Angela Barnett

Writer. Wig Wearer. Speakerupperer

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Fitful writer. Over Enthusiastic Dancer. Speakerruper

Author: Angela Maree Barnett

  • 14 Uncomfortable Things To Know About Moving Countries With Young Children

    14 Uncomfortable Things To Know About Moving Countries With Young Children

    Advice lists are annoying. I never read them. Or guidebooks, instruction manuals and tags about how to wash clothes. I never read anything about moving a young family across continents because I am the kind of person that doesn’t want to know and then, when I’m in the thick of it, wonder why on earth…

  • Trying Not To Screw Up The Daughter

    When I overheard a friend talk about how beautiful our daughter was on New Year’s Eve, she looked at me like it was an affliction. “She’s more than three-year-old cute,” she said, the whites of her eyes large with pity. “She’s classically beautiful.” Oh dear. Not the classically beautiful daughter. We all know where that’s…

  • Slotting – Kind Of Like Slutting But Not Really.

    Gazing at friends on the red carpet at The Hobbit premiere in New Zealand, I felt strangely envious. Facebook is a bitch sometimes, showing me where I’m not. I LIKED those pictures with a thumbs up, but I didn’t actually like it at all. It made me hanker for my old hood in Wellington. Instead,…

  • Does My Butt Look Big In This Continent?

    If it all turns to crap I’ll go help the poor hungry people in Africa. That’s what I used to think. My trusty back up plan. Africa laughed at such a notion. If it has all turned to crap then please don’t bring your shit here. We don’t need any more. Many folk think they…

  • I’ll Take High-Fructose Corn Syrup Fuelled Candy, Thanks.

    Somebody should rename Halloween, Hell-o-weed; that’s what the Mums need to get through it. The PRESSURE. Especially in the United States of Constant Reasons to Decorate The house. The kids start talking about who they’re going as in July. Then there’s the changing of mind period which lasts all of August, September and most of…

  • No. Everything Is Not Awesome.

    Recently, somebody told the Dimple he was awesome for driving our kids to school. Like, wow man, you actually got in the car and like, buckled up, then put it into drive and you know, drove there. If that’s awesome then what’s making out at the top of the Empire State Building at 10pm when…

  • The Day My Heart Strutted Off Without Me.

    “Why didn’t you and Daddy call me Luke Skywalker?” has been Bob’s question lately. A tricky one to answer, because son, we wouldn’t want the crap beaten out of you. Star Wars is Bob’s first addiction. Initially we were baffled how he even knew about Darth Vader and R2D2, not being frequent visitors to our…

  • Nature, that place where large birds fly about, uncooked.*

    Gardening, I always thought, was for old ladies suffering from Empty Nest Syndrome; they miss watching children grow so plant sunflowers instead. With a track record of owning plants that committed suicide I expected to become a fusty gardener around 68. Having prided myself on always having a good title: Vodka Strumpet, Ad Slut, PR…

  • An Utterly Terribly Horribly Awful Brain Fart

    Mother’s Day began with my first tick bite, which is not in any way like the love bite I was expecting. The woods are full of deer ticks right now, carriers of Lyme disease with startling symptoms like facial paralysis – whilst tempting with no Botox clinics in the forest, other muscles and the brain…

  • Mean Girls has got nothin’ on our chickens.

    On our second night with six baby chicks, we couldn’t hear the TV. “Can you turn down the chickens,” said the Dimple. Peering into their box I found blood down the spine of one of them and the brood kept pecking the same bloody spot like it was pasta carbonara. I believe I squealed. Tedium…

  • It’s wader, Mom, not water.

    Last month, as we stood under the carved archway dividing Duty Free and NZ Customs listening to Haere Mai, I felt overcome with emotion. That silly happy song I’ve never given two hoots about before was making me feel nostalgic for my country. Home. Bob and the ‘Dactyl watched some loutish lads pose underneath the…

  • The Cabin

    When you die, Mummy, we’re going to put you in bags and eat you,” said our four-year-old. He had just seen what happened to the pigs: they arrive, we feed them, they die and come back in small packages labeled Chops, Ribs and Jowls. After seeing a dead fox last week Bob’s been obsessed with…

  • I Said A Kitten, Not A Baby.

    “I can’t smell the cunt!” said our daughter, feeling left out. We could all smell it. There’s nothing like the pong of freshly killed skunk. Being only two she still struggles with her ks and sks. Her parents, being only four, find it hilarious. The Dimple didn’t realize a family of skunks had built a…

  • I’m Strangely Obsessed With Seeing A Bear.

    We’ve got new neighbours. They’re big, black, hairy and often scary. Ursus Americanus (Black Bears) are lurking in our woods. Bears used to hang around here but were hit hard by the recession. What with recycling and composting it’s slim pickings at Camp for food scraps these days. Word in the woods is that they…

  • Even Murderers Were Five Year Old Boys Once.

    It’s over. The Murderer is dead. For once, I understand the rush media must feel, chasing a story that keeps getting more extraordinary. Crazed murderers who think they are starring in their own Rambo movie don’t come along every day – especially in your own back yard. We, the homeless ones, drifted back to Fort…