Guest Post Sunday – Pinky Poinker

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Enjoy following the hilarious and terrifying misadventures of the humorous real life stories of Pinky and her progeny!

Anecdotal evidence that owning too many animals, dealing with too many teenagers and being a primary school teacher sends you mad and makes you write silly poems.

Visit her blog here.

I had a minor altercation with my husband last night. We were listening to our music stream with a white wine in hand and a pizza in the oven. I held the remote control and enthusiastically wielded it like a conductor’s wand at the television screen.

“Stop changing the songs, Pinky!” he yelled suddenly.

“Don’t yell at me!” I responded in soft, dulcet tones with perhaps a teeny-tiny edge in my voice.

“I wasn’t yelling!” he bellowed. “Every time a good song comes on you change it with the remote. I wanted to listen to that.”

That’s the trouble with being married to a man ten years younger you see. I’ve had ten years longer than him to become sick and tired of “We’re the Kids in America”.

“What are you whinging about Pinky?” I hear you shouting. “You’re married to a young stud, a virile buck, you cradle snatcher, you! You can train ‘em better when they’re young, wink, wink!”

But there are other snakes slithering around in the undergrowth of our loved up paradise which occasionally raise their ugly heads. Little issues arising from the decade of disparity between us.
For example, we had ‘words’ the other day about who “owns” the Eighties.

I was in my twenties in the Eighties; living the life of Reilly in Sydney, running up my Bankcard, watching the Band Aid live concert on the telly with my flatmates, wearing leg warmers with my boots and sporting a mullet in the early part of the decade. Getting married and having my first baby took up the later part when nappies, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and 1927 were on the popular culture menu. Clearly the Eighties were mine.

Scotto, on the other hand, argued that it was a much more formative time for him as he was ten years old when it started and managed to survive those heady, Ghost-busting, Pac-Man, Nintendo years growing into a teenager.
The crux of my argument lies in the fact that the Brat Pack… Judd, Emilio, Rob, Demi, Ally, Mare, Andrew and the gang were the unquestionable icons of the Eighties and they were the same age as me… so therein lies the proof… I own the Eighties.

Another irritating aspect of being married to a younger man is his insatiable appetite… for food I mean. The manner in which he is able to eat an entire pizza week after week and not gain a milligram of weight because he religiously executes a mingy ten push-ups every two days leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

Meanwhile, menopausal Pinky merely has to sit beside him as he’s wolfing down a Quattro Formaggio and instantly gains five centimetres on her midriff and three extra kilograms.

What happened with growing old and fat together?

Damn his youthful metabolism. Damn his boyish dimples and wash board stomach.

I only have one consolation, one small but important feature which has up until now prevented the most heinous of scenarios occurring. The scenario I refer to is when one day, Scotto answers our front door and someone asks him if his Mum is home.

My small consolation? He is losing his hair. In fact he’s losing quite a lot of it. Thank the Lord for male pattern baldness, eh?

What is the age gap between you and your beloved?