Why I Love People Born in September.

It was my birthday yesterday, along with a lot of other people who have been celebrating on FB lately. 

 So many people celebrate their birthday in September. December is clearly the month for hanky-panky after all the Christmas spirit having been imbibed, probably leading to surprise pregnancies nine months later.

It’s a wonder everyone born in September doesn’t have foetal alcohol syndrome. Our mothers were probably off their faces when they conceived us, guys.

Or maybe we all do have it and we just don’t know it, because we have it.

Do I have it? You’d tell me if I did, wouldn’t you?

Oh well. What I don’t know won’t hurt me, I suppose.

It’s not funny really. I’m not making light of a serious subject. I’ve looked up the symptoms and I think I do have it actually and it’s why I have so many friends born in September. We’re flocking together.


Of course the most important thing about birthdays is the receiving of presents and these are the presents I received in no particular order of favourites.

Scotto had a portrait of my son (with my grand dog in it) put on canvas.

I can’t publish the photo because my son hates me putting him on the Internet and as he wasn’t born in September he probs knows better than I do.

My dogs gave me nothing which didn’t surprise me. Thankless bastards that they are.

My sister had one of my favourite wedding photos made into a decorative cushion which I really loved.

It was my wedding, btw. Not just my favourite, random wedding.

My Mum and Dad bought me a very large green tablecloth which I picked out myself and which I adore because it will cover my big wooden table where I’ve planned a lot of future Italian type family gatherings. (Certain members of the family are banned from sitting at the table unless they fold the tablecloth back because of their propensity to spill rum and cokes and flick smoldering ash. One of these family members was born in September… just saying.)

My five children (under the bossy guidance of my only daughter… thank God I had her because none of the boys would have had the impetus) arranged for a voucher from Stefan so I can have my sandy/beige foils re-done.

And even the government sent me a little present which was a lovely, totally unexpected honour.

Birthday Bowel Testing Kit!

We had a backyard party under the tree with all the animals attempting to steal food from the table and king parrots hanging around the pool fence.

The best gift was that my sister and her family came all the way down from North Queensland to celebrate with me.

Admiring her from across the table, I commented that my niece looks a bit like Audrey Hepburn. Mum pitched in that people used to say that about my sister, Sam, when she was young.

“These days, I just look like I ate Audrey Hepburn,” my sister complained bitterly.

I spat my champagne all over my new tablecloth at that one.

She’s a laugh, my sister. She was always described as the ‘beautiful’ sister by outsiders when we were kids. Now that I've figured out about the foetal alcohol syndrome thing I can finally accept why that was without feeling extremely vilified. 

I couldn't help the way I looked. 

It. wasn't. my. fault.

So… since my birthday last year I have sold and bought a house, resigned from my job of ten years and worked at five different schools, dined at almost every surf club on the Gold Coast, gained an extra five kilograms, taken up extreme bush walking, lost 2.6 grams and spent at least $2000 at the dentist who is seemingly collecting my extracted teeth to sell for a bucket load on the ivory black market.

I’ve also learned to find my way around the Gold Coast without using the GPS or ringing Scotto in tears, shrieking into the phone and hyperventilating that I’m “fudging lost again”. 

I wonder what the next twelve months will bring.

These are my three main goals:

1. Get a proper job.

2. Lose 4.9974 kg

3. Grow back my teeth.



Do you make goals on your birthday? Are you a September baby?

Stick that in your Fanny Bag!

Remember this time last year I was boring you all stupid with posts about my buffalo grass? I went on for months didn’t I?

Sorry.

But now you have to get ready for an inundation of posts about bush walks.

“What the fudge are these piddling, tiny things supposed to fudging be?” I screamed at Scotto this morning after the parcel delivery guy had zoomed back out of our driveway on his scooter.

“What the fudge are these? Snake Gaiters for ants?” I ranted.

I’d ordered (online) snake gaiters from a company I will (for legal reasons) call, ‘AnnaFuckonda’ and even though I had ordered ‘small’ because I’m sort of small, they’d sent me the ‘Junior” version which I presume must have to them meant fudging ‘six years fudging old’.

I was relying on these gaiters because we are doing a LOT of bush walking and frankly, I’m sick of looking out for random snakes. I just want to walk along enjoying the scenery knowing if a fudging taipan decides to lunge at me he will bounce off the Teflon gaiter thing and have to go to the dentist for a root canal and crown because he knocked a fang out.

But… naturally, the eejits who organise internet packing of stuff couldn’t do their fudging job right and now I have to continue to risk my life walking amongst venomous reptiles who aren’t afraid of a silly pair of Kathmandu hiking boots.

I looked around a few internet sites and apparently Australian snakes are a bit feeble and can’t bite much because they have small fangs so I’m thinking if I wear jeans I should be fairly safe until I can order some new snake gaiters. Of course, I make Scotto walk ahead of me on our treks in order to scare away the snakes with his heavy trudging but he can’t really be trusted because most animals like him and the snakes would probably let him pass and then take an instant dislike to me. 

That is the general pattern of my life anyway.

We called into the Mitre 10 on the mountain before our gaiter-less walk this morning. The guy there told us that as it is spring time, the snakes are a lot more active and that their venom is more potent but not to worry as they are more scared of us than we are of them.

I call bullshit. I am definitely more scared of them. Even though I’ve never seen one.

What I will say is that I’m becoming addicted to the pure, clean oxygen, the smell of the rainforest, the meditative clumping of boot steps, the sounds of whip birds and kookaburras, the burning in my thighs as I climb the mossy rocks, the cool, ginger-pepper air and the squelch of wet leaves under my feet. It’s the best free exercise you can dream of.

I bloody love it.

I've ordered a fanny bag (online) to carry my asthma puffer, three compression bandages (in case of snake bite) and a packet of aspirin in case of unexpected stroke. We should be safe unless the fanny bag turns out to be designed for a six year old.



What’s your favourite form of exercise?

I'm Occasionally Highly Visible

I sent an official resignation letter to my old school yesterday advising them I will NEVER be returning. That means I’m stuck here on the Gold Coast, with no job, no family (except parents) and no people that know about my shady, nefarious past.

That’s one thing I suppose.

So it looks like it’s a relief teacher’s career for me from now on.

Woo hoo.

Today, I had Prep, Grade 1, Grade 2, Grade 3 and Grade 4 for an hour each.

It was a bloody long day.

It was all going splendidly until I slithered into Grade 1 and accidentally instructed the kids to glue a particular worksheet into their scrap books. By the manner in which the stressed out teacher entered the classroom in a highly anxious state, after the hour was over, I realised my instructions had actually been, “Under no circumstances let those brats glue the worksheet into their scrapbooks!” instead of what I’d misheard it as, “Ask those brats to stick the worksheet into their scrapbooks with full gluey adhesive, non-removable Selley’s Aruldite.”

The teacher was not happy.

I then had to borrow her ‘high visibility’ jacket to do a handball-swerving, playground duty and managed to spill cranberry sauce from my turkey/salad/cranberry wrap all over said jacket.

Oh well, orange is the new black, so I’ve heard.

I tried to wash it out under the water bubbler but by the time I handed it back to her it was a soggy, disgusting mess and looked like someone had had their period all over it.

I’m guessing she won’t be requesting me back into her classroom even though she was very nice about the whole thing.

I wish I could listen to instructions more closely. In my defence, I did ask the kids at least five times whether or not they were supposed to glue the worksheet in and quite a few responsible looking ones said, ‘YES! Mrs. Poinker,' which at the time, I took to be an honest and reliable answer.

Little liars. They probably just wanted me to get into trouble.

You just can’t trust Grade Ones.

In Pursuit of Thinness

Twin Falls Springbrook Mountain

I read a meme the other day about how someone’s greatest fear when they were growing up was a fear of quicksand and yet since they’ve now grown up to the age of 50, they’ve never once in their lives encountered actual quicksand.

As a child, I was afraid of quicksand too after reading Victoria Holt novels in the 70s (and also as a result of watching Gilligan’s Island) but I’ve never encountered quicksand in real life, thankfully to God.

I think if I ever sink in quicksand I’ll try to float. If I get the chance, that is, before the undercurrent sucks me under. Luckily there isn’t much quicksand on the mountain where I live. There might be for all I know but it would be unusual considering we are quite a long way from the sea and any sand at all. We might have quick ‘soil’… but if it exists, I’ve certainly never heard of it.

Scotto and I have been on a fitness binge and have been doing an uphill rainforest circuit walk every other day. I spend the entire 30 minutes of the downhill trip staring at the ground in a wary hunt for Eastern Brown snakes and the remaining 30 uphill minutes, puffing and wheezing up the steps and slopes, checking my pulse and clutching the asthma puffer in my pocket, not caring a bit about snakes at all and mainly thinking about my heart, angina and possible strokes.

After about nine bouts of the Witch’s Falls circuit, we decided today to tackle the indomitable Twin Falls hike on Springbrook Mountain. It was four fudging kilometres. We were going to need an ambulance to meet us at the end.

I’m happy to say we did make it through the trek (despite two particularly vicious leeches which attempted to suck the strength from us) but because of my fear of snakes and strong desire to recklessly spend money I don’t have, I suggested to Scotto that we pop into the local outdoor activity outlet and buy some outrageously expensive hiking boots.

So in order to replenish our iron levels after the before-mentioned leech initiated blood loss, we enjoyed a hearty lunch at the Mudgeeraba Hotel (including wine), and we then decided to descend on the Kathmandu Extreme Level Sporting Shop at the Robina Town Centre.

I had to apologise to the girl who was attending us because of my blood stained socks (what with the leeches and all) but she waved me off with a laugh and was very happy about the two pairs of very exorbitantly expensive boots she was about to get commission on.

My boots make me think I could walk through the Kokoda Track like I was walking on to a yacht with my hat strategically tipped below my eye with a scarf that was apricot.

They are fudging excellent. Snake-proof too.

We’re thinking about Everest next, or perhaps Machu Picchu.

At least we'll look good.

So tell me, what silly things have you bought in the pursuit of thinness?

P.S. Scotto just got up me because I didn't credit him for the photos. Yep. He took 'em.

Robert De Niro's Mole

Like many of you, we give our four dogs lots of different names. Whatever comes out of our mouths at the time is what we call them, really. That’s how the name of my blog came about. I was calling out to my fox terrier,

“Oi, Punk! Punky… Poinky… Punky Brewster… Punky Punker… Pinky Punker… Pinky Poinker!…. Come here and get your disgusting bone, you eejit dog!”

That is honestly how I came up with the silly name for my blog.

Our German Shepherd sometimes gets called Robert, mainly because he so closely resembles Robert De Niro.

It’s mainly the mole on his muzzle. Our Germy Shepherd has a mole in the exact same place as Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver (or Jack Byrnes in Meet the Fokkers… depending on your level of intellect).

Mind you, I don’t believe Taxi Driver is more intellectually elevated than Meet the Fokkers.
Taxi Driver was a pretty boring movie and I didn’t even get one bloody laugh out of it, whereas, “Meet the Fokkers” was HILARIOUS.

Especially the part when the cat flushed the dog down the loo. I know there was no dramatic catharsis or complicated, ironic and studied, Freytag's pyramid involved… but there was the toilet humour.

Frankly, I think ‘Taxi Driver’ was highly overrated. Who cares about taxi drivers, anyway?

Only Uber drivers, I suppose.

Recently, my eighty-one year old, Dad picked us up when Scotto and I were going out for our anniversary lunch. Dad’s anniversary present to us was a lift to the winery and back. When he turned up he had an Uber sign on the dashboard which gave us all a laugh.


It wasn’t so funny later on when my elderly Mum drove up to the local IGA and the local louts kept trying to flag her down for a ride because Dad had forgotten to remove the sign. That, my friends, is a completely true story. Poor Mum.

We went over to visit Mum and Dad last night as it was Father’s Day and all. Dad had been on his death bed all week with the flu.

“I need to tell you all my passwords,” Dad croaked as he sat in his velvety dressing gown scoffing pizza. “In case I die. I think it might be happening soon.”

“Dad, you’re as healthy as a draught horse. You just had the bloody flu!” I scoffed.

“No, my dear, I should show you where all my official papers are in case something happens,” he rasped, whilst slurping up a generous bowl of apple crumble and cream.

“You’ll be outliving me!” I shrilled. “Shut up and stop talking about death!”

My parents love to talk about death. They look up the obituaries every weekend on Google to see who they’ve outlasted. Before I moved down here, whenever I talked to them on the phone, thirty seconds into the conversation, right after the “how are the kids?”, Mum would casually ask, “So… who’s died in Townsville, lately?”

Every time I take Mum to lunch she invariably starts discussing her will and what she wants done with her deceased fudging estate.

As I sit, choking down my toasted cheese sandwich, she relates explicit instructions on how she wants the money divided up between the grand kids.

The thing is, with my diabolical drinking habits and avoidance of medical tests, I’m fairly sure my parents will both outlive me.

And what will I care? I'll be dead.


So, anyway, my question is this… What nicknames do you give your pets?

or

Do you think "Robert De Niro's Mole" would be a good novel title?

Answering the call of the Wild Baked Bean

I’ve been taking a commercially baked, delicious oat bar thing to school to eat at morning tea, but as the kilos have continued to pile on to my girth, the virtuous oat bar has somehow become the scapegoat for my continued weight gain (it's not the vat of wine I drink every day… oh no, never that).

So instead of ingesting the highly processed, highly calorie laden and sugar-filled, oat bar every day, I’ve been eating a small can of baked beans instead.

Fibre… you know.

It was a shock to realise that even a very tiny can of baked beans has a thunderously, gaseous side effect and I’m guessing that at my advanced age, the farty effect is even more exaggerated.

Shortly after morning tea yesterday, as I was meandering past a group of grade ones during their dance lesson, I accidentally dropped a very robust and loud, fluffy monster.

Thinking like a ninja, I spun around quickly in feigned outrage, “Who was that???” I glared at the small children in mock horror.

The grade one-ers all looked at one another with suspicion, nudging each other in the ribs with their chubby elbows and staring at the skinny boy wearing glasses who was sitting in the corner by himself, the kid everyone always pick on, the odd boy who never gets chosen as a partner and picks his nose and has facial tics.

It MUST have been him who so rudely farted.

Of course, I let the innocent boy take the fall for my fluff. He looked like a patsy to tell the truth. He was asking for it, really.

You know I’m joking. Please don’t ring the Teacher Registration Board.
It’s very difficult teaching dance lessons when you’re full of wind. The knee bends, the jumps, the kicking the legs in the air… these actions avidly invite the random and explosive expulsion of excess air.

If it had been grade sixes I might not have got away with my subterfuge… but grade one-ers will be sucked in by anything.

The truth is, they giggled a lot and I suppose they did suspect it was me who fluffed, but because they’re grade ones they forgot about it ten seconds after it happened.

I could teach grade ones the same lesson every day for a year and they wouldn’t even notice anything unusual.

I had quite a few boys sidle up to me during the last three weeks and whisper in anguished voices, “Mrs Poinker, sorry, but dancing’s not my thing. I’d rather not participate, thanks.”

“You don’t like dancing? Well that won’t get you many girlfriends later in life!” I’ve quipped back.

“I don’t like girls,” has been the standard response. “I never want a girlfriend.”

I’m sure they’ll change their mind about liking girls but the terror and shame with which some of the boys approached the idea of dancing was enlightening.

I remember showing a grade four class the film “Oliver Twist’ once and one boy in my class almost had a fit because there were people dancing in the movie. He was truly tortured by musical theatre. He was in physical pain watching it. At one stage he started crying in frustration and torment.



Why do some males, young and old, hate the thought of dancing so much?

Even Scotto hates dancing. He pretended to like it when we first met but now refuses to even consider it.

Any ideas?

Also, do baked beans have the same effect on you?

Rainbows and Hay Fever Season

Rainbow at the end of my street!

I’m sort of superstitious but Scotto is worse.

When we met twelve years ago he started this whole thing where we have to say ‘bless you’ when one of us sneezes.

I find it very annoying. 

For a start, he always sneezes twice, never just once, always twice. So I have to sit and wait for the second sneeze because otherwise I’ll end up saying ‘bless you’ twice which is a waste of breath and really pidges me off. 

His second, follow-up sneeze can take over a minute before it develops and that minute can be a very long minute. I twiddle my thumbs, fidget and check my phone waiting for that damn second sneeze. I hate putting my life on hold like that.

The second annoying thing is that when he says, ‘bless you’ after I sneeze, I am mandated to say ‘thank you’ which is tiring in the extreme. He sits and waits for me to say thank you too, so I can’t get out of it.

I drew up the courage the other day to ask him if we could just stop with the whole ‘bless you’ thing. He scowled at me as if there was something intrinsically wrong with me, as if I’d asked him to accompany me on a naked, moonlight romp dancing around a slaughtered goat or something.

“Why? Why don’t you want to say, ‘bless you’ after I sneeze, Pinky?” he demanded. "What is wrong with you?"

I had no valid reason, sigh, so I still have to do the 'bless you' thing.

Spring and hay fever season are about to start too. 

Shudder.

As I’ve told you, I’m superstitious about crows. They’re harbingers of death. If I see one I immediately look away and pretend it’s not there or sometimes throw a rock at it.

Rainbows, on the other hand, are a sign of good luck. We had one that finished right at the end of our street recently. I’m still waiting for the good fortune from that sighting to befall itself upon my body and teach me proper grammar, though. I’m sure it will appear soon.

Imagine my delight when we found this shop on our trip down to Byron Bay last weekend.

I bought a rainbow umbrella and a pair of rainbow leggings, which are a thoroughly inappropriate and unseemly item of clothing for a woman of my age to be buying but I don’t care.

They sold so many different items I could have walked out of the shop dressed from head to toe in rainbow if I’d wanted.

Other things I think are signs of good luck coming my way are, seeing a shooting star, finding a coin head side up on the road, having a lady bug land on me, plus seeing rainbow lorikeets (as long as they aren’t flying into my windscreen at the time).

Things I won’t allow into my house include peacock feathers and opals.

My ex-husband wanted to give me an opal engagement ring all those 28 years ago. He had a bunch of opals his mother had bequeathed to him. Thankfully, the ugly, milky things had cracks in them and the jeweller refused to go along with my ex’s cheapskate antics.

Fancy trying to fob off your late mother’s old, tissue wrapped, cracked opals on your future bride.



That’s got to be a bloody bad omen for a marriage I reckon.

Your weirdest superstitions?

Teachers Know Everything!

Working as a relief specialist teacher I get to teach the entire school during the week.

When I pick them up for their lessons, there’s a decided difference in the usual conversations between me and the varying age groups.

Preps: (Whilst clinging onto my thighs in a vice grip, five at a time)

We love you, Mrs Poinker. You’re the bestest most beautifullest teacher ever, Mrs Poinker!!!!

Me: I know.

Preps: YOU look like Mrs. Poinker!

Me: I know. That’s because I am Mrs Poinker.

Preps: Ooooooh!



Grade Ones: I like your earrings Mrs Poinker. I like your hair Mrs Poinker. I like your necklace Mrs Poinker. I like your red top, Mrs Poinker, it’s really nice.

Me: I know.



Grade Twos: I lost a tooth yesterday, Mrs Poinker. I have a cut on my wart, Mrs Poinker. I have a blister on my tongue, Mrs Poinker. My eyes is sore and full of pus, Mrs Poinker. I have nits, Mrs Poinker.

Me: I know.



Grade Threes: You have a yellow car, Mrs Poinker. I saw you at the shopping centre and you waved at me. Mrs Poinker. You wore that shirt last time we had you, Mrs Poinker.

Me: I know.



Grade Fours: Mercutio is walking along the garden bed, Mrs Poinker. Mercutio is not coming inside the classroom, Mrs Poinker. Mercutio is pulling faces through the window, Mrs Poinker.

Me: I know. Just ignore him.

Grade Fours: Mercutio is showing us his bottom, Mrs Poinker.

Me: I know. Just ignore him, don’t give him any attention and he’ll come inside in a moment.

Grade Fours: (Squealing very loudly) He’s really showing us his bottom Mrs Poinker.

Mrs Poinker looks towards the window and sees Mercutio spreading his cheeks in a Jackass-type, explicit manner.

Mercutio could get a job with an all-male review when he leaves school.

Mrs Poinker rings admin in a somewhat urgent mode.

Mrs Poinker on phone: Mercutio from year four is doing dreadful things. He’s out of control.

Admin: Sigh. We know.

Mercutio is rounded up with a swift reconnaissance type mission by harried, long-suffering administration officer.

Grade Fours: Mercutio always does that when we have a relief teacher, Mrs Poinker.

Me: I suspected so. I didn’t actually KNOW. But I suspected.

Grade Fives: Mrs Poinker, Garibaldi is giving you the rude finger every time you turn around.

Me: I know.



Grade Six: Mrs Poinker, do you know what a dab is?

Me: Yep.

Grade Six: Will you do one for us?

Me: No.

Grade Six: Dabs are really cool.

Me: I know.



See. Teachers really DO know everything.

Trauma Coping Strategies

I have lost two things in the last four days… eight centimetres of hair and two teeth.

The hair was an easy chop; I still have long hair and now it’s an appropriate length for a flumpety-flurve year old woman.

The teeth are a much sadder story. (They were right at the back of my mouth so nobody will notice they’re missing.)

Nobody except me that is, especially when I try to chew foodstuffs other than soup or puree.

Please don’t think I have rotten teeth. The teeth were pristine. It’s just that the bone they used to be attached to has disintegrated and according to the x-rays the teeth in question were only being held on to by the gums.

It was a very disturbing experience having two upper molars ripped from my jaw. Frankly, it felt as though my sinuses, my ear canals and part of my brain were going to be extracted through my tooth socket as well.

For teeth that were only being held in by gums they certainly put up a damn good fight.

The worst part was when the dentist began barking orders in a somewhat panicked fashion for more and more gauze and then inserting stitches whilst the nurse screamed for the receptionist to come in and help suck up all the blood.

I accidently swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of blood. FUUUUDGGGGEEE.

While the dentist was suturing the gaping, oozing wound, I swear there were four hands, six mirrors and a sucker the size of a Dyson vacuum cleaner in my mouth all at the same time. 

I kept breathing through my nose, humming the Bear Necessities of Life in my head and using a disassociation method of coping with stress by pretending I was one of the Olympians in the closing ceremony (which was on the overhead screen at the time). I zoned in on the flag bearer. I was her, not me, lying on that dentist's torture chair with the corners of my mouth splitting open and three humans inserting their fists into it.

When the witches of Macbeth finally finished with the blood and bone sacrificial ceremony, I stood on shaky legs and hobbled out to pay the receptionist the $400 plus for the pleasure of my visit.

I limped across the road to the chemist in order to obtain the mandated antibiotics with about five gauze pads clamped inside my cheek. I’m sure I looked like a zombie raised from the cemetery down the road. A lopsided chipmunk zombie.


“Mph mph mmmm maw maw,” I said to the pharmacy assistant as I handed over the script with a trembling hand and white face with a blood smeared chin.

She just smiled knowingly as if she’d seen it a hundred times before.

Scotto reckons I should have stocked up on codeine and over the counter sleeping aids because they wouldn’t have been able to ask all those annoying fudging questions pharmacy assistants always ask.

I drove home, walked straight into the bedroom and spent the rest of the day doing New Idea crosswords (which are my favourites because even stupid people can do them).

That’s my secret comfort when I’m traumatised, New Idea crosswords. The Woman’s Day ones are okay too.

There… that’s my secret. I do crosswords. It’s like meditation.

See, people think I’m a wild, mad, drinking woman but the truth is, I like me crosswords.



What’s your go-to calm down strategy?

Why Cher and Me were Separated at Birth

What I would look like in a leotard. For real.

Starting yesterday, I have three weeks work at a school I taught drama at last term, teaching…

well, you guess what I’m teaching.

Go on. Try to guess.

No. Not an exotic foreign language of which I know nothing.

No. Not homemaker cooking or sewing of which I know nothing.

No. Not advanced chemistry and physics and nuclear science of which I know nothing.

I’ll give you a hint.

It is a subject about something of which I know nothing.

… I know.

The possibilities are endless.

Dance. That’s what I’m teaching. Fudging dance.  

Pranc-i-dance- la-la-dancey-poof-bubble-dance.

When I say I know nothing about dance, I mean I know ‘next to nothing’.

I frantically scoured the internet and my pitiful collection of dance books last weekend as the impending teaching job loomed on the apocalyptic horizon.

Why and how do I get myself into these things?

A principal asks me, “How do you feel about coaching a team of highly exuberant twelve year old boys rugby league and taking them to football matches?"

“Sure!” I chirrup enthusiastically. “I LOVE a good old challenge!”



A principal asks me, “How do you feel about teaching the entire school Dance for a few weeks?”

“Absolutely!” I gush. “Dance is my goddamn middle name, sir!”

Some people never learn.

Me, I mean, not the principals.

The biggest mistake I’ve made in my planning of dance lessons so far, is selecting a Justin Bieber song as part of my play list.

Apparently all boys over six years of age (and some girls) despise Justin Bieber as much as I despise the taste of cochineal, coriander and going to the periodontist.

As soon as the Biebs comes on singing his little heart out, everyone screams in disgust, causing my deaf ear to squeak like an alien creature and my left ear to throb with the tick tock beat of "What Do You Fudging Mean?".



Boys start rolling around the floor being utter dickheads and the entire class loses it, including me.

So now the Biebs is banned from Mrs. Poinker’s ‘fantastical, whimsically ironic, dance class’.

But there are some positives about the silly challenge I’ve set myself up with.

I’m getting a bit of exercise for a change. Five classes a day means five sets of warm ups involving star jumps and other jarring actions. Before I know it I’ll be fit. I’m thinking of buying a sequined leotard, tights and a pair of ballet shoes but I suspect the kids might become frightened by the vision… especially the preps who have no knowledge of Cher or how older women can get away with fashion experimentation because of their special nuances.

I also only have each class for an hour, so if they’re extra-horribly naughty at least I know they’ll be going back to their poor teachers soon enough.

Plus, I get to listen to music all day. Albeit, it’s the same set of songs all week, five times a day, so I might get sick of them.

The Arts teacher left me a set of authentic Aboriginal clapper sticks. When the kids are particularly overcome with delightfully impish and fetchingly, mischievous fudgwittery, I can clap the sticks together to get their attention instead of bruising my hands as I clap in violent frustration.

I just have to try to remember that I can’t hit the kids over the head with the clapper sticks when they’re being fractious. It would be so easy to just accidentally dong them on the head when I catch them shouting out rude comments at the top of their voice. I’ll have to be very careful about that I suppose.

Note to self: Do not walk near naughty students when holding clapper sticks.

All in all, it hasn’t been as bad as I envisaged.

Most of the kids remember me from the drama lessons last term and think of me as a bit of a minor celebrity. They keep coming up and hugging me in the playground and saying, “You’re back, Mrs Poinker! We missed you! You're the only old lady we know with long hair!”

"K," I murmur, twisting my greying ponytail between gnarled fingers.

You know what, I reckon I should order one of those leotards.

Final note: Getting haircut tomorrow.

What to Expect as a Relief Teacher

    

My eyes have been opened after working as a relief teacher for the last 6 months...

These are the things I've discovered.

1. The kids will think it’s a free-for-all day. They’ll greet the relief teacher with all the exuberance of an audience at the Colosseum, cheering an impoverished, starving Christian into the arena who’s about to face an annoyed lion that’s been starved for two days. That’s the nicest the kids will be to you all day.

2. The ‘real teachers’ will always have an elaborate plan in place for the relief teacher involving a reading and spelling rotation group system that necessitates a code breaker from the CIA to decipher. This will confuse the relief teacher to the point where they will want to rip their eyes from their sockets and fall to their knees in submission.

3. There will always be parents standing at the door at the first bell when the relief teacher is struggling to mark the roll online without a code and at the same time attempting to puzzle out the rotating reading group schedule which is due to start at that precise next second.

4. The parent/parents will stare at the relief teacher as if to say, “Where did they dig her up from?” which will undermine the relief teacher’s confidence for the remainder of the day.

5. The relief teacher will then spend the rest of the day worrying that the ‘helper parents’ have reported her to administration for incompetence.

6. The real teacher will often leave a loose plan for a science or maths lesson, involving dirt/mud/water experiments that they’ve been putting off doing all term because of all the dirt/mud/water.

7. These lessons will never go well for the relief teacher as there will always be a serious accident regarding mud/water/dirt on the classroom carpet.

8. The kids will be a combination of ‘extra helpful’ assistant teacher types and utter arseholes.

9. The relief teacher will have no ability to keep naughty kids in at lunch time because they will naturally have duty when they will wander around the playground asking every adult they see, “Is this area ‘C’ or ‘A’” whilst squinting at a tea-splattered mud map and being largely ignored.

10. The relief teacher will not go into the staffroom at lunchtime because they know that nobody will want to talk to them because they are virtual strangers/pariahs and they will be afraid they might accidentally use another teacher’s cup/milk/teabag and even if they didn’t perform this faux pas they’d still have to sit at the janitor’s table because they are the untouchables.

11. The only person who is ever nice to a relief teacher is the office lady and that’s only because they hate the real teachers because they perceive that the real teachers take them for granted. (I must amend this. Most teachers are very nice but awkward introverts like Pinky always feel left out in the company of strangers.)

12. Relief teachers get called in twenty minutes before the first bell so they often arrive at school with dirty hair and crap makeup which gives them a “Caravan-Living” ambience which might be one of the reasons they are so looked down on.



13. Relief teachers get to go home when the bell rings but usually the car park doesn’t clear for forty-five minutes so they have to spend the time twiddling their thumbs and picking up tiny pieces of paper from the classroom floor so the room is spotless and the teacher might ask for them to come back again.

P.S. I have NOTHING against people who live in caravans. I think it would be a lovely lifestyle.

Making a Meal of Meal Worms.

Real Live Meal Worm

For the past week, I’ve had a few days working at a small country school. When I call the roll at the beginning of each day, I get the kids to answer by telling me something about themselves. One thing I KNOW about country kids is that they LOVE animals.

All animals.

When I ask these country kids to reply to their name with the name of one of their pets, I’ve been getting responses like, Star, Blaze, Flicka and Gypsy. I’m assuming most of these kids have ponies.

I haven’t spotted anyone riding a horse to school but it wouldn’t surprise me if I did

The first thing I do when I walk into the classroom is to outline my classroom expectations. 

With the little kids I use a clapping routine to get their attention. They have to stop what they’re doing and repeat the clapping pattern back to me. 

Of course this doesn’t work as well with older kids who just ignore the teacher and turn disdainful noses up at baby things, but the Preps to Grade Threes always respond immediately and enthusiastically, as if it's a highly exulted ritual which MUST be obeyed. 

They freeze instantly, turn to face me like robots and slap their hands together like they’re in a full on Gospel choir.

I love their dedication.

The last lesson in my littlies class today was a science oriented lesson, where the kids had to inspect a colony  (crèche… meatball… ?) of Meal Worms. They’ve been nurturing these creatures for months and had to do a write up regarding the worms’ growth and activity level. 

The only thing I know about meal worms is that you can put them in Tequila.

Let me tell you right now, from what I observed, meal worms don’t lead very exciting lives. Although they are considered to be agricultural pests so it’s strange that the presumed children of farmers are currently nurturing them in virtual nurseries at the school. What if they escaped?

I could see sinister undulating movement under the sawdust in the container and I was nervous because it was my job to extract about ten meal worms for observation from a container with a pair of tweezers.

“Don’t squeeze too hard, Mrs Poinker,” instructed one little girl. “We wouldn’t want any of them to be hurt. We love them.”

“Do they bite?” I asked in trepidation, eyeing the rising and falling of the sawdust. “Just how big are these things?”

Meal Worm Enclosure

Snap.

I’d accidentally chopped one in half. I quickly buried it under a desiccated apple core before anyone saw it and started crying.

They were wiggly little buggers... with a death wish it seemed. Every time I picked one up it would struggle vehemently necessitating me to tighten my grip on the tweezers.

The kids were putting the slimy, oversized maggots on their hands and scrutinising them under magnifying glasses.

It was getting close to bell time and I need the kids' attention attention to pack up their belongings for home time.

“Clap, clap. Clap-clap-clap,” I pounded hard with my hands.

Twenty-five hands mimicked me.

I won’t say any more about the blood bath that ensued.

It wasn’t pretty.

Thankfully meal worms can miraculously regenerate their bodies after death in the same way that jellyfish can grow back from one tentacle..



That’s what I told the kids as they scraped the squished remains from their palms anyway.

How Often Does Your Doctor Think You Have Intercourse?

Grand Dog

I went to the doctor yesterday to get a referral for the Ear, Nose and Throat specialist. There was a man in his high nineties at the counter, yelling his head off at an extraordinary volume at the receptionist when I walked in. 

He wasn’t yelling abuse; he was just deaf and couldn’t hear himself.

As he began to lurch away from the counter on his walking stick, I leaped from my seat and rounded the corner to open the heavy door for him. The hall leading to the door was quite long and I had to stand holding the door for an inordinately awkward amount of time as he shuffled towards me chuckling to himself and shouting, “Goody goody girly! Goody goody girly!”

I wasn't sure if he was making fun of me or praising me.

I was the only person in the waiting room who was capable of opening the door because everyone else there was at least a hundred and ten and on a walking frame.

It’s the mountain vibe.

I saw my life flash before me.

When I finally got in to see the very young doctor he read my report from the audiologist and said in a matter of fact tone, “Well, the hearing in your right ear is rubbish. You’ll probably need a hearing aid.”

“Oh well,” I said in an optimistic manner but feeling quite deflated. “There’re worse things that could happen.”
“Yes,” he said staring at me intently. “You could be dead.”

I had actually been thinking about loss of sight but yes, death would be worse… wtf.



Then he wrote a referral to the specialist and in the letter he described me as a fifty-five year old, high functioning female.

I adopted quite a youthful spring in my step after I read it.

I went straight home to Scotto bragging loudly that the doctor thinks I’m ‘high functioning’ and how awesome and high functioning I was.

But the more I thought about it the more I became concerned that ‘high functioning’ was ‘doctor code’ for ‘high functioning alcoholic’.

Remember how the previous doctor had noted on my records that I drink three glasses of wine a day and had given me a stern and shameful lecture?

I should have told that doctor to bloody go and bloody well high function himself.

(If you’re a doctor and you’re reading this please confirm my suspicions.)

Also in the letter, it stated at the bottom that I take an antibiotic after intercourse.
I’m not quite sure of the relevance this has to being deaf in the right ear.

Unless the intercourse actually occurs in the ear how can this information be significant?

Besides, if it’s a medication related issue, how often do they assume I take the antibiotic? 

Couldn't the doctor have written, "Only takes antibiotic when the Cowboys win the NRL fixtures? Or only when Scotto beats Pinky at The Chaser? Or only every second Sunday when Pinky wakes up in a particularly good mood and has had one of those dreams about the Bondi Vet"? 

My son Hagar, his girlfriend, Meggles and my baby granddog, Diego came and stayed with us for a few days this week. 

I was so excited on the morning they were to arrive I went and sat in the driveway with the cat, waiting for them to pull into my street. I sat on a rock beside the letterbox for hours, like a kid waiting for the ice-cream truck. The neighbour, Anne, drove past me and waved with a puzzled look on her face.

But I loved having them stay so much. I adore all of them and can’t wait until Christmas when I’ll see all of the kids again.

Grand Dog and his parents at Elephant Rock

I babysat Diego for a day.

I didn’t work this week but I don’t care because I actually hate work and who needs money anyway? (Except to buy hearing aids and pay for specialist appointments).



I’d like a job where I can sleep in and I just have to babysit Chihuahuas all day.

Grandad Scotto and Grand Dog Diego

Suing the Government for Wasting my Time!

I tried the Pokemon Go thing and ran out of balls in 15 minutes.

I lost interest pretty much ten seconds after that and deleted the app before the bastards could find out stuff about me. 

I don’t want the FBI to know which pharmacies I go to buy my Nicorettes and hormone replacement therapy ointment from, thank you very much.

Frankly, I had more fun chasing the cat which appeared on my screen while I was chasing Shitapoo or whatever it’s called. I almost caught the cat mind you. Not that it was a challenge as she’s as fat as a butter ball lately.

But don’t get me wrong, I don’t think people who are playing this game are stupid...

But I do think if the players of Pokemon Go want to get paid for having lots of spare time for doing fudge all, they should spend their energy on getting a job at the Australian Electoral Commission so they can sit on their sweet heinie all day and play Pokemon Go to their heart’s incontinence* because that’s clearly what the people in the aforementioned public service department do there all day long in that silly, silly place.

I say this because despite sending the bloody updated information in February that we had MOVED RESIDENCE, we still received a notice of prosecution today for not voting in the recent elections from the STUPID idiots that run our previous electorate… even though we VOTED in the Tamborine (2000 kms away) electorate in MARCH and JULY and that is precisely our EXACT address where the FUDGEWITS sent the painfully knobbish infringement.

How hard is it to do your bloody job, twits?

I HATE the STUPID BUREAUCRATS who runs this dumb country! Now we have to waste our time telling them THEY'RE IDIOTS.

I hate that. I have far better things to do with my time.

It takes a lot of energy being angry and I think I’ll sue. I know people. In fact I know at least seven Sues who can be real bitches when they want to be. You should NEVER mess with a Sue. I say this from bitter experience.

I mean… how difficult is it to see you are sending a ‘failure to vote’ notice to someone who DOESN’T EVEN HAVE AN ADDRESS IN YOUR ELECTORATE? Surely that would ring a dingly dangly fudging bell? Even if the imbecile belfry was empty or filled to the brim with Gloria Jean’s cappuccinos and Krazy Kreme donuts (or whatever they’re called)… surely something would twig?

Who pays the postage for these ludicrously inane notices?

We do, that’s who pays my friend.

Who pays the incompetent public servants who have wasted their time publishing and sending these silly missives?

Us, the tax payer pays, that’s who.

Gah!

On another note, does anyone know of any public servant vacancies because I reckon I’d be really good at it.

* I know.

Five Months a Mountain Girl

Alpaca Farm 

Well, we’ve been mountain dwellers for five months today.

Since arriving here in God’s own country, I’ve gone deaf in one ear, had an elderly person’s disease and lost two teeth.

Ah… healthy mountain air, eh!

I have a flannelette checked shirt and a pair of Ugg boots so all l I need is one of those ear trumpets and I’ll look like a dead set hillbilly.

I had my hearing checked the other day and not only am I very bloody deaf in my right ear, it seems my left ear is well below the normal range as well.

I thought my hearing was pretty standard so it makes me wonder if I’ve just had bad hearing all my life and didn’t know it.

It would explain my off key, hideously abhorrent singing, my ability to sleep through a category four cyclone, and the way Scotto energetically recoils every time he gets in my car and the loud radio blasts his ears off.

The ear-tester lady asked me if I'd ever been near a violent explosion in my past. "Not that I recall," I replied hesitantly. I mean... I could have. Who'd remember that?

I did have a burst ear drum when I was little, and I also had a serious, untreated case of Scarlet Fever as a child… (which is known to cause hearing damage and which did stuff up me kidneys, hello neglectful parents) and a few weeks ago I had Shingles of the FRICKIN EAR… and yet this is the first hearing test I’ve ever had in my life.

I must add, my parents are pretty deaf too these days. Maybe we were all in a violent explosion and none of us remembers?

This is a typical conversation overheard when we go over for afternoon tea on Sundays.

Dad: Have you taken the scones out of the oven, Dorrie?
Mum: What?

Dad: Have you taken the scones out of the oven?”

Mum: Have I shaken the stones out of what coven?
Dad: I SAID, HAVE YOU TAKEN THE SCONES OUT OF THE BLOODY OVEN YOU SILLY WOMAN?



Mum: “THERE’S NO NEED TO SHOUT AT ME YOU CRANKY OLD COOT!”

Five minutes later.

Dad: “THE SCONES ARE BURNING, DORRIE!”

MUM: “WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT ME YOU DODDERING OLD GIT???”

At this point, Scotto and I usually say we don't really feel like scones anyway and just a cup of tea will be fine thanks very much.

We all used to laugh at my ninety year old Granddad behind his back because he was deaf as a bloody pole. Poor Granddad.

Clearly the deafness is hereditary.

But I’m only in my fifties!

What’s the next thing to go?

God… I beg you, please don’t take my liver.

Take my ability to speak if you must. That would be a relief to many.

But PLEASE not my liver.

I need it for livery activities… like drinking wine and eating fatty cheese.

Aside from my body literally (not in a non-teenage manner of speaking but ACTUALLY) falling apart, Scotto and I have thoroughly enjoyed our time on the Gold Coast so far.

From the Lamington Mountain plateau to the ten surf clubs we’ve lunched at, it’s been a delight. I must say that the Gold Coast and its hinterland is the best part in the world I’ve ever been to.

Freezing one day...

Last weekend up at O'Reilly's 

Bikini weather the next weekend...

Rainbow Bay on Saturday

Aside from the scenery there are different exclusive shops here too, like IKEA and Aldi and Christian Louboutin and Domayne and Calvin Klein Underwear and Tiffany’s and other stuff I never go to (mainly because they’re too posh for deaf, toothless, flannelette-wearing hillbilly people).

I’ve travelled to the east and west coast of the United States, been to the Netherlands, Belgium, France and all over the United Kingdom. I’ve visited various places in Asia, but nothing compares to the Gold Coast and its hinterland.

I think we’ll be staying here.

And I can always get a hearing aid. I wonder if Aldi sells them in the middle aisle?



What’s the best place you’ve ever lived?

Who Are You According to Facebook?

So I just did a Facebook quiz which promised to tell me who I really am. I really wanted to know because I’ve always wondered who I am so I did it and I was very happy with the result. I know which Friends character/Game of Thrones character/Colour/Punctuation Mark I am… but I wasn’t sure who I really am. You know, who I REALLY am.

I knew when I was answering the questions… (particularly the one asking me if I self-tan or not) that it was just a trick to find out more about me so that ‘someone’ could target their advertising more accurately, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to know who I am.

I’m a thirtyish female.

Blonde, apparently.

I wonder why idiots such as myself have an irresistible urge to even click on these rubbish things.

Is it because we are looking for answers to the relentless and tedious journey that is our lives? Or is it because we get drunk and silly and just want a release from watching Border Patrol?

All I know is that I really wish I looked like that chick.

Anyway, three things happened this week that were quite dramatic;

1. My daughter, Lulu dropped in for a few days. The tall, skinny, filly of a girl managed to eat her way through quite a lot of food in three days, shocking and delighting my parents at the same time what with her Viking-type appetite and Amazonian presence. She’s a tooth girl that’s for sure.

2. Speaking of teeth, I visited my periodontist who said, “Relax, don’t be nervous, I won’t be doing anything today.” And then ten minutes later said, “So we’ll be pulling three of your teeth out today.” And then I lay back in the chair and sort of thought about it, and then I sat bolt upright and said, “Yeah… no. That won’t actually be happening, buddy.”

And it DIDN’T. I thought dentists were supposed to save teeth????

3. I got a proper job for a bit. Teaching a real class normal stuff. I start tomorrow so I’m sure I’ll have lots to say about it later. I put a Harmony Auburn rinse in my hair this arvo in anticipation.

I’m still deaf in one ear (which I neglected to mention in the job interview) but I bought a corporate style type of pants thing and a jacket, two new tops and a felt hat from Portmans in Harbour Town to make me appear more professional and to make up for my hearing impairment.

I’ve also been investigating a few dodgy websites on how to be a fairly good teacher.



Wish me luck for my first day tomorrow. Bleeaarrrrghhhh.

Medical History of a Wine Drinker

I finally went to a doctor on the mountain the other day because over the last few weeks I've lived with an ear that’s pretty much one hundred per cent deaf… plus I’ve had an itchy, brown spot which rudely appeared near my eye six months ago which I’ve been watching with suspicion, plus a red spot on my nose emerged which I assumed was a skin cancery thing and my nose would have to be unceremoniously removed toot sweet. 

Not that I'd miss my nose on an aesthetic basis.

But after some frantic, medico-google-research I eventually deducted I had a severe case of filthy ear wax, plus a life threatening melanoma, so I booked in for a skin check and an ear syringe job. 

No biggy...

What I didn’t know was that this doctor was one of those annoyingly ‘thorough’ types. You know, the ones who do their jobs properly and take your blood pressure and insist on blood tests and stuff.

Plus he asked me some highly personal questions about how much ‘akahol’ I drink.

I tried to remain resolute. “Three drinks a day!” I declared with a certain doe-eyed innocence.

“Every day?” his eye brow was raised as he typed the information into the manifesto. “You know that’s too much for a woman. Sometimes men drink that much because they’re… not feeling good about their life…”

“I love my life,” I retorted indignantly. “I’m not depressed. I just love the taste.”

All this time I was strongly suspecting he was doing what most doctors do and tripling the amount I admitted to drinking in his head.

I know they do that.

Good news: no skin cancer. 

Apparently my brown spot is merely a barnacle (his words).

It seems I’m growing barnacles now.

What next?

He looked in both my ear holes. No wax. My eardrums were all out there, shining like dew-encrusted mushrooms.

That’s not very good because… why am I deaf in the ear hole?

So now I have to go for hearing tests.

The deafness could indicate glue ear, nerve damage from the recent shingles attack, or maybe a brain tumour.

Surprisingly, I’m suspecting nerve damage. I feel a brain tumour is very unlikely because I haven’t had a headache for years.

I told the lovely doctor I most probably wouldn’t go for the blood tests he wanted to prescribe because I’m afraid of medical tests and doctors.

He looked a bit pissed off. “We aren’t here to hurt you, you know,” he said.

“I know,” I nodded with expert contrariness. "You doctors are all lovely." 

“Why are you afraid, then?” he asked, his face a picture of befuzzlement.

“I’m just scared of the results,” I mouthed silently.

“But that’s just silly. We can’t make you do anything,” he cajoled. “Even if your liver is shot to pieces you could still have one drink a day.”
“I know,” I agreed. “Print out the tests and we’ll see… maybe I’ll go.”

Maybe I will.


Or maybe I FUDGING WON’T.