Angela Barnett

Tag: Mendocino

  • 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…

  • 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…

  • 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…

  • You Know It’s Serious When 911 Calls.

    “It’s like we’re on the run except we haven’t done anything wrong,” said the Dimple, on our first night in a cheap motel. We were running, and there was a crime –shocking murder– but it wasn’t our doing. 911 called. They left a message that an armed and dangerous man was in our forest and…

  • Summer Of Lovin’ And Not Being A Dick.

    When a couple of eight-year-old mouthy boys starting fighting around my four-year-old, I watched intently –through the camera lens– to monitor exactly when I needed to sprint over and save him. Bob, unaware the big boys could pummel him to a pancake, put a hand on each arm and commanded, ‘Freeze!’ It has been his…