The only thing I regret about 2015 is not sorting out the three hairs on my chin. I can’t remember when they sprouted but they are dark and boingy and not something any smooth-faced person wants anywhere near her chops. When we lived in California I went to a laser doctor who promised smooth baby-bottom … More The Tragedy Of Getting Old Is That You Still Feel 28 In Your Head.
Always leave on a high. That’s what Great Aunt Hazel advised when I was a young strumpet. ‘No matter how great the party, leave at the peak, don’t wait until it’s all over.’ It’s a tough motto because what if there’s another fabulous conversation to be had, witty line to inhale or person to flirt … More The Grass Is Officially Greener
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 … More 14 Uncomfortable Things To Know About Moving Countries With Young Children
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, … More Slotting – Kind Of Like Slutting But Not Really.
“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 … More The Day My Heart Strutted Off Without Me.
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 … More Nature, that place where large birds fly about, uncooked.*
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 … More An Utterly Terribly Horribly Awful Brain Fart
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 … More It’s wader, Mom, not water.
“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 … More I Said A Kitten, Not A Baby.
I love being a New Zealander, but after listening to a lift full of Auckland Grammar school girls in Hawaii, last week, I finally admitted I speak fonny. My kiwi twang –the kwang– sounds lazy, as if my tongue is allergic to vowels. My great, great English grandparents are to blame; they lost some semantics … More I Forgot To Pack My Diphthongs
