Archive for August, 2008

Yes, it’s true… today I reveal to the blogosphere that hubby and I are expecting!

It is amazing (and quite scary) how little you know about being pregnant until you’re actually here, reading the articles, forums, and magazines.  You try and try and try and say you’re ready and then bam!, there it is and you’re left going, “Hmm, okay … umm, so what is it I’m supposed to do now?  Oh yeah, there’s a million things”. 

Anyway, to celebrate the occasion, I would like to write about a few observations from the last 15 weeks.  Some of them may be obvious to you but they are apparently not obvious to many. 


  • It may have once been, but it is no longer acceptable to touch a pregnant woman’s belly.  Pregnant women talk about this.  A lot.  The already-moms tell stories about their encounters while the first-timers, like me, plan what their reaction will be when it happens to them.  It’s true. 

My opinion:  Do I reach for your belly just because it is oversized?  Since it isn’t feasible to wear this shirt every day for the next five-and-a-half months, if you touch my belly without asking, I will either recoil in exaggerated horror or I’ll touch you inappropriately. 

Just don’t do it. 


  • Once people know you are pregnant, their eyes automatically go to your belly when you meet.  It’s a reflex that, while completely inappropriate and rude any other time, is now unstoppable. 


  • Fibre.  It’s not just for grandma anymore.  Denis Leary did a bit in No Cure for Cancer about insanely healthy people eating horkin’ fibre chunks.  Frig, he’s funny.  That’s all I can think about when I eat a bowl of my super-fibre-fied cereal now.  I know it’s not pleasant but neither is skipping that bowl of horkin’ fibre chunks. 


  • I have not had any morning sickness, aside from a twinge of nausea here and there when I let myself get hungry.  I do not tell mothers this; unless they are in that lucky minority that the pregnancy gods decided to smile on (singing angels and all), they are not likely to smile and congratulate me on this. 


  • Women love to see other women get fat.  I’s all part of that ugly cattiness that seems to exist by default between women.  Apparently pregnancy is not a exception to this rule.  That’s why some most women seem oddly interested in me “showing” (“Are you showing yet?”  “I think you’re shoooow-ing!”  “Let me see if you’re showing!”, followed by the bend over so their head is level with my stomach).  It’s creepy. 

“Umm, the baby is two inches long right now so I’m pretty sure I’m not showing”

  • Along the same lines is this, another pet peeve among pregnant women: 

Would you say the following to any woman that was not pregnant?  “You’re getting so big!”  “Wow! Are you sure it’s not twins?”  “Look at that belly!”

The answer is NO, you would not because you would get a slap across the face or a knee to the groin!  So why,pray tell, do you think it is appropriate to say this to pregnant women?  Just because we’re pregnant does not mean we throw all self-consciousness and image issues out the window!  We know we’re getting fatter and, while we know it and expect it and it’s all for the beautiful baby we are creating, hearing you say it is really the last thing we want or need.   

Just stop it.  Tell her she’s beautiful and stop there.  Even if she is as big as a bus. 


I’m sure there will be more of this to come.  I’m just figuring it all out as I go along.

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Yes.  Watching five minutes of diving does qualify me to make comments like…


  • Nope.  Synchronization was waaaay off on that one. 
  • Oooooh!  HUGE splash on that one! 
  • Terrible entry! 
  • That was definitely a miss! 
  • Idiot!  He’d have got better marks doing a swan dive! 


Okay, so I’m qualified only in my own head but that’s probably fine since I’m the only one listening to me anyway. 


Go Canada! 

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Mmm’ok… riiiiiight.  Although I like the images in the commercial and the intended sentiment, I’m so sure that Olympic athletes frequent McDonald’s. 

There really needs to be a universal symbol for sarcasm.  Or maybe just eye rolling.

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I think the camera man that covers women’s beach volleyball shoots porn the remaining 50 weeks of the year. 

Come on, you’ve thought it too.  90% of replays are of the girls falling to the sand, the camera conveniently behind them, their ‘stuff’ nicely jiggling in slow motion.  And there are just a few too many of those camera “mistakes” where the camera guy moves the camera before the shot has actually moved on to the next camera and it ends up on the girls’ bottoms. 

I bet his next work will be titled “Bumping and Digging – Olympic Style” and it will feature faceless actresses that have an uncanny resemblance to olympic athletes.   Watch for it on PPV in mid-September. 


Are the sunglasses really necessary?  The sun hasn’t shone for more than 5 minutes since the Games started and you’re wearing sunglasses?  You’re not fooling me. 


Okay, I’ll say it … do the girls’ bottoms need to be that small?  Is that a beach volleyball rule or something? 

Yeah, yeah, yeah… sporty comfort, they’re fit and don’t mind showing their asses, they don’t ride up.  Right.  The amount of picking these girls do, the volleyball term “dig” has taken on a double meaning. 

I can appreciate a fit physique as much as the next person, really I do.  But please try to understand my point… compare with me for just a moment. 

You get this: 

I get this: 


Is that fair?  Come on!  Give me a bare chest at least!  Show off those pecs!  Maybe a little more of those muscley legs?  Anything? 

You can bet very few men are actually watching the ball when the women are on the court. 

Look, even he makes my point. 

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My father grew up on a farm, complete with cows, chickens, hay, barn, tractor… yup, it was a farm. 

Every now and then my dad tells me stories from his days growing up and working on the farm, which amuses me for two reasons … I like picturing my dad as a younger version of himself and I like remembering and learning new things about my grampie (who passed away in 1993). 

This particular story should be a bona fide joke that is told in small-town pubs everywhere.  Maybe it should even be one of those e-mail forwards that those people who don’t know better forward to everyone in their address list (please stop it!). 

Instead, it is a small slice of my dad’s life. 


My grampie always kept a bull on the farm for the purposes of … well, spreading the love to the neighbor cows.  For a price, of course.  I know… pimping out bovine is not a pretty thought but that’s the way it is on farms. 

The bull of this story was young and still rather small in comparison to the cow that had come a-visitin’ on this particular day… small enough that when it came time to do the deed, he wasn’t tall enough to … ahem, climb on.  He tried and tried but she was just too tall for him to get in position and do his thing. 

My grampie looked at my dad and said, “Go get the shovel”. 

So what do you do when the guy is just a little too short to get on the girl?  You dig a hole underneath the cow’s hind legs, of course… a hole just deep enough to bring her down to his level. 

It sounds far too simple but it worked!  The bull finished his business and I’m sure it was a lovely moment for both of them. 

I picture Grampie leaning on the shovel’s handle then, chuckling, and, with laughter in his eyes, delivering the punch line: “Well, that’s the first fuckin’ hole I’ve ever had to dig…”. 


Frig, I miss him.  And I wish I knew him today.  

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Okay, so I actually live on a hill, which, a quick surf to m-w.com tells me, is the exact opposite of a dell.  And baby chicks probably aren’t considered livestock (although this I don’t know for sure).  And buying five of them probably doesn’t qualify us as farmers. 

Regardless, Brian has spent a week or two building a coop and I picked up five two-week-old chicks today and we are officially ready to raise egg-laying hens.  Fun, right? 

Not exactly the ‘farmer in the dell’ story I was going for but it’s still… er, farm-ish. 

Not that we have aspirations to be farmers; no, we simply thought it would be fun to have pet chickens and reap the benefits of fresh eggs. 

Mmm… sweet grain-fed protein. 


WordPress tells me that this post was last edited on June 20th.  You see, I wrote this post just after getting the five chicks that we named after the spice girls… ginger, scary, sporty, baby, and posh.  Hubby’s idea, by the way. 

Yes, I had this all ready to post back and was just waiting for a blog-worthy shot of the little chicks… when disaster struck. 

As you must know by now, this blog is titled for my two chocolate labs, Nelly and Maggie (do you see where I’m going with this?).  It was the chicks’ first afternoon of freedom in their new running pen and the dogs’ first afternoon with cute, feathery, and very tasty-looking neighbors.  A slight error in fencing judgment was all that was needed to bring the two to a head. 

We found only a few feathers.  I like to think that they got away but Hubby points out that the dogs were strangely less hungry for supper that night. 

So here we are with five new chicks, wondering what to name them (they MUST have names so it makes it harder for Hubby to eat them).  Any ideas?

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