How's Your Self-Esteem Going?

I have a special book. It’s pink of course. It holds every important thing about me in it. For example, my tax file number, my bank account passwords and numbers, BSBs, Medicare details, my children’s passport numbers, my driver’s licence number, how many men I’ve slept with, jokes… but it has bloody everything in it. 

If I ever lost this book I’d be up the creek without a pair of floaties with a hungry crocodile stalking me with his teeth gleaming and me screaming like a banshee scrabbling towards the slimy banks.

It lives in my bedside drawer (just in case you’re a burglar) and it’s always making the drawer jam in an extremely frustrating manner because it’s full of receipts and random scrunched up pieces of paper. I have to squeeze my fingers through the tiny slit when I open the drawer and force it down so I can open the drawer at all. 

I suppose I could put it in the empty drawer underneath but that’s never occurred to me until this very moment. Excuse me while I move my special book into the drawer below from where it usually lives. Aahh, that’s better.

The page in this picture displays the score sheet from when I used to compete with Scotto in Jeopardy games.

The words on the right were the’ Final Jeopardy’ questions which I made Scotto and I write down to prove who had it right (so he couldn’t cheat).

This page is from when I was a bit tipsy one night and thought I could write the lyrics to a number #1 pop song.

This little notebook has been around for at least thirteen years. Very old school, don’t you think?

It just goes to show that some things never die. It also goes to show how tipsy middle-aged women think they can do anything... like write the lyrics to a pop song.

I think the biggest problem in my life has been that I think I can achieve anything I want to do. You know how people bleat on all the time about ‘believing in yourself’ and how ‘you can be the thing you think you can be’? I had that drummed into me from since I was three years old when I inadvertently amazed my parents by reciting ‘Vespers’ by A.A.Milne into a tape recorder. Since then, they’ve believed I have some sort of underlying genius talent waiting to be unleashed and I’ve always believed that too because of their encouragement. It’s like the opposite of what most people say. I have way too much inner confidence which is why I’m always really, genuinely surprised when I fail, over and over.

It feels strange for a frghty- flivft year old woman to be talking about the influence of her parents on her self-esteem but that’s pretty much how long a parent’s influence lasts.,, until death really.

So be careful what you say to your kids because it sticks like Araldite and not like cheaper varieties of glue you can get and which failed to fix our bedroom door knob.

I’m grateful to my parents for making me think I was far more gifted, intelligent, or special than I actually am. I hope I did the same for my kids. You don’t want them to feel they’re better than anyone else… just sure of their own place in the world and always ready to leap for the next silver-lined passing cloud.

Did your parents encourage you?

Linking up with Jess from Essentially Jess for #IBOT

I'm Too Old for Birthdays Now.

I may be having a birthday tomorrow and it may be another hideously horrible birthday on the wrong side of fifty-four. What the hell? How did I get so damn old all of a sudden? 

My father will ring me tomorrow and he’ll quip cheerily, “How did I end up with such an old daughter?”

I’ll laugh in a high pitched, shrill cackle, and then I’ll purse my lips in an old woman grimace and stare at my reflection in the black television screen opposite my bed.

I look better in that reflection than I do in my saucepan lids when I’m bending over to get them out of my cupboard. I look much better in the empty, black screen than I do when I accidentally look at myself in my reversed phone camera, and I look a hell of a lot better than when I look at myself in the rear vision mirror in my car, with the light refracting from a multitude of angles and every surface vein looks like a lava tube frothing down the slopes of Mt Vesuvius.

Who cares though, really? I’m old. I’ve accepted it. Move on I say. I don’t care about how old or ugly everyone else is … so I’d better get used my own wizened face and learn to like it.

So… I’m not getting presents this year. Scotto and I made a pact not to buy presents this year because we have too many other expenses. He took me out to dinner tonight though.

My twenty-two year old son Hagar and his girlfriend, Meggles are springing for lunch tomorrow and my sister Sam shouted me lunch on Monday, so now I’ll just be decrepit AND fat.

There’s a special card I found in the letterbox yesterday from my mum and dad which I’m not opening until tomorrow but I felt it and I think there’s a gift card in it. That would be exciting but for the fact that Mum’s birthday is in a week and I still haven’t bought my Dad a father’s day present so I’ll probably use the voucher on buying them something.

That’s what being a grown up is all about I suppose. No more fun birthdays.

You know I’m just kidding… this is a very happy time for me.

My family and I are all healthy. That’s my primary worry in life.

We all have jobs, which many people don’t.

I am surrounded by people and animals who love me. Some people are very lonely you know. I’d hate to be lonely.

Love, self-sufficiency and health are the three most important things to me and I have them in abundance. How fortunate can I be?

You know what else I did? I wrote another fudging book. It’s a short, 26 000 word eBook called, “So You Want to Date a Teacher”.

At least tomorrow I’ll wake up knowing I’ve accomplished something worthwhile in my fighyrth-fdger years on this strange planet some of us call Earth (most of us actually).

I’m self-publishing it on Amazon and I’ll keep you posted as to when it will be available (it's a bit funny I think).

I still have the other 80 000 word manuscript I wrote at the beginning of the year but I’ll get back to that load of tripe when I’m ready.

Life is full of opportunity even when you think you’re too old. My grandfather started to learn how to play the piano (and succeeded) in his late eighties.


It’s never too late to have a go really, is it?

Serious question: Do you think the title of my eBook needs a question mark at the end?

Should it be, "So... You Want to Date a Teacher!" or "So You Want to Date a Teacher?"

I Think Someone is Victimising Me!

Take a look at this sinister bin. 

I had to take a picture of it after dark because I didn’t want anyone watching me scurrying across the road like a cockroach taking incriminating photographs.

It’s a council bin.

For the last thirteen years, I’ve lazed on my bed watching people surreptitiously pull up and dump their Christmas prawn shells in this bin. I’ve seen all sorts of heinous atrocities dumped in this bin, not to mention it has doggy poop bags attached to it which have been ravaged across council lawns in an act of savagery by louty drunken kids which I’ve often picked up out of the goodness of my barely beating, stone cold, fibrillating heart.

The bin is designed to take in the excrement excreted from a dog’s bum. This hell hole of odious filth has existed directly opposite my house for thirteen years and I’ve never once complained about it to the council.

Last week, as I picked up leaves from the one and a half metres of council property on our front lawn : the part where our mail man takes pleasure in ripping up the newly laid (highly expensive) lawn as he manoeuvers his motorbike across to deliver the rates bill, I decided to dump a couple of shopping bags full of leaves into the bin.

Okay, it may have been three bags… or maybe four, but the bin was empty and it’s a big bin. We'd already paid for two enormous skips and it was only a few bags for fudge's sake.

Imagine my surprise when I walked past the bin this afternoon and espied this message scrawled on top of the bin and seemingly directed at one Pinky Poinker.

 I’m fairly certain the goody goody, dibber dobber wasn’t a council worker because firstly, they're far too busy with all the bins they have to empty, secondly, a truck empties it so they wouldn’t have a clue what was in it anyway and thirdly, surely a council worker wouldn’t vandalise their own bin with a Nikko marker and draw a prissy little unicorn cloud around their message.

No… it was some nosey parker, irritating, goody-goody, wanker neighbor who has nothing better to do than pick on Pinky for putting a handful of leaves in a bin designed for dog shit.

So… take me to court. Bring it on, you piddling, pathetic do-gooder.

I’ve just spent three weeks working on my bloody mindedness as I scrubbed my kitchen cupboards. 

I'm ready to rumble.

Bring it on mofo!

Impersonating a council worker and vandalising a bin is currently under investigation!

Don't you hate goody-goody, interfering twats?

Linking up with Jess from Essentially Jess for #IBOT

Open House Etiquette

Like a final episode of House Rules, Scotto and I brought it down to the final, wire meshed sponge today when we downed tools at 1:45 as our glamorous real estate agent Annette, pulled up outside in her flash car and ordered us off the property, avec dogs (‘avec’ means ‘with’ in French and I’m only being fancy cos I’m a bit tipsy with the relief of it all.)

We had to herd the canines out of the backyard which proved to be a trifle hysterical as the dog washer who came last week was the last person to see the dog leads and Scotto and I had an accusatory conversation about the whereabouts of said dog leads but eventually they were found underneath a statue of Doc Emmett Brown and a truckload of bubble wrap in the garage.

I’d suggested, as a celebration of our hard work, we take a few Midori Splices down to the dog park because as you know… firstly, we’ve been working hard and secondly, I find it difficult to celebrate or have fun without alcohol.

So we did.

It was so lovely to sit watching the dogs run around the park as we sat (with clawed, gnarled, cleaning product-encrusted hands, locked, painful knees and aching backs) on the poo ridden grass. 

Naturally, Pablo the Chihuahua and Borat the German Shepherd had a bit of a biff as usual.

Scotto telling Borat the 'rules'.

It’s funny how dogs have no sense of their own size. The Chihuahua thinks he’s as big as the German Shepherd and the Shepherd thinks he’s small enough to hide under our outdoor table where he’s always getting stuck in a most humiliating way.

No millionaires came along and offered to save our souls at the open house but it’s early days. I just hope someone had a quick peek inside my kitchen cupboards and thought to themselves, “What a lovely, clean woman the owner of this house must be! I’d like to meet this woman. She must be like Mary Fudging Poppins!”

Poor little Scotto got up at 4 o’clock this morning to get a head start on all the last minute chores. He let me have a lie in until 7:30am because I had a meltdown the previous night. I know what you’re thinking and no, I wasn’t bunging it on. I really did have a meltdown. There were no tears but my voice was wound up in an unnatural pitch like a Britney Spears song and my eyes were twitching and darting from corner to corner like I’d just drunk three iced coffees in a row with a Red Bull chaser.

It’s very stressful this moving business and I hope I never have to do it again.

We’re having a ‘twilight’ viewing tomorrow night which is awesome because no one will see the cobwebs in the dark… or me and Scotto hiding across the road, skulking under the trees with the dogs and our Midori Splices.



Have you tasted a Midori Splice? Bloody yummy huh?

What Things Live in your Laundry?

Potted Colour!

A fight nearly erupted this morning when we arrived home from the supermarket. “I want to buy some flash rubber gloves,” I’d said to Scotto at nine o’clock in Coles. “The old ones make my hands smell like cheese.”

So, we’d deliberated over silver-lined versus fleecy cotton lined and finally I’d agreed to ‘super’ gloves. Scotto insisted I get a size ‘small’ even though I knew that wouldn’t be right with my swollen hand and sure enough, half an hour later I threw them on the kitchen bench in disgust because I couldn’t squeeze the fudging things over my swollen wrist.

So for the next eight and a half hours of scrubbing, I had to wear the cheesy ones.

It’s grounds for divorce, really.

And then, I nearly cried at six-thirty in the evening when I looked around the house and realized we still have so much to do before the open house tomorrow (at two pm sharp). Scotto’s painting stuff was spread everywhere and what was a beautifully presented house last Sunday seemed to have gone back to stage one.

Will this never end?

Scotto isn’t allowed to shave because I don’t want him leaving stubble all over the bathroom and I haven’t shaved my legs since the bathroom was cleaned properly for the same reason. No one is allowed to wear shoes in the house, the oven is on the blacklist and I’m thinking of banning number twos…

It’s just not a normal house anymore.

We bought some potted colour but didn’t get a chance to plant them because I was too busy scraping off the grouting whitener debacle I’d attempted last weekend. Honestly, it looked like a flock of pigeons had shat all over my splash back in a glorious, rebellious unison.

My biggest job today was the laundry. We have a laundry shute going from our bedroom down to the laundry and I’m being perfectly honest when I say I’ve never seen the bottom of it for thirteen years.

When I finally chucked out all the dirty clothes, I discovered there were snails crawling around at the bottom, I kid you not; mutated snails, with two shells and glowing orange.

The kids used to use the laundry shute to shimmy up and sneak into our otherwise locked bedroom when we went out, so there were footprints up and down the shoot I had to clean out as well.

If the potential buyers noticed small, black footprints up and down the laundry shute it might put them off buying, don’t you think?

Speaking of random wildlife, our geckos and cockroaches have all been forced into homelessness. Because I’ve spritzed and sprayed all the empty cupboards they keep appearing in the most vulnerable places. A gecko sat in the kitchen sink staring up at me this morning as if to say,

“So where the fudge am I supposed to live now, eh? You’ve taken down all the paintings. Where am I supposed to take a crap now?”


I think Scotto is starting to feel the same way just quietly.

Night time pic of our house!

Do you mainly use your right hand or your left?

Pool in all its glory!

Today was fudging “Photo” day which meant we had to have the idiot house (the one we’re putting on the market next week) ready to take photographs for the $3000 newspaper advertising campaign to go in the stupid newspaper (don’t get me fudging started about that).

So Scotto and I got up on a Sunday morning at like… earlier than 9 o’clock. 

I went straight downstairs and flicked on the rubber gloves like some sort of excited proctologist and began scouring out cupboards in the kitchen with my trusty sponge and a pot of Gumption.

I bloody love Gumption. It is the BEST thing for getting off grime. This is not a sponsored post and I DEFINITELY do not want Mr or Mrs Gumption to start sending me cases of the stuff because I’m sick of the sight of it, BUT… credit where it’s due. Not only does it dissolve most unrecognizable globules of green, unidentifiable growth, it has no fumes!

I had my head and generous upper torso jammed into my share of tiny spaces, with my arm stretched out clinging to a mottled sponge knowing full well I wasn’t about to succumb to deathly fumes because Gumption is made from freshly expressed koala milk and has no toxic properties.

That’s what Scotto told me anyway.

I put in eleven hours of hard labour yesterday and this is what my scrubbing hand looked like.

The other hand had a lot to answer for.

Right hand: 

So what the fudge did you do all day, huh? Look at me! Like… I’m all swollen and wrinkly and corpse-like and you look fresh as a daisy. You just stood by all day, hanging at Pinky’s side or perched on her hip, while I did all the work you bastard slack ass! Who do you think you are?



Left Hand: 

It’s not my fault! I was born with an impediment. I just can’t do spiral motions. I don’t have the same fine motor control as you! I can’t help it if I’m different. I would help if I could but I just haven’t got the same ability as you. I’m retarded. Don’t make fun of me. It’s against the law you know. You’re bullying me! I’m telling someone! Bully!



So anyway, I put in eight hours today which isn’t as good as eleven hours but it’s still worthy of a whinge (and a pizza).

But the good news is we’ve reached the peak of the mountain and now it’s all downhill. One more week until our first open house! Oh my fudging gawd!!!


And apart from one incident where Scotto yelled out to me when I was having a tantrum about curtain rods, “Get OVER it!”  and I screeched back with no dignity at all, “You get over it! I hate you and I hate this HOUSE!” we haven’t had one fight!

Do you have a problem with your left hand hand or are you ambidexterimosiserated?

The Flamin Flame Tree!

Flame Tree having a Drama Queen Conniption

“Looks like it’s had a bit of shell shock,” said a lady walking her dog past my front lawn as I grovelled around on my knees in the buffalo grass attempting to pick up the multitude of leaves dropped from my flame tree, enough leaves to camouflage the island of Tasmania should it decide to become a tactical commando, actually.

“I’m just waiting for its bloody mate over there to do the same thing on the other side,” I sighed, pointing to an identical flame tree on the other side of the lawn and wiping a beetle from my eyeball.

Healthy Flame Tree

She looked into the forlorn branches of the bedraggled tree and I just knew she was about to say something poignant. 

She had that horticulturalist look about her. You know… gray bushy eyebrows and a t-shirt with wind turbines decorating the front and a slogan saying, “Old environmentalists never die, they just get recycled” on the back.

“I think that tree was traumatized by having its roots cut when those guys laid your turf down,” she said, arching a furry eyebrow.

A light bulb went off in my head. It was a dull, yellow, almost burnt out light bulb and not an environmentally friendly LED one, but even so, a light bulb.

Of course! That’s why the poor tree had thrown a hissy fit at the inappropriate time of Spring. 

It wasn’t just being a bloody minded despot trying to spite me by cruelly thrusting its foliage to the ground in a vicious temper tantrum… it was ill, heinously wounded and protesting in the only way it knew how.

All the swearing and snide remarks I’d been making at it as I scrambled around its trunk, frantically plunging leaves into garbage bags, were probably making things worse. 

As soon as Christine Milne was out of ear shot I started pleading with the tree.

I stroked its trunk and breathed carbon dioxide over its branches as I whispered soppy endearments.

When I arose this morning, not a single leaf had fallen. It may be because there really aren’t many leaves remaining on the pitiful plant anyway… or it might be because I have discovered a new talent… 

Tree Whispering!!!

What do you whisper to?? Surprise me...

Thirty Days Hath Schleptember... hic!

Thirty days hath September

This poem helps you remember

If a month of abstinence you need to choose

February’s the shortest to cut down the booze.

Which is why I can’t understand why they have Ocsober in October, which has 31 days! 

I can tell you right now, September is not the month to give up the happy juice. It’s my birthday month in September, along with all the other people who were accidentally conceived during the festive season. September is a notoriously busy month for me.


Do you find that your life really picks up pace as your birthday approaches? It’s almost as if you’re hurtling towards a momentous crescendo in a classical orchestral overture and just as it reaches its climax everything is likely to explode like the Big Bang, splattering primeval paint all over your face.

Not only is my home in a complete state of disarray (with gritty, bare floor boards where Scotto ripped the carpet up, packing cases are taking over rooms like ticks on a dog, and a half polished floor necessitates the removal of shoes at the front door) BUT also, my classroom is in the exact same state of chaotic chaos.

Term three at school, means making paper mache, fudging volcanoes with endless strips of newspaper and floury glue splattered on desks, chairs and carpet, then having to put up with twenty-two volcanoes spread out in glorious bastardry on every counter top for weeks on end.

Mess and Chaos

Mrs Poinker slowly losing her mind!

Term three also means the annual Eisteddfod and the accompanying plethora of props and costumes filling the classroom. 

I don’t mean to boast but I do pretty well in the drama section of the Eisteddfod. I used to direct plays for other classes as well as my own.

In my first year at the school in 2005 my class placed 2nd; I was just warming up.

Boring Braggy Bit...

In 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009 and 2010 I entered three plays in the same section of the primary school drama section and we placed first, second and third for five years in a row, obliterating the competition. Pretty awesome I think.

I got greedy in 2011 and split my own class into two plays. We were placed second and third. I was gutted.

In 2012, 2013 and 2014 I entered just my own class and we were awarded first place in each of those three years… in a row. There are usually only 5 or six other schools that enter, but even so. I’m pretty proud of my consistency.
Directing young kids in cheesy plays is pretty much the thing I do best.

This is my last year at my beloved school so you can imagine the pressure I’m putting on myself to bring home the bacon one final time. Not that anyone at school knows or cares about our achievement. I don’t think anyone has even noticed, such is the lack of appreciation for the dramatic arts in Australia. I wrote my honours thesis about the lack of drama tuition in the primary school and I still feel passionate about it.

My theory is this… generally the naughtiest kids in the class are the best at drama. They achieve success through the outlet they feel confident in and that starts a positive escalation in all the other areas of acadamia.

Anyway, no one listens to me, but you might remember the banana themed play  last year and the Pirate Extravaganza the year before... 

This year we’re doing Snow White and the Eleven Dwarfs. It sounds traditional but don’t worry, there’s a banana in it. 

Snow White chokes on a poison banana instead of an apple. 

Picture it.


I don’t think we’ll win it this year because I just bragged about my past triumphs and that’s how things usually work… you know, pride goeth before a cataclysmic fall and all that shite. Oh well.

But I'm interested to know from you, do you think drama should have a bit more importance in school with less of an emphasis on sport?

Do you have enough Gumption?

I nearly used Gumption on my face tonight instead of my usual cheap face cream. I wonder what would have happened if I had? Would I have erased my deeply etched wrinkles like I’ve been erasing the deeply ingrained dirt from each of the thirty thousand wooden textured doors I’ve been scrubbing this weekend?

Or would I have discovered a brand new home-style chemical face peel?

I had to wear a wrist guard to bed last night my right hand was so tender and sore from all the circular motion of scrubbing I’ve been doing.

I could never have survived life as a chamber maid.

I don’t like it.

Cleaning sucks… just like my vacuum cleaner does when I'm knelt over the skirting boards like Saint Bernadette with her knees full of tuberculosis or whatever.

The dust should theoretically be retreating now the lawn is finally laid.

 For some obscure reason, known only to itself, our idiot flame tree decided to drop a semitrailer worth of leaves the day the grass was put in place. With a carpet of leaves smothering the not quite rooted lawn it was mandatory to somehow remove them so that the highly expensive grass could drink in its quota of water from the heinously expensive irrigation system. The problem was, we couldn’t walk on the grass to collect the dumb ass leaves.

Scotto is far too thunder footed (being in possession of feet like a basketball playing Hobbit) so it was up to the fleet-footed Pinky to scarper across the lawn like a dew fairy with a plethora of garbage bags.

You cannot imagine the pain involved; hunched over like a bell-ringer from a certain French cathedral, trying not to weigh very much, my lower back seizing, my face red as a beetroot/spinach smoothie and exploding in filthy expletives every time the wind blew the leaves from my desperate clutches.

I thought I was having an aneurism after I’d finished. All the veins above my neck were sticking out and throbbing like a tangle of snakes dancing to a house music remix.

I had to have a bit of a lie down.

Naturally, a sweating and panting Scotto chose that moment to wander down from his arduous painting of the upper level to find me supine on the couch with a cold tea towel on my forehead.


I’m just not cut out for this moving business.

You know the stress of moving is supposed to be equal to the death of a spouse? Just sayin...

Oven Cleaning Tip of the Century!

“The best phobia to have is to be scared of emus. You’ll never unexpectedly find them in the linen closet or hanging on the shower curtain.”

Pinky Ponker 2015.

Frame it.

But... I do have a very inconvenient phobia… about toxic cleaning products.

Not because I’m lazy and don’t like to clean, but because I’m scared of the carcigens. (Spell check didn’t recognise this word and changed it to ‘cardigans’ but I’m not at all scared of cardigans. Not unless they’re being worn by spiders or vampires.)

Oh… I just noticed after a quick google search, it’s actually ‘carcinogen’ not carcigen. That explains it. Now I think about it, I doubt anyone would be afraid of cardigans.

*Except this man.





Anyway, I bought an oven cleaner the other day and failed to read the instructions until I arrived home, when I went into an absolute, dribbling apoplexy and realised there was no way in hell I would risk my life on a frivolous task such as cleaning my stupid oven with the lethal product in my trembling hands.

But we’re selling our house and my fan-forced oven hasn’t seen the rough side of a sponge for thirteen years so something had to go down. The sides and bottom of the oven were quite respectable but the glass window was coated in a thick, impenetrable, brown concrete like substance, at least a centimetre thick.

I scarpered to my laptop and googled ‘ways to clean your oven that are unlikely to cause a fatal asthma attack or severe burns to the eyeballs’ and the first result I found was to turn up the oven to the highest temperature until everything is annihilated to a crisp and just flakes off with the light touch of a chux.

I passed on that one, strongly suspecting the oven fuse would definitely blow up or I’d end up setting the house on fire.

The second piece of advice suggested baking powder and vinegar.

Not only safe for the sinuses but CHEAP! I was on cloud nine and began preparing the gooey paste at once. There was only one problem with this eco-friendly solution.

IT DIDN’T FUDGING WORK!

AT. ALL.

So it looked like it was back to the chemical infusion of highly flammable, highly caustic, eye cauterising, skin eroding, windpipe scorching, run of the mill oven cleaner.

But meanwhile, I was still terrified I’d accidentally spray it down my oesophagus or inadvertently lick the nozzle in some kind of suicidal seizure… so I did the only sensible thing I could think of.

I asked Scotto to do the spraying.

I promised I’d return after work and mop up the greasy remains. All he had to do was spray the oven.

I arrived home excited and trembling and donned my hazmat suit in preparation for the decontamination at ground zero. 

Imagine the magnitude of my bitter disappointment when I discovered that the dangerous, noxious oven cleaner DIDN’T FUDGING WORK EITHER!!!

I suddenly lost my temper and began stabbing and gouging the glass window of the oven with a butter knife like a psychotic, frenzied housewife who just found out she’s run out of chardonnay and the local bottle’o is closed, until finally Scotto grabbed my wrist in his hand and held a strange scrunched object up to my face.

“Wet sandpaper, Pinky!” he rasped. “Let’s try wet sandpaper and elbow grease.”

So we knelt on the floor and scrubbed in little circular motions until I wanted to chew my arm off in frustration… but we got it clean in the end.

Yay.

I’m thinking I might use wet sandpaper on lots of things. Microdermabrasion?



What would you use it on?

The Secret to Getting Kids to Pay Attention!

Image source

I think I’ve discovered how to engage primary school students in the classroom… make everything you teach them revolve around poo and wee.

My class has been learning about the First Fleet and even though we’ve researched it thoroughly, studied the Industrial Revolution, the meagre rations on the ships, the landing at Botany Bay and Port Jackson, watched movies and read books about it, drew pictures; the only thing any of the kids could regurgitate in their test essay was a fleeting comment I made one day about how the convicts had to do their business in buckets below deck and that when the seas grew rough on the eight month journey, there was quite a lot of spillage.

Every single student wrote at considerable length about this one fact. 

Bugger the flogging, the scurvy, the two meals a day of stale bread and gruel… oh no. 

It was all about the poo.

One ten year old asked me which World War the First Fleet was fighting in.

“There was no World War,” I said slowly, shaking my head in incredulous defeat.

“But why were there ships then?” he persisted, not quite believing me.

“They were transporting the convicts,” I bleated. “Remember? The convicts?"

He sniffed and wandered off, clearly disappointed there was no violent war with submarines and machine guns to write about.

And then there was the student who wrote he was being transported on the 18th century vessel for stealing pizza.

Not sure they had Pizza Hut or Dominos in London back then.

It’s very hard to get a room full of kids to pay attention. They’re very bloody good at pretending to listen though. They stare at me and nod and laugh at the right time but they aren’t really taking anything in at all. They just humour me I think.

And it’s not just my personal failing as a teacher either.

We had an actual geologist from the university come to our classroom last week and the only thing the kids were interested in was the fossilised poo the gentleman had cleverly brought along. 

So I’m thinking of introducing Mr Hankey the Christmas poo into every lesson from now on.

You know… If Mr Hankey needs to carpet his bedroom which is 10 metres x 7 metres how many square metres of brown carpet will he need?

Or… if Mr Hankey weighs 500 grams how many Mr Hankeys would be needed to make 4 kilograms of poo?

Or in geography… Mr Hankey is travelling to South America. What sort of clothes should he take to suit the climate?

Or in literacy… Write an descriptive cinquain including imagery about Mr Hankey the poo.

Or in religion… What gifts did the Three Wise Christmas Poos bring the baby Jesus?

Or even in science… if we left Mr Hankey out in the wind and rain for several years what would happen to him and why? Draw a diagram to go with your explanation.

I could make classroom posters with Mr Hankey telling everyone to be respectful to each other. All poos are created equal and that sort of thing.



Or maybe I should just change career...

What do you think? Should I send by idea to the Board of Education.

Linking up with Jess from Essentially Jess for #IBOT

I Found a Diary Underneath the Wii

My Diary

Most of you probably don’t remember the song Diary by Bread. 

My parents had the album on vinyl and I’d sit and listen to that song when I was about eleven, singing along at the top of my voice with head phones on so I couldn’t hear myself. 

Imagine how appalling that would have been for the rest of the household.

While I was heavily embroiled in sorting out the rubbish from the top of my wardrobe, I found a diary I wrote when I was ten years old. I also found twelve unopened rolls of Christmas wrapping, an empty Wii box, five empty shoe boxes, some long lost baby photos and the carcass of a frighteningly over sized huntsman spider. 

I wonder how many nightly adventures that spider enjoyed crawling all over my body as I slept, snoring rhythmically and naively unaware of the horror.

Naturally, instead of continuing to heave the rubbish out to the skip as my husband sweated and toiled downstairs painting the hallway, I perched on the edge of the bed and leisurely sifted through the diary. It was quite entertaining.

"I do wish we could go again!" See... I was always a wanker.

That’s the trouble with sorting through stuff to be thrown out, it’s very distracting.


I can remember excitedly receiving the diary in the Christmas of ’69 and began diligently writing in it on January 1, 1970. 

Every day I wrote about what I did in the school holidays. I got right up to January the 23rd when I suddenly stopped with these ominous words…

Really?

I had the attention span of a gnat.

I did revisit the diary from time to time including this revealing snippet about my mother!!!

Quick! Someone call DOCS!

I think things must have picked up in my life around October. This cryptic note scrawled in the diary seems to indicate a surge in my love life.

 Obviously I had to delete the evidence in case my sister, Sam saw it and told on me for having a boyfriend, but I got a thrill writing it down, I’m sure.

What a stroll down memory lane eh?

Love, Pinky xxx

Did you keep a diary when you were a child?

Man, You Wouldn’t Believe How Much I Spend on Grass!

The 'Before' Shot.

Our lawn has been dug up, ready for the brand new Buffalo grass to be splendiferously* laid. Our irrigation and lawn man is called Bill and he’s married to my colleague at work, Donna (a.k.a. Sausage Roll Rebellion villain). 

I told him he should call his company Buffalo Bill and surprisingly it wasn’t the first time he’d heard that. His last name is Crabb... but he’d hardly want to be calling his company Crabb Grass and Irrigation, would he?

Anyway, if you need to get your lawn spruced up or a watering system put in place let me know and I’ll pass on the details (but if you live in Canada he may take a while to return your call).

The only problem is that Bill is having a bit of trouble sourcing grass. Can you imagine him calling around the contractors saying, “Hey man, it’s Bill. Know where I can get my hands on some grass?”

Scotto finished painting the outside of the house and is currently annoying everyone (me) with signs everywhere telling us not to touch the interior walls.

The carpeting will be done within a fortnight. The wooden blinds have been cleaned, the wooden window sills sanded and tinted, new curtains in the lounge room, the front foyer will be re-sanded and polished and I’m packing up useless items and scrubbing bathrooms.

Financial Cost: about 20 fudging thousand dollars $$$$.

Emotional/Mental Cost:

Every single one of the four dogs has paint on its body… somewhere.

Lulu (19 year old daughter) is cracking a mental because everything looks different and it’s stressing her out.

I decided I can’t throw away the kid’s astoundingly huge collection of plastic trophies and realised I really am a sentimental old woman after all.

Scotto got a job on the Gold Coast and will be moving two months ahead of me and I’m worried he might have such a good time he’ll just start sending me postcards of meter maids and that’ll be the last I hear of him.

Not really.

I don’t think my 14 year old cat will handle the move. She doesn’t like change because she’s so old and frail. (Who am I kidding? That bitch could take down a wedge-tailed eagle. She’ll be super keen to move so I’ll have to fork out several hundreds of dollars to have the fudging twenty dollar cat transported in a luxury trailer down the Queensland coast while I’ll be sweating in my four cylinder car with a German shepherd and a Silky Terrier breathing their bad breath down my neck as I traverse the potholes on the Bruce Highway).



* I thought I made that word up but Spell Check seems to think it’s okay???

Any moving tips you'd like to pass on to me?

Pinky's Very Exclusive Beauty Secret

Scotto walked into the bathroom last night as I was putting Anusol on my face. “Haven’t you got the wrong end, Pinky?” he asked innocently.

“No,” I replied. “I just put face cream on my bum. I think I know what I’m doing buddy boy.”

He shook his head and went back to watching his Netflix movie.

I read that you can use haemorrhoid cream on broken veins, which I have on my left cheek… (and it’s not from drinking alcohol, okay, it’s from washing my face in hot water or eating chilli or having too many saunas or something). 

Apparently it works the same way as it does on the piles in your bottom. It shrinks the little buggers. But at the other end of my body I seem to have developed a dry, flaky tailbone. What’s that about? Can anyone tell me? At first I thought it was a bed sore from lying around too much. My tail bone is actually peeling so I rubbed some of my inexpensive but ultra-rich eye cream into it. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Speaking of bums, I’ve had the most fantastic idea for my book week costume this year.

This will be my last year at the school after ten long years and I want to go out with a bang. I want those kids sobbing and wailing on the last day because they’ll be missing that rascally old Mrs Poinker. I don’t want them all cheering and whooping when it’s announced I’m leaving. Imagine how mortifying that would be.

So, knowing how much kids love anything to do with bums and poo, I’m going as “The Day My Bum Went Psycho.”

When I was cleaning out cupboards on the weekend I found a large and anatomically correct bottom which 22 year old son Hagar bought for a costume party one year.

Sneak preview!

Scotto fashioned a poo for me to hang around my neck.

Realistic Poo!

*I did ask Kaz, Shazzy, Lee-lee and Kyles if they wanted to dress up as poos and we could do the group thing but they're very unadventurous and boring so they declined.



The only problem is, the bum is just a tiny bit too realistic. I’m going to have to shove some blu-tac in a certain area and put a fig leaf over it or something.



But can you just imagine it? Those kids are going to go ballistic!

Would you like to see the photos after the event?
Got any beauty secrets?

Linking up with Jess from Essentially Jess for #IBOT

I was Nearly Arrested Yesterday!

You said what, Pinky???

I was running late for work yesterday and was annoyed to notice two police cars parked on the side of the road and a rangy policeman waving me over on to a side street. 

As I said, I was already late and it was a bit inconvenient. I considered putting my foot down and squealing off with my tyres smoking and my rude finger pressed up against the window but I thought that might make me even later to school… you know, in the long run.

I pulled up beside the cop and wound down my window. “Good morning,” said the twelve year old, rosy cheeked policeman. “We’re doing random checks on vehicles. Did you drink any alcohol last night, madam?”

“Hell yeah, I did!” I replied, hoping I’d make him laugh and then he’d say, “On your way then you cheeky, old bugger.”

But he just blinked. “Had a good night’s sleep and some breakfast though I hope?”

I nodded mutely, even though I hadn’t slept well at all and definitely hadn’t eaten breakfast. I could see this policeman had no sense of humour whatsoever.

“Can I see your licence please, madam?” he asked without smiling and clicking his heels together.

It was at this point I started to get nervous. My hands shook as the policeman watched me searching through my wallet in a fluster and my credit cards and shite spilled on to my lap and the floor and all the while he stared at me in an accusatory fashion. 

I hadn’t done anything wrong. Why was I acting so guilty for God’s sake? Why do cops always make me feel guilty?

“I’m going to need you to supply a breath sample, madam,” he smirked, as he unwrapped a tube from a plastic bag and plugged it into a walkie talkie thing.

My brain began to spiral in an uncontrolled vortex. How many drinks had I actually scoffed down last night? We’d had my friend and real estate agent, Nettie, over and I’d gone a bit silly. What time did I have my last one? Ten o’clock? 

Yes. My last drink was at ten o’clock and I’d had about five drinks over the night. That meant my liver should theoretically have finished its mopping up of vile toxins by three o’clock in the morning and it was currently seven-thirty so unless there was something seriously wrong with my hepatic system (which wouldn’t surprise me) I should be in the clear.

Then I remembered the mouth wash I’d used less than 5 minutes before. What if that was enough to put me over the limit? 

Damn my obsession with clean breath. Would they let me make one phone call so I could let my Deputy Principal know I'd been arrested so she'd have to get someone else to do my oval duty at big lunch? Would they cuff me and push my head down as I got into the cop car?

The young policeman watched the numbers clicking on his machine as I huffed and wheezed into the tube and I swear he looked disappointed at the final result.

"Have a nice day," he grimaced in defeat.

As I drove off, the older cop (the one much closer to my age), yelled out to me exuberantly,“Why does your number plate say ‘Pinky P’ when your car’s yellow?”

I poked my head out the window, “It’s not my car,” I shouted. “I stole it!”

I could see him laughing in the rear vision window as I puttered off.

Life is wasted on the young.

Have you been pulled over ever?

Did you make any jokes?

Do you get nervous in an unwarranted way or are you actually a criminal?