… Bad movies about giant bugs

… A twice-decorated Christmas tree

… Tae-bo to the ribs

… A hyper three year old singing Pink’s “Na na na na na na na … I want to start a fight” around the Christmas tree

… Mushy lasagna (served at an office Christmas party)

… Ladders and flashing and freezing cold weather

… My aunt’s husband answering “preddinear” when trying to explain whether Michael Jackson was black or white (during a game of Cranium on Christmas Eve)

… My virgin heartburn experience (boooo)

… The Nintendo Super Mario Brothers theme song.  (There.  Now I’m not the only one with this constantly running through my head!)

… Visions of nursery decor flashing through my head

… Teary-eyed Jingle Bells

… Sliding off the ice rink  road into a snowbank on boxing day


These are just a few highlights from our Holidays.  Of course there were some more normal moments involving turkey and egg nog but … well, they’re no fun to read about at! 

Happy New Year!


Yay… snow day!


I couldn’t get to work today if I wanted to!  The drift behind the car is nearly as tall as the drift around the front… and I haven’t even ventured out to see how bad the rest of the driveway is drifted. 

More coming on Wednesday … yay! 

My mother… God love ‘er. 

She does really well at keeping up with everything current, despite living in our little speck on the map all of her life.  I think having two grown daughters makes her a little more watchful of the trends and goings on. 

But this is rural New Brunswick:  the land of meat and potatoes; farmer’s country; where the dividing social line is whether or not your half-ton is a 4×4; where people hook up satellite tv not to broaden their viewing horizons but to have the option of watching the same CBS shows at 10 different time slots a day. 

Yes, this is still Carleton County and sometimes even my SuperWoman mom can’t hide her roots. 


After having lunch yesterday, we were driving through the town I work in, chatting about something.  Mom glanced over at me, looked past me, and interrupted herself mid-sentence to exclaim, “Well look!  There goes a midget!”. 

I was a bit taken aback by the statement but was also giggling at how “redneck” it is to be shocked at the sight.  

In a scolding tone, I said, “MOM!  They prefer to be called ‘little people’!”. 

And she replied, “Okay, well … there goes a little midget!”


I’m still not sure if she said it to be funny or if she really wasn’t getting my drift but, either way, it made me laugh. 

(Sorry if that offends… that wasn’t my intention)

Last night we attended the annual Christmas party for Hubby’s workplace (I used to work there too).  We don’t get invited to many parties and this one is usually really fun so I was excited to get out.  People seem to really let loose at this party and usually I am right there with them, dancing like a fool, spilling drinks on people, and yakking it up with people I haven’t seen in a while. 

<Insert reminder that I am 30 weeks pregnant>

It was still a good time but last night it became very clear to me how much of a social lubrication alcohol is for me.  This was certainly a different experience than it has been in past years. 

See, watching drunk people is all fine and good.  We laughed at dance styles, raised our eyebrows at the antics of the reeeally drunk, and commented on women bouncing up and down in dresses that were either way too short or way too low, threatening to reveal bits of themselves in Janet style.  Yes, we had some good laughs at other people’s expenses (oh come on… you do it too). 

Yes, watching drunkenness seems to be fine; it’s when the drunkenness comes to your table to chat you up that you really notice the difference between being lubed up (socially, I mean) and not.  Being 30 weeks pregnant is a magnet on the best of days but when you add copious amounts of alcohol and, in some cases, other stimulants, the pregnant belly seems to be a beacon that calls to the drunk like bad TV calls to Rosie O’Donnell. 

Numerous people touched my belly (I’ve found that I can be a little flexible with this and make exceptions for some but I’m talking about people that I barely know).  I was spit on by people leaning in close to talk to me over the blaring music.  When I wasn’t being spit on, hot little puffs of air travelled from people’s mouths and landed on my cheek with what seemed like a thud.  I was hugged by my husband’s boss just after he spit on me and just before he awkwardly offered me a job.  I even had someone cup my chin with their hand and squeeze my cheeks.  Yes, I’m serious… could I make that shit up? 

Anyway, I do realize that these things happen every year and that I am just lubed up enough to not notice them.  And overall it was a fine time because I enjoy catching up with people.  But I do find myself already looking forward to next year’s party when I will once again be self-lubed and a little more forgiving of (or oblivious to) the spitty-talking, hugging, dance-on-the-table masses. 

But for now, hand me that glass of ice water, would you?

So amid the constant flurry of all things related to pregnancy, curling club, choir, piano lessons, and just plain ole life, the ole blog has unfortunately fallen down on the list of priorities the last couple of months. 

But fear not for I bring you tidings of great joy. 

I’ve decided that December is the month for re-connecting and what better time to do it… Christmas is a-foot (or maybe a-stocking?), winter is upon us, and I am now 29 weeks pregnant… all of which makes for great blog fodder. 

So to kick things off, I give you what has been my favorite Christmas carol for as long as I can remember.  Remember the California Raisins Christmas special on TV?  Yeah, me neither… except for this one sketch.  I always got a kick out of these frigging bells and it turns out I still do … I laughed through the whole thing.  The dumb bell actually reminds me of a few people I know (“I lost mine”… hee hee!). 

While we’re on the topic, what was with the California Raisins anyway?!  I don’t remember ever really caring about them except for this one show but they had their stint didn’t they?  What kicked off their popularity and, more puzzling, what retained their popularity?  Did they have names?  Anyway, here is an additional bonus clip of the raisins themselves. 

On this, the last long weekend before Christmas, I only managed to get half of the things marked off of my “to do” list. 

“Houseclean the bedroom” – Check.

“Finish curtains for nursery” – Check

“Day of family time with “lives far away” sister-in-law and her brand spanking new baby Lucy” – Check

“Do the same bloody laundry and housework that I do every week and that keeps me from ever getting anything new done” – Check


Mind you, that is not a complete list, only the highlights.  It’s a bit disheartening to get so little done over a four-day weekend, especially when you have a nursery to build in three months with Christmas being smack in the middle.  However, I do frequently remind myself that I am 26 weeks pregnant and that accomplishing anything is pretty good when tying your shoes is becoming slightly problematic.  I wonder how I’ll manage when I am two months bigger.  Yikes. 

Despite the lingering to-do list, we did have an exciting turn of events here in good ole Dell, NB

Eggs!  Yes, eggs from our yet-to-be-named chickens. 


(Do not adjust your screens.  Two of those eggs are blue.)


Of course, this has gone straight to hubby’s head…


… but I suppose that’s okay since he does all the feeding and cleaning. 

‘Omelette a la Free Range’ will be a frequent menu item at Casa Dell (yes, I have noticed the clash of languages there) … hopefully I can tear hubby away from cheering on the chickens long enough to comment.

I have mentioned before that hubby and I decided to try our hand at hobby farming by purchasing five chicks to use for their eggs. 

Things are going quite well, although hubby deserves all of the credit.  I pretty much just observe them from afar while he keeps them watered and fed and continues to renovate their coop for the coming winter. 

For quite a while now – since the birds started looking like adults and not chicks – there has been one bird that has looked just a little different than the others.  See that extra little “waddle” under the chin?  We weren’t really sure what to make of this but knew that we had time to ponder the anomaly since the birds aren’t mature enough for egg production until at least November. 

Since we have time, let me back up a little to when the little chicks were purchased.  Hubby found an article in the local ‘buy and sell’ paper.  A few weeks later we drove up to this modified trailer that is surrounded by junk that lies on grass that hasn’t seen a mower all year.  (Let me clarify the word ‘modified’ … I don’t mean ‘modified for the better’.  I mean that the trailer had a two-room wooden porch built on the front of it many years ago that is now half fallen down, has holes in the floor, and is full of greasy, smelly junk.Oh, and chicks.  Lots and LOTS of chicks.)

I knocked on the door and this old guy comes out, bent over and limping and with eyebrows arched to the ceiling in suspicion.  I mean, he’s keeping a really close eye on me.  Once he realized why I was there, he entered the back room of the porch to get the chickens that I wanted.  He would pick them out of their cage one by one, turn them over, look at the ball of feathers, and either put them in the box I was taking or grunt and say something like, “I think that one’s a rooster”. 

Very scientific indeed. 

So here we are, many months later, wondering if that one odd-looking chicken just naturally looks a little different than his siblings or if it is, in fact, a rooster.  All wondering came to an end this morning with an IM sent by hubby first thing this morning:

“It is confirmed.  I heard some loud cock-a-doodle-doos this morning as I was walking to the garage.”


You might think this is not the end of the world … and obviously it’s not … but it does mean actual chickens where the eggs for breakfast are supposed to be.  I imagine our neighbors are not likely to find the novelty in early rooster crowing for long either. 

Chances are we will have to get rid of this bird and we’re not quite sure how to do it.  Yeah, the actual mechanics of it are pretty straightforward (axe meets rooster) but going from scrambled-egg-lover to chicken slayer is a pretty big leap. 

If the course of action involves an axe-wielding hubby, I just hope he doesn’t fight back.