiting our fine stall in any forseeable future.

A couple of world-weary parents rocked up to help out, so Scotto and I decided to go for a wander and check out what creative inspiration the other teachers had dreamed up.

In order to ensure the rugrats were sufficiently hyped up, psyched up and 'sweetened' up, several of my fellow teachers had decided to act as logistics specialists...

         Bea at the chocolate toss... no losers here!

        Fluffed up, multi-coloured sugar! Yay!

               Feeling thirsty after all the salty sugar?

       Try the soft drink toss with Greggles and Kristen!

                                             Or the frozen version!

                        Slushies with Kaz and Jodye...

And of course some take-away sugar via the tombola stall run by Gilly!

Suitably staggering in a zombie-like sugar-coma, the kids were then free to colonise other fun-filled stalls, for instance...

                  Face painting a-la Glenys Da Vinci

             Mystery sock (pick a sock to find a surprise)

             So that's where all those bloody socks go!

          Stick in the Sand (pick a stick to win a prize... I'm                                seeing a pattern here)

And of course entertainment for the parents...

An auction of all the works of art created by their progeny.

The home-made cakes and slices stall manned by Adele   and Emma!

                And of course... the BOOZE BARROW!

(Scotto making a dodgy agreement with Geoff that he'd win the raffle... we're still waiting for the call though.)

The only other stall (apart from ours) which didn't seem to be seeing any action was the plant stall. I wonder why?

               Lee-lee, Dylan and Kyles working hard for the money.

Finally, at 8:30pm the oval was abandoned and the flying monkeys flocked in noisily; surrounding our stall, thrusting sticky fingers clutching crumpled five dollar notes at us, pointing to the various glowing swords, skulls, aliens and fairy wands and jumping from foot to foot in hyperactive mania.

Scotto was so happy when the night was at an end he wet his pants...

No... he didn't really. Not being accustomed to hanging around schools he mistook the water trough for a bench and sat in it!

Oh well, at least it's over for another year.