Where's My Fudging Birthday Present?

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I’ve been in a bit of a quandary over the last few weeks. I’ve been in Struggletown.

Struggletown Upon Avon, actually.

Remember back when I wrote a post (here) about the glamorous, signature fragrance enveloping Australia’s most popular blogger, Mrs Woog from Woogsworld?

And how, if I can’t have a blog like hers the least I can do is try to smell like her? 

Well fortunately, Mrs Woog left a comment on that post alerting me to the name of her perfume thus enabling me to persist with my stalking behaviour. 

As I had a birthday approaching I decided to ferret around to determine the availability and pricing of said fragrance.

A few weeks ago I wandered into a shopping mall after work to check if the specialty fragrance store had it in stock.

After a cursory glance at my inelegant ensemble the twenty- something guy sitting behind the counter continued to play on his iPhone and ignored me. 

To be fair, I was wearing my sports teacher get-up incorporating dirty runners and elastic-waisted shorts and everyone knows if you want aristocratic shop assistants in posh shops to pay you any attention you have to look like you have more than a five cent piece and a half eaten packet of Mentos in your purse.

“Excuse me,” I said in the hoity-toity voice I save for these occasions. “Do you happen to have a perfume called Balenciaga?”

He opened a drawer and took out his catalogue of rare and high-class toilet waters.

“Yes we do,” he replied. “It’s $189 for a 100 ml bottle.”

“Okay,” I swallowed, “I have a birthday coming up so I’ll be back.”

Way too extravagant for a peasant teacher, I thought.

He shrugged. “Just so you know we’re closing down in a few weeks.”

“Oh!” I chirped. “So will you be having a closing down sale?”

The indolent sneer was back. “Our fragrances are already heavily reduced,” he sniffed.

But the desire for a bottle of the liquid gold did not stop there.

Every week I would return to the mall and sidle past the fragrance shop peering in to see Lord Snooty hunched over his phone. There were no signs of the shop closing and my birthday came and went.

“You didn’t buy me anything for my birthday,” I accused husband Scotto, in my whimpering voice last night.

“That’s because you haven’t ordered the perfume you want from the chemist, Pinky!” he replied in exasperation. “I told you to do it last week!”

“I know,” I grinned. “Just making sure you haven’t forgotten.”

I’d found out I could order it from the chemist you see, but it was at the same exorbitant price as Malfoy had quoted me and I was digging my parsimonious heels in.

I was waiting for that closing down sale; patiently biding my time like a crouching vulture waiting for the cheetah to leave the wildebeest carcass so it can pick the bones.

I decided today, being the last day of school holidays and my ninth present-less day, I’d go back to the mall for one final scavenge.


Lord Snooty was gone; and so was half the stock. A small blonde girl stood in his place playing with her iPhone.

I rushed in breathlessly.

“Do you have any Balenciaga?” I trembled, sweat beading in my moustache.

She pulled out a gift box with not only a 100ml bottle of the perfume but a complimentary bottle of body lotion. Best of all it had a big red sticker on it delightfully declaring it was on sale at $120!

Fudging FANTASTIC!

You paid WHAT for this???

The moral of the story is… A handful of patience is worth more than a watched pot that never boils because the pot is clearly broken and will never boil.

What's the most frivolously expensive thing you've indulged in?

Pinky's Original Sin!

Happy Birthday Kaz

It was two am when the taxi dropped me home this morning. 

I’d been out with the girls at Kyles’ place to celebrate my friend Kaz’s birthday.

We’d had a great time and I giggled quietly at the memory whilst fumbling with the combination lock on the front door.

“Who the fudge turned all the lights out?” I hissed. 

Hopelessly fumbling with my phone to throw some light on the combination numbers, I gasped as it slipped through my fingers and landed with a thwack on the concrete. 

“Fudge!”

But it wasn’t broken.

Eventually, after several unsuccessful code insertions, I hit on the correct numbers. Taking care not to let the cat slip past me and breathing heavily, I made it inside the house.

The very last thing I wanted to do was wake Scotto. He can be a cranky bugger when he’s woken from his slumber. 

Scary even. 

Besides, it was two o’clock in the morning and it was best he was not alerted to this fact.

I took off my heels and tip-toed up the stairs blindly feeling my way along the banister and wall; one false step and the game would be up.

Carefully I opened the bedroom door. Celine the fox terrier sat up in bed with her ears pricked. “Shhhh…” I whispered. 

Scotto snored peacefully.

There was one particular thing on my mind. A shower. I urgently needed to have a shower to wash away the scent... 

The musky scent of another guy.

If he smelt it when I slipped between the sheets my life would be over. All trust and loyalty would fade away and our relationship would be irrevocably altered… forever. 

I couldn’t let that happen.

It wasn’t my fault you know. He was irresistible. I couldn’t stop myself gazing into his gorgeous black eyes from the minute I saw him across the room. 

He had the eyes of a pirate.

I slipped off my dress and patiently waited for the shower to warm up; the shower that would wash away my sins. 

My wicked indulgence, my transgression would soon be lathered away with Dove Beauty Bar suds and circle the drain before being swept out to sea, far, far away.

Once satisfied my debauchery had been eradicated I emerged, carefully dried myself and slithered between the cool sheets. 

I felt him nuzzle against me and sigh in contentment, oblivious to my betrayal.


‘I’ve done the right thing. He will never know’ I thought in guilty relief. 

Pablo my Chihuahua will never know about Jasper, Kyle's Japanese Spitz.

Jasper who spent ALL night humping Pinky's leg!

Pablo: The real love of Pinky's life.

What's your favourite breed of dog?

Linking up with Grace at With Some Grace for FYBF!

Muslims and Me

I never write about anything contentious because… well basically I’m a gutless wonder.

But today, sick and tired of inflammatory misinformation spread by global sensationalist media, I want to write about the only Muslims I’ve ever come across.

I’ve only ever met a few in my life. There aren’t that many in North Queensland really.

Let’s see…there’s my doctor, my dentist… my gynaecologist and my tax agent. That’s probably it.

Oh yes... there was one other Muslim I met once. She was a mother at the Catholic primary school I sent all five of my kids to.

She had about six kids but one of her daughters was in my nine year old son, Hagar’s class.

I can’t remember the little girl’s name because it was eleven years ago. Hagar’s teacher had asked me to direct a play for the class entry in the local Eisteddfod. I decided to cast the little Muslim girl in the lead role of our dramatic portrayal of the antics of thirteenth century Sherwood Forest. 

She was entrancing… a natural, an exuberant charismatic talent; far more comfortable on stage than any other student in the class, including my son Hagar.

“Just make sure she wears long pants,” whispered Mr Cook the teacher. “It’s to do with her religion.” 

That was cool. She was playing Robin Hood. Robin Hood could wear long pants.

I sat beside the Muslim girl’s mother a few months later at a school basketball day. Hagar, although pretty crap as an actor, was a brilliant basketball player. He’d been allocated a key supervising role for the day and I watched him scooting around the court, passing the ball to hopeless, gangly newbies. He encouraged them, never criticising or condemning the terrible lack of skill and physical dexterity going on around him.

“I love Hagar,” commented the Muslim mum beside me dressed in her strange Hajib; strange to me as an ignorant North Queenslander anyway.

I turned in surprise.

“He has such cute eyes,” she continued. “I tell him he has cute eyes all the time when I see him after school and he blushes,” she laughed.

We sat there for the rest of the game gushing to each other how gorgeous we thought each other’s kids were.

That’s my experience with Muslims.

Just one mum talking to another about our children.

Problems with Living in a Two Storey House

“I don’t suppose you have a spare USB stick in your bag do you?” husband, Scotto asked me when we were sitting in the downstairs lounge room watching the news.

“Have you been looking through my bag?” I gestured to the bag on the floor beside me.

“No,” he replied defensively. “I just thought you might have a USB stick in there.”

“As a matter of fact I do have a brand new USB stick in my bag but I need it,” I sniped. “How did you know it was there?”

“I didn’t! I just thought you might have one.”

Yeah right! I knew what he was up to. He just didn’t want to climb the stairs to the bedroom to get his own stupid USB. He’d seen the brand new, unused one in my bag when he was snooping around pretending to look for lozenges. 

Lazy, bloody bugger.

“You can use mine if you want,” I begrudgingly agreed. “But it’s still in the packet so you’ll have to buy me a brand new one if you do.”

He sighed theatrically.

“It’s okay,” he relented. “I’ll go upstairs and get one of mine.”

Scotto was half way up the stairs when I shouted, “Can you bring down my reading glasses while you’re up there please?”

It’s a constant source of competitiveness in our house as to who has to go up and down the stairs to retrieve urgent items.

But there are worse things about living in a two storey house than the constant effort of heaving ourselves up and down eighteen steps every day to retrieve a fudging tissue.

There’s the secrecy, the murky unknown of what’s actually going on in the house on the next level.

There we were sitting on the couch; Scotto back from his epic USB pilgrimage, thinking we were alone in the house when who should walk downstairs but nineteen year old son, Padraic. He was dressed in a t-shirt and jocks and as pale as a White Walker.

“Have you been here all day?” I spluttered, spilling my Chardonnay all over the fox terrier who at the time was fixated on my face, begging for her daily exercise.

Please... throw it Mum?

Apparently Padraic had been here all day; ensconced in his day time coffin, sleeping off his horrific hangover, his car abandoned at the scene of the crime.

Meanwhile Scotto and I had thought we’d had the house to ourselves all day. 

We might have unknowingly frolicked naked in the lounge room, held an African dance party in the front room, gone skinny dipping in the pool… unaware of Padraic’s languishing presence in one of the upstairs’ bedrooms.


It made me wonder who else might be living here without our knowledge...

What short cuts do you take if you live in a two storey house?

Why my Dog will Never be Famous!

“What the hell is that ad about?” I griped every time the Ergon Energy telly commercial with the llama came on last night.

“Maybe the llama is supposed to be like the grim reaper or something,” mumbled Scotto, annoyed with my endless, picky complaints.

“But that’s just bloody stupid. Why would they use a llama for fudge’s sake?”

“No idea, Pinky” he sighed with an unnecessary element of irritation in his tone.

Not wanting to ruin Scotto’s Friday evening, I decided to ask my trusty and patient friend, Googlishis for an answer and you won’t believe it but Scotto was correct.

The Brisbane advertising company who concocted the ad apparently decided to use a llama dressed up as the Grim Reaper to frighten people into being more careful when working near electricity in the house.

Why a frickin’ llama though? A bit obscure don’t you think?

Here’s their justification…

Marianne Harvey, creative director at Clemenger BBDO Brisbane, explains that llamas are natural sentinels.

Says Harvey: "They're used by sheep farmers to warn flocks of danger. Plus, those big, black eyes stare directly into your soul. How could you forget a look like that?"

I don’t know about you but I’ve lived in Queensland for over fifty years and have never seen a wolf stalking sheep….

I’ve never spied any llamas cavorting around the sugar cane fields either for that matter.

Somebody clever left an astute comment on the site,

“Somehow I think the natural sentinel qualities of Llamas will be lost on Joe average at home.”

It seems Pinky is a Joe Average.

Couldn’t Clemengers have chosen a native Queensland animal to drive the message home?

You know, like a Grim Bandicoot, or a Grim Cassowary?

I mean… if they insisted on using a South American animal they may as well have used a Chihuahua as the key protagonist.

This Chihuahua perhaps…

Grim Chihuahua

We could have finally made money out of the useless woodland creature.

He eats us out of house and home you know. Scotto reckons he’s made of dark matter because he’s incredibly heavy for something so small.

I saw a dog on the telly yesterday making a mint for his owners by having his photograph taken dressed up in men's attire.

Why can’t we have a dog with a Linkedin profile?


Oh… that’s right. Our dog has no class.

Warning: The following contains offensive material especially for anyone under 18 or over 25. Also… anyone with taste.

Pablo the Porn star

I hope this isn’t too graphic but if you look closely you’ll notice Pablo’s amour is merely a pillow and not another woodland creature.

What's the weirdest ad you've seen lately?

On My Deathbed

As I approach my 54th birthday the usual demons and evil birthday fairies begin to whisper sinister things in my ear.

What have you done with your life, Pinky?

Why have you wasted so much time?

What purpose has your life served?

Do you really think writing blog posts about talking plants are a productive use of your time?

Scotto and I have a deal where we give each other a budget of two hundred bucks to spend on our respective birthday presents.

“It’s two days until your birthday Pinks, so you’d better get cracking and tell me what you want!” he shouted from the shower this morning as I lay in my bed, sipping my coffee with eyes shut willing them to open just a tiny slit so I could find my mouth.

So I spent today trolling around the shopping centres until, overwhelmed with agoraphobia, I scuttled back to Golden Boy and hightailed it back to my insidious nest where I felt safe from all those prying eyes. Yeah... I'm weird like that about shopping centres.

I couldn't find a thing I wanted. The truth is… I don’t need or want anything.

When I’m on my deathbed I’m not going to be longing for trinkets and jewels. I have plenty of them… and what use are they anyway?

I’m not going to be worried about what I wore to a particular occasion back in 2014 so I’m not interested in shoes and clothes. They perform a perfunctory and superficial role in my life.

I’m not going to regret the fact I didn’t have that crystal lamp, Japanese dinner set, Thermomix (whatever the hell that is), or a facial from a disinterested beautician named Mystique who tells me in great detail about her boyfriend who’s just won a title in the local body building championships.

What I really want for my birthday is that my kids remember my day this year without me having to leave post it notes on the fridge.

I mean… they are all adults now so they should remember shouldn't they? Not like last year when not one remembered until I sent them a pissed off text message at ten o'clock in the evening.

And what I will really want on my death bed is for my five children to be there holding my hand. And Scotto of course. And more than anything, my poopies.

My poopie Pablo's paw.

That to me is what life’s really all about… just a thought.

Finishing off bottle of Gin and going to bed now :)

What matters to you in life? I'd love to hear...

Can Plants Communicate? A Spooky Tale!

Philip Seymour Hoffman

There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone.

There is a theory that argues if you put one hundred monkeys in front of one hundred typewriters for one hundred years they would eventually write a Shakespearean sonnet.

Perhaps that theory needs to be revised...

This happened to Scotto and I yesterday and is an entirely factual story I promise.

Yesterday began innocently enough when Scotto mentioned he’d like to do some sunset photography for his blog. I suggested we go down to the beach and have a Sunday drink at one of the restaurant/bars on the Strand where the sunset might be spectacular.

It’s not that I’m incapable of doing anything which doesn’t involve alcohol but more that it seemed like a nice idea... and I’m on school holidays after all.

A Sunday drive to the beach was immediately instigated; we found a rock star parking spot and decided to call in to the C Bar which has romantic history for us as that’s where we had our first dinner out together.

Scotto lugged his camera over his shoulder Paparazzi style and we found a table facing West so he could set up his equipment.

“We charge extra for photos!” quipped the jolly, little waiter when he saw the monstrous tripod and lens.

We ordered our drinks and sat waiting for the solar system to do its thing.

“That’s weird,” frowned Scotto, picking up his phone and squinting at it. “My phone has just typed out a message by itself!”

He reset it and placed it back on the table.

“It happened again!” he said a few seconds later. “Look! It’s the frond from the plant moving around my touch screen.”

Plant typing a text message!

I leaned over and watched it for a while.

“I think the plant is trying to communicate with us Scotto!” I squealed. “What’s it saying?”

We scanned the text message.

'An NBC CNN NBC check lol KiiiiiiL'

“Shite!” I gasped. "It’s telling us to watch the news! It just typed KILL!"

The plant kept merrily typing. It was mainly jibberish but every few lines there’d be a couple of distinct words. 

Scotto texted me what the plant wrote so I could document it!

“Ask Phil?” I shrieked, attracting attention from the other diners. “Who the fudge is Phil? Maybe the plant is channelling the spirit of Prince Phillip… no he’s still alive.” I scanned my brain for dead Philips. “Philip Seymour Hoffman! That’s who it probably is!”



“My God, it just typed ‘bubby’! That’s my nickname for you, Pinky!” exclaimed Scotto.

“What are you trying to tell us little plant?” I coaxed, timidly stroking one of its leaves.

'Listening' the plant replied.

“Oh crap! It’s listening!” stammered Scotto.

We watched it deliberately trailing its frond over the touch screen… ‘Hugo… hi…pink’.

“It said PINK!” I almost fell off the chair in shock. “It typed ‘Pink’! This isn’t funny Scotto!”

“Is it about my blog?” I urged the plant. “Do you have an important message about my blog?”

'Lol' the plant replied.

The waiter came over to check on us. “Look,” Scotto pointed to the phone. “The plant’s talking to us!”

“It typed out KILL!” I added theatrically.

He looked nervously at us and took our drink orders.

We must have frightened him because a different waiter brought the drinks back and this one wasn’t smiling at all.

We watched the plant communicating with us for ages until we realised the sunset was a fizzer and decided to go home.

“I really want to take you home little plant,” said Scotto gently.

“Maybe we can buy it from the restaurant?” I suggested hopefully.

We both agreed that would be cruel because every pot plant we’ve ever owned has perished.

'Think fuk sad' the plant typed.

We left reluctantly (under the close inspection of the waiters and customers at the neighbouring table), promising the plant we’d be back to visit it soon.

That’s if the waiters don’t burn it alive before we get back.






This is some of the text I retrieved from Scotto's phone...

HDTV add Zach CATCH CAN CAN add oh CHUBB chunk chef an bubby hun chin sad guy thx Sag cash Fax AH I’LL ask Phil Ask lj ask ok Go thkx ah xx listening Hugo hi pink GC chunk loo ok go look pull school has go off & add had get added ages ask kolksda go load him If Jo Hugo lol jump go of think do go Ki’ll ask hook hi gets the add Jo d you look feel safe oh go ppppllll such couch ask I socks chunk ask DJ oh ga DJs da ass think fuk sad him the da ask I’d ago is dad you as to do

What do you think it was trying to tell us?

Related article.

Linking up with Jess at Essentially Jess for #IBOT

Who is Pinky Casing?

The highly esteemed and entertaining Sanch from Living My Imperfect Life nominated me for one of these little beauties!

Thank you, Sanch.

Worth Casing Award

    And as most of you know that means I must bare my soul by answering a set of five interrogative questions...

So here goes. 

1. Why did you start blogging?

Basically it was because I thought I was a funny little thing. Mind you, no-one had ever told me I was funny. 

My kids certainly don’t think I’m in the least bit amusing. My students roll their eyes and make gagging motions at my jokes. Scotto, giggles at everything so he can’t be trusted. My colleagues think I’m probably one of the most annoying people on Earth and my dogs NEVER laugh at my witty barbs at their expense. 

But I think I’m funny and as one of my favourite philosophers said,

If you believe in yourself anything is possible: Miley Cyrus.

2. If your wardrobe could talk what would it say about you and tell us about your favourite or most worn item?

I have a pair of shorts. They’re elastic-waisted and balloon around my hips in a most unalluring manner (I made up that word, unalluring but you know what I mean). Sometimes I wear them for three months at a time without washing them but I always have clean undies on. 

 I only put them on after work (the same time as I’m ripping off my bra in a contortionist feat which would make Houdini cower behind his Mum’s skirts) so if you add up the actual time I’m wearing them between washes it’s probably only two months. 

One and a half tops...

My wardrobe would probably say to me...

“Pinky, honey, there are some folks here who’ve long outstayed their welcome. The Eighties called and want their stone wash leather jacket back. They also want those lace up boots which can no longer accommodate Paula, the bunion on your right foot.”



3.  What’s on your Worth Casing list?

(a) Which way (up or down??) to scroll from Channel 7 to Channel 10 on the remote control without having to go through SBS, ABC, WIN, ABC2, ABC3, SBS2, SBS3, ONE, TVSN, ELEVEN, ASPIRE, 7two, 7mate, TV4ME, GEM…



(b) How I can put things away in my bedside table drawer so that next time I try to open the bloody thing it won’t only open to one centimetre due to an infuriating obstruction. It forces me to blindly ferret around for thirty minutes in order to investigate what’s jamming the bloody thing. This event inconveniently occurs whenever I urgently need to find a pen to write down a rare and brilliant blog post idea which fleetingly passes through my grey matter at the speed of light and will invariably be gone by the time I get the bloody drawer open which is why I have to write about trivial stuff like this.


(c) The exact time I need to pull out of my driveway in the morning so I can catch the fifteen 'synchronised' green traffic lights between my house and work. I've been doing it for nine years now and am still to hit pay dirt.



4. If you had a theme song what would it be and why?

Hmmm… A tough one.

If you asked my kids, it would be “Burn the Witch” by Queens of the Stone Age. If you care to listen...

If you asked Scotto, it would probably be “Even Witches Like to Go Out Dancing” by Graveyard Train.

A sample...

If you asked my ten year old students, it would probably be “Wicked Old Witch” by John Fogerty... for your listening pleasure.

If you asked my blogging buddies it would be this…

I think my blogging buddies are the closest to the mark, you lovely things you!

5. What’s your idea of the perfect date night?

Jon Hamm, James McEvoy and Kit Harrington all fighting over who gets to pour my champers, peel my prawns and find the correct TV channel for me.

Nah… just joking. It would be Scotto doing all those things (with no bitter complaining and snatching the remote from my hand) whilst wearing his ‘special occasion’ sarong.

I'm dobbing in five bloggers for this award! 

If you've already done it, tell me to shove it!

Mumabulous

Rae from I Opened My Mouth and it Ran Away Without Me

Louisa from My Midlife Mayhem

Mark from Full Half Glass

and... someone who I know won't play along...

Lee-anne from Is It Just Me? because I know she's too busy finishing her book, but one can only try!

Munchkins, Hunchbacks and Bananas!

“I’m all stocked up, Mrs Poinker,” said my nine year old student, Isolde, grinning broadly and holding up a wad of tissues in my face. I was relieved because Isolde tends to suffer massive nose bleeds when she’s nervous.

It was D day. After weeks of rehearsals we were finally off to perform our Year Four play at the local Eisteddfod.

Naturally, Darius had forgotten his garish Hawaiian shirt costume and we had to send someone off to do a mad raid of the After School dress up box. I could have strangled him with my bare hands but shoved a fistful of Nicorettes in my gob instead and chewed maniacally whilst staring at him with the glare of Sauron of Mordor in my eyes.

The bus was waiting in the hot sun as my troops skipped out; glittery wigs, sequins and enough cellophane streamers to shoot the sequel to "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert" trailed behind us. The kids were rowdy and exuberant; the smell of greasepaint affecting their mental stability.

Not only that, their teacher was struck dumb with Laryngitis and unable to govern the tiny but terrifying natives of Lilliput with any modicum of efficiency.

We passed my colleague and friend O’Reilly, returning with his class from their Choral Speaking performance and victoriously wielding a trophy around his head.

Why don’t I enter the Choral Speaking instead? I thought. It’s so much less fraught with danger… and then I remembered why… A most traumatic experience!

I sat alone on the bus trip there, turning around in my seat every now and again to mime slashing my throat at the boys who were raucously singing football songs in the back seat.

Bus drivers of children are a touchy lot. I didn’t want him to throw a tanty and turn the bus around because of obstreperous behaviour.

“Ulysses is crying, Mrs Poinker!” declared little Cressida as we passed one of my favourite watering holes on the road. Oh, how I wished I was inside its chilled confines sipping on a holiday wine.

I decided to ignore Ulysses’ tears. If I was going to be mute I may as well play deaf as well.

Ulysses can be a bit of a drama queen and cries at the drop of a hat and he was probably just overwhelmed with titillated anticipation. I was correct and didn’t hear another peep about it.

As we drove past the new inflatable waterpark little Troilus screamed out at the top of his lungs, “If we win today will you take us all to the waterpark, Mrs Poinker?”

I smiled wanly and may have imperceptibly nodded.

A massive cheer erupted. I looked nervously over at the bus driver’s ears which were bright red and twitching in an unnatural way and motioned for an immediate shush.

As the bus pulled up at the Civic Theatre I spotted Kyles the music teacher, waiting on the footpath for us. “Thank the fudge for that,” I thought. She looked like an angel descended from a luminescent celestial body… a fudging, beautiful miracle.

Kyles was there to help me with my class and I’d designated the Munchkins as her personal responsibility. The Munchkins’ troupe was comprised of the… er… most ‘dynamic’ of my boys.

“Are you sure I should have the Munchkins?” she coughed, “Wouldn’t it be better for me to have the Bananas?”

“NO! You stand on the Munchkins side of the stage and I’ll control the Slaves and Bananas and Hunchback,” I insisted in a wheezing but desperate rasp.

Before we knew it they were on stage. They were vibrant, entrancing and very sparkly under the lights. I knew they’d excelled themselves because, as is my custom, I burst into tears as I pressed the button to start the finale music.

I only burst into tears when I get a peculiar feeling we’ve hit a special home run.

Our first place trophy!

Anyway… guess who is on a dodgy promise to take twenty-six kids to the inflatable waterpark?


So not happening.

Thank you to Kym and Tanya for making props and for your brilliant moral support.

And of course Kyles x

The back story to this post!

LARYNGITIS!

This is day two in my journey of living life without a voice, cruelly struck dumb in the prime of my life and I’ve chosen to write a little Cinquain poem about it for your entertainment…



Laryngitis

Strangled Chook

Weird creaky sounds

Emitting from inflamed itchypods

Ebola?

I’ve never had Laryngitis before which is strange because I tend to use my voice a lot and if you’re going to get sick usually the thing you use the most is the first to go.

I spent today in bed, writing my last will and testament and pondering the meaning of my melancholic life whilst attempting to watch the midday movie, unable to yell critical abuse at the terrible actors and incapacitated to the point where the dogs took advantage of my inability to shout at them to shut the hell up with their incessant barking.

Sometimes I hate my dogs.

But then it struck me… what if my dulcet tones never return? What if I remain a mute? A voiceless old woman, never again able to work as a teacher, sing happy birthday to my grandchildren, perform Karaoke or order McDonalds at the drive through?

I’d never be able to chatter inanely to husband, Scotto, at the climax of the Fast and Furious movie he’s watching, or answer the checkout chick at Coles when she asks me how I’m going today.

I’d have to carry signs with me everywhere saying, “Good Thanks!” or “Great! How are you?”

Scotto 'says' my dearth of vocal tone is cute. He keeps making me do Marge Simpson and Cookie Monster quotes and then he laughs and laughs and laughs.

But I think he might be taking advantage of his brief reprieve from the continual whine in his ear day in day out. He’s going to the movies tomorrow night to see Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with our mate O’Reilly because he reckons I need to spend more time alone to rest my vocal cords.



I’m thinking of designing a sign just for him that says,

Should I let him go?

Toothbrush Land

Toothbrush Land

“What’s wrong with you, woman?” I thought when I noticed my toothbrush lying on the floor of the shower recess in our ensuite this morning.

I picked it up gingerly. How did the naughty little bugger end up there? I was already late for work and couldn’t be bothered with social niceties so quickly examined it for cockroach poo. There didn’t seem to be anything obvious concealed in the nylon fibres… still… you can never be too sure.

I washed it under the hot water tap in the bathroom sink whilst staring at my crazy-eyed reflection in the mirror. The Pierrot clown who hadn’t removed its makeup properly… the scared, weird, little guy look.

Hot water kills most germs, I thought.

Then I glanced back at the shower recess. The mould growing on the walls would give a grade fiver’s lunch box a run for its money. What if the mould had leapt across the ravine and attached its invisible spores to my toothbrush. Is mould dangerous?

I was feeling devilish, courageous… so I jumped in the shower, liberally squirting toothpaste all over the suspect toothbrush.

Literally two seconds after the questionable toothbrush entered my ruby lips did I speculate that all was not as it seemed. The brush did not seem to take up as much room in my mouth as it usually did. Its bristles were of a more malleable, more lenient texture than that of their usual torturous, stabby-in-the-gums quality.

Alarm bells rang. 

Could it be this WAS NOT MY TOOTHBRUSH?

I wiped away the steam from the shower glass door and peered through to spy Scotto’s huge toothbrush standing out, loud, proud and spectacularly purple in its special little holder; all alone in its glory.

This must be mine, I mused, scrubbing my calculus away with verve.

Thank God I didn’t accidentally pick Scotto’s up. God forbid I get boy germs. 

But it still felt weird. Something about the brush was alien and deep in my heart I knew I was being an ostrich. This was NOT my toothbrush. But whose could it possibly be?

I must be imagining things, I reassured myself. There are only two of us who use this bathroom, it can only be mine.

I finished my shower, taking extra time to swish my Listerine around before spitting it out on the shower floor.

Then it happened.

As I emerged from the shower recess I suddenly spotted it on the bathroom counter.

It was my toothbrush… hiding in plain sight beside the SPF 30+.

My very own cheeky, fire engine red toothbrush.

So… what the freakin hell toothbrush did I just use???

An unspeakable thought crept into my head and I shuddered in revulsion.

I keep an old toothbrush on the floor of the shower to occasionally scrub out the mildew from the tile grouting. I hadn’t seen it for a while. Perhaps it had deliberately concealed itself behind the plethora of empty shampoo and conditioner bottles. 

That couldn’t be the toothbrush I so carelessly picked up, could it?

COULD IT???

It’s been eleven hours since the harrowing event.

There are still no symptoms of fungus rot invading my system.

Fingers crossed you hear from me tomorrow.



If not take this as a warning: inanimate objects aren’t always what they appear to be. Sometimes they can be malevolent. There have been cases of demons attaching themselves to inanimate objects. 

We’ve called a priest in.

Do you clean your teeth in the shower or bathroom sink?

Ten Questions that Make You Think.

One of my favourite bloggers is little Hugzy (who is much funnier and cleverer than I), from Hugzilla Blog...

and she nominated me for a Liebster award which means I have to answer some questions and pass on the honour... so here goes! I hope it's not too boring.

What was your favourite subject at school? 

How big a moll Linda Fink was after she kissed Rodney Dawson for two hours and let him put his hand up her top at the party the previous Saturday night. Also how she came to school with a love bite on her neck which she tried to hide with a bandaid but we all knew it was there.

How easily do you wake up when your alarm goes off? 

I usually wake up an hour and a half after it goes off while I’m driving to work at 100kms an hour on the motorway. Sometimes I get a bit of a fright when this happens.

You could never miss a single episode of which TV show?

Why Better Homes and Gardens of course on Friday nights, because Scotto and I play a drinking game where we skull a wine every time Dr Harry tells someone their pet is just bored and that's why it's humping/gnawing on the window sills/pooing on the bed every day and merely needs something to chew on while its owners are out.

What’s your go-to dish when you’re asked to bring a plate?
Definitely Coles Smart Buy Paper Plates as they’re very strong, can be used later on in the night to Frisbee at your husband’s head to get his attention when your wine glass is empty, plus your thieving friends won’t ‘forget’ to return them and stash them in their Tupperware drawer.

If you could be a character from a favourite book from your childhood, who would you be?

Pippy Longstocking because she got to live alone without sucky parents, wash the floors by chucking buckets of water all over the place and skating around with mops on her feet and ride a horse to school.

You’re exploring a scenic beachside village. Would you prefer to do it on foot or by bike?

A bike… but one that someone else was peddling whilst I sat in the back of a rickshaw supping on a cocktail and shouting out orders to the minions.

The reality TV show that you would absolutely blitz, would be what?

The X Factor because until you’ve heard my rendition of “I Will Survive” with an accompanying interpretive dance you’ve never seen raw talent in its supreme state.

Do you prefer your Summer or Winter wardrobe?

Living in North Queensland there’s really no difference. In Winter I occasionally let the hair grow on my legs for a bit of extra warmth and wear socks with my rubber thongs when I go outdoors.

What’s your favourite way to relax?

I follow the famous “Five Cs” philosophy. 

Cheese, Crackers, Chardonnay, Couch and Club Penguin (adult's version).



If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?



I’m a tad partial to Rivendell, Narnia or possibly Hogwarts but if we’re being realistic… probably the Maldives…

Now, who to nominate... You know, I think pretty much everyone has won a Liebster award already so I'm posing the questions to all of you. Please choose a question and answer in the comments or on Facey :) Can't wait to hear your answers!

Linking up with Jess at Essentially Jess for #IBOT