Go! Go! Go!

If for some reason you're not redirected to the new site, please go to www.barnabasmonkeypants.com for all the updated excitement.

Near Misses

(Not yet.)

Kristen loves me. At least she says she loves me (and I'm taking her word for it, because without her love, I'm pretty much sunk). But as much as she loves me and trusts me to do the right thing, there are still plenty of times that she has to make sure that I actually do the right thing.

For example, I've been trying to post on this blog at least 4 times a week for the past couple of months. Even though Barnabas is still stubborn and keeping glued to Kristen's innards, there are plenty of other things that happen to our lives. Unfortunately, a lot of those things that I think would be great to share with you, the Barnabas-loving public, are not things that Kristen wants shared. These are mostly funny stories about strange things that happen when you're pregnant. (And when I say strange, I mean strange.)

So that time when Kristen... oh, wait. I can't write that.

Or that time when I... nope, that's verboten, too.

See? See what I mean? All those funny stories, forever locked in my brain, just begging to be released on a weekend furlough. And why? Because Kristen wants a little bit of decorum. Darn her and her common sense!

Well, here's one very short story for today. Yesterday, Kristen called me in the afternoon and in the middle of the conversation, she casually mentions that she almost tripped and fell while crossing the street.

Of course, I go into my overly protective mode. "Are you okay? What happened? Are you hurt?"

Kristen's fine, you see, because she didn't trip, she didn't fall. She almost tripped. And while all's well with her, I nearly had a heart attack. We quickly came to the conclusion that my heart cannot stand "almosts," and that unless she actually does trip (which is never, ever going to happen, got it?), she is not allowed to tell me of close calls.

The same thing will go for Barnabas. Babies and toddlers are always getting into something they shouldn't and are always grabbing at things they shouldn't or putting things in their mouth that they shouldn't or falling or tripping or whatnot. It happened to you and me and will happen to Barnabas. But those thousands of close calls that could possible end in bruises or scratches or (heaven forbid) broken fingers will never be spoken of until he turns at least 15. Then, and only then, will be lay everything out and see how he nearly was in traction every day of his life.

And boy will that be a long blog post.

The Girl Who Cried Wolf

(No baby yet.)

Now, with that out of the way, I have a funny story for you.

As much of an egomaniac this blog may make me seem, I am pretty humble. Honest. Here's an example. For the past year, I've been taking writing classes at the Second City Training Center, which is the school attached to the comedy group's theater. For the past couple of months, my class has been preparing a show (titled, lovingly, "The Devil Went Down to Denny's"). Opening night was Friday.

I don't know how I feel about the show. I think parts of it are funny, and I'm proud of what I wrote (I suppose), but it's not as if it was produced on merit. My fellow students and I finished the program and Second City was obligated to do this for us.

So it opened on Friday, but nobody I know came (probably because I didn't tell anyone the show's specifics, such as the all important "when" and "where"). But Kristen got mad at me because I haven't been talking about it, so here it is:

If you want to go to the show, it's every Friday at 9 PM at Second City (which is on the corner of Wells and North Ave in Chicago). Tickets cost $10. The show lasts an hour, and there are at least a couple of laughs somewhere.

That's not the funny story, however. After the show, we had a post-opening celebration at a bar across the street. All the writers and actors and the director went, and we all had a drink or two (or in many cases three or four). Now I'm not a drinker. I often tell the story of how when we moved into our last apartment the landladies gave us a bottle of champagne. When we moved out three years later, we took the champagne with us. Also, I wasn't really going to drink much because Kristen was at home, 9 months pregnant, so I wasn't going to do anything that could impair my ability to drive like a maniac to the hospital if necessary.

So I had one beer. (A $6 beer, by the way, which never makes me happy. That's lunch, people!) I got home at around 11:30 (Kristen was already asleep), and went to bed.

Here's the funny part (finally, right?). At about 6 the next morning, I feel a poke at my stomach. I wake up, and Kristen is standing there next to the bed.

"I need you to come with me," she says.

This is it! It's go time! Go! Go! Go! So I jump out of bed (as much as I can on a Saturday morning, a morning after I had that one beer), and follow her.

"Are you having contractions? Did your water break? Are you okay? Is it go time?"

No, not go time. She just wants me to look at the cat litter box. Because it smells really bad. And she wants me to do something about it.

At 6 in the morning.

This is not the first "false alarm" from Kristen. Last night, for example, I woke up at around 3 to see her sitting up in bed. Go time, you'd think, right? No, she was just eating some peanut butter crackers. Last week, I was in the living room and she calls out to me, "Raphe, come here. I need you." I go rushing into the bathroom to find that she's run out of toilet paper and needs me to get her another roll out of the hall closet.

Does she not know what every call across the apartment signals? Or that her sitting up in the middle of the night eating crackers could mean something?

The one good thing about this, though, is that I'm ready. Ready as I'll ever be.

I think.

Is This All There Is?

Sometimes you wait for something for so long, and when it finally arrives, it's just not as good as you'd hoped. All that anticipation, all that build up, and then blah.

So earlier... wait. Did you think I was talking about Barnabas? You cads! Of course I wasn't.

It's the ice cream, people! The ice cream.

It was kind of gummy, not very tasty, and it was made by a racist. I'd give it a 5 out of 10, which is pretty low for ice cream.

(Still no Barnabas. We may try spicy foods tonight.)

I Scream, You Scream

Kristen is at the point where she's going to the doctor's every week so they can check on her progress. Today was this week's day, and there really isn't anything new. There may be some dilation, but maybe not. It could be today, or it could stretch all the way out until August 23, when she'd have to be induced. (I wasn't there, but I can only imagine the look on Kristen's face when her doctor said the 23rd.)

The fact that we don't really know when it's happening has made me not put up a countdown clock like some had suggested. I mean, I could do it for the 15th, her due date, but what if it comes and goes and nothing. That "0 days" would be flashing at me every time I logged in, and that'd be no fun.

She's ready to go any time, and I'm ready, too. Of course, I'd like her to wait just one more day. Why, you ask? Why do you want your wife to have to suffer carrying around Barnabas one more day?

Let me explain.

My office is in a high-rise in downtown Chicago, and every high-rise I've ever worked in always has two "parties" for tenants each year. One, around Christmas where they break out the hot chocolate and cookies, and the other in the summer, where they offer ice cream (which is usually just a crummy ice cream sandwich).

People talk about these events as if they're the high holy days. Free cookies? Free ice cream? Where? When?

(In fact, I'm often baffled at any type of free food event downtown. Every once in a while, businesses offer some sort of giveaway -- a free small beverage, a free taco, a free scoop of ice cream -- and people flock to get the stuff. However, the lines involved are usually ridiculously long. But people are willing to wait 20, 30, even 40 minutes. I don't understand why people want to wait 40 minutes so they can get something that usually costs $2. Is your time worth so little? It's just a taco, man!)

Anyway, Kristen's building had their free food even a couple of weeks ago, and I was still waiting for mine. That is, until Monday, when walking through the lobby, I saw the signs.

"Please Join Us In The Lobby For Ice Cream This Thursday From 1 to 3 PM"

Yes! Ice cream! Free ice cream! (And free stuff that I won't have to stand in line for more than 3 minutes for!)

Of course, my ice cream dreams would crumble if Kristen would go into labor before then. So I've asked her -- nicely -- if she wouldn't mind holding off until 1:15 on Thursday. If she feels a twinge tomorrow morning, I told her to just cross her legs and let it ride for a couple of hours. I wanted her to talk to her doctor about this today, but she seemed less than enthusiastic about bringing it up, but if anyone knows anything about free ice cream, it would be a doctor, no? I mean, all that schooling has to teach you something, no?

Funnel Cake > Funnel Cloud

As far as weather goes, Chicago is a strange city.

It's not that windy (contrary to its nickname), although a good breeze off the lake is common. It's cold in the winter, but we don't get much snow (the lake effect usually hits Indiana and Michigan much worse). It's hot in the summer, however I wouldn't say it's that much worse than New Jersey or Pennsylvania where I've lived in the past.

It's typical of the Midwest, I think, except for one thing:

We don't get tornadoes.

Much of Illinois, Missouri, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, even Wisconsin and Minnesota have more than a few tornadoes touch down each year. It's one of the scariest weather-related happenings I can think of (and this is coming from someone who lived through a pretty rough hurricane), mostly because there is no real way to predict its path or whether or not it'll even materialize. Hurricanes, snow storms, thunderstorms... there's usually a path involved. Sure, things can veer off at the last minute, but in most cases, you have time to board up your windows or, inevitably, run to the grocery store to get gallons of milk and bread.

(I love that. Every winter, when a big storm is forecast, you can't get near the bread aisle without being knocked over by some crazed woman grabbing the last 8 loaves of Wonder. I mean, do people eat that much bread? What about crackers? Or fruit? Of all things you'd want to feed your stranded family, I can think of a lot more interesting and tasty foods to give them.)

Anyway, tornadoes. While certainly Chicago is as likely to get hit by one as any other city in the Midwest, I don't really think about them. And in the 7 years I've lived here, there never has been a significant threat.

Until last night. At around 8 o'clock, the sky opened up and rain came pouring straight down. It was coming in buckets -- the hardest rain I've seen in forever. Then, the tornado sirens started blaring and emergency notices started to take over the television. So, in yet another fit of protection gone mad, I made Kristen go down to the basement.

We never made it completely to the basement, though, as we sat on the bottom stoop of the back stairway -- which is covered but outside -- and we watched the rain and lightening and listened to the loud cracks of thunder. At the first sign of a green sky or a whooshing noise, I was ready to carry her the last few steps down to the basement, but luckily it never came to that.

(There was talk of a tornado hitting two towns which border Chicago and are only about 40 blocks west of us: Park Ridge and Lincolnwood [mostly known for where we bought the crib mattress]. I'm not sure if there was any confirmation however.)

Later, I had to drive downtown to go to my class (a late run-through of a show that I've written something for), and although the rain had stopped on my drive in, it started up again when I was coming home, so much so that I had to pull over to the side of the road and sit for a while. I also had to make a U-turn in the middle of the street to avoid being submerged under water).

Of course, as all this was happening, from the first storm at 8 to my class to the rainy drive home at midnight, was the thought that this was the night, that somehow, on the most rainy, stormy night of our Chicago lives, we'd have to find our way to the hospital or get stuck on Lake Shore Drive and have some fireman deliver the baby.

Although I can't wait for Barnabas to arrive, I'm pretty happy that it didn't happen like that.

Bob Vila on Line 3

Kristen and I bought our condo just over two years ago. For the most part, it was move-in ready, although we did do some painting and wallpapering. For the first 18 months or so, all the work we'd dome was mostly minor -- barely cosmetic.

However, since things started ramping up for Barnabas, we've been going nuts. We painted two rooms. Reorganized offices, guest rooms, and storage lockers. Yard saled. Constructed countless pieces of furniture. Framed and hung pictures. Bought rugs. And even had time to play with the cats. Sleep, on the other hand...

And, except for one or two things, the place really looks great (if I don't say so myself). There are still some things that have to get done that I cannot do (that ceiling fan in the dining/family room has to get hung by a professional and we have to get rid of that radiator in the guest room which I'll need help with), but I think overall we're ready.

Preparation is not easy.

It's a good thing that after the baby comes, everything will be a piece of cake.

Right, honey?

867-5309 JENNY!

First off, my apologies to our "fan," Caroline, who lives not in Grays but in Colchester, a good 40 miles away. All was not bad, however, as I was able to cancel my Grays Athletic t-shirt and replace it with a Colchester United -- The U's -- order.

I'm hoping that Caroline can start our first satellite fan club in Essex in the near future, and I'll be keeping everyone posted on her progress.

So, last night we packed Kristen's bags for the hospital. We have been putting it off for a while, instead doing other important chores such as eating ice cream and giving and receiving foot rubs, but at around 9 last night, Kristen felt some... rumbling.

Well, rumbling isn't really the proper word. More of odd feelings in her lower abdomen -- like a cramp -- and tinglings in her legs. I don't think I have to tell you that I was ready to drive to the hospital! Instead, we looked on the Internet and poured through all 142 baby books to see what was happening.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), they were just some Braxton-Hicks contractions (or false labor), and although they were uncomfortable and made falling asleep a chore, and Kristen's still pregnant. But we decided that the next strange feeling may not be a warning, and we got to packing.

We had everything on our list except for two things. The first was a pacifier (or two or three), and we'll be heading off to buy some tonight. The second was phone numbers.

Here's the thing. I'm sure some of you want to know when Kristen gives birth. And while the national news will likely take a few hours to pick it up and break into your prime time television programs, you want to know right away. Right?

So, here it goes. E-mail me or Kristen (or Caroline is Colchester if you're one of our European fans), and give us your cell phone or home phone number or whatever means you want to hear about this. I'll probably post something here (with a picture or two), but it won't be right away (or, really, any time soon).

If it's by cell phone, you'll get a text. It will likely say how big he is, what time he was born, what skin tone he has (I'm thinking he'll be an Autumn, but Kristen's sure he'll be a Spring), and the Swiss bank account number we've opened in his name (Legos aren't cheap).

If it's a regular phone, you'll get a 20 second call, but no bank numbers (the nurses might overhear).

Got it? Send me or Kristen your information, even if you're pretty sure we already have it. Doesn't matter. We just want all of it available in the same place so if I have to use my cell and not hers, there won't be any confusion.

And no 900 numbers. Perverts.

The Gravelmen

A couple of weeks ago, I added a counter to the blog. Along with telling me how many hits we get a day, it also says where the people are that are visiting.

I'm not sure why I did it, but it's interesting to see how many people read this every day. For the most part, there are about 20 hits a day from about 10 different people. They cluster around Chicago (for obvious reasons) and the East Coast (for other obvious reasons). If I see someone from Deerfield, Illinois, I assume that it's one of my former co-workers at a pharmaceutical company. If I see a hit from Brighton, Massachusetts, I assume it's our friend Jodi. If it's Austin, it's our friend Ryan.

Boring, I know. But whatever. Here, however, is where it gets interesting.

Look up at the top of the page. See what's right next to "Flag Blog" and "Search Blog"? It's a "Next Blog" icon. What Blogger (the service I use) does is they randomly choose a recently updated blog to be that "Next Blog". I assume it only lasts for about an hour or so -- until it randomly chooses something else -- but it's sort of an interesting look at what people are talking about throughout the world.

When you click on it, it can send you to blogs created all over the world. When I just clicked on it now, I got something from a writer in Argentina. I clicked again, and it was Wisconsin. I clicked one more time, and it was the Netherlands.

Well, on Saturday morning, I checked to see how many visitors we had on Friday, and I was astounded to see 50. Fifty! I felt like people actually started to like me! That all those friends and family members who had shunned us had let bygones be bygones. When I looked to see where they were coming from, though, it was strange. Brazil. Florida. Singapore. California. Places where we don't know many people -- if any. But then I realized, for an hour or so, Barnabas Monkeypants was chosed to be the "Next Blog"!

My excitement quickly abated, however. Most of the people clicked on the blog, read a sentence or two, and quickly went on their fine way. Two people read a couple of posts, but most realized that they really didn't care about me and my baby-related neuroses.

But then there was that one person, a visitor from Grays, Thurrock, United Kingdom. (Where is that, you ask? I didn't know either, but I looked it up and found out it's a small town about 25 miles east of London, right on the Thames.) This person clicked 9 times.

Nine times!

How exciting was that! They were interested enough to spend a good half hour reading up on someone they didn't know from Adam. They went back and read from the start of the blog, I'm sure pausing occasionally to compare my prose style to that of classic writers such as Thomas Hardy, Charles Dickens, and Stan Lee. It was nice, in that small way, to be appreciated by a complete stranger.

Here's the thing: on Saturday, they returned. They checked in to see if I had written anything new.

And Sunday, they were back.

Monday? You guessed it.

So, I'm now proud to say, Barnabas Monkeypants has its first fan. I'm thinking about starting a club, maybe printing t-shirts. Sure, it'll be slow at first, but by next year, I bet we can double our fan base to 2. The year following, I'm confident that there will be another growth spurt to 3, 4, or, possibly, 5. (Yes, yes, dear. I know. I'm getting a bit ahead of myself.)

You know what 5 fans means? A convention!

I guess what I'm trying to say is this changes everything. Pretty soon we'll be splashing the site with advertising, charging a subscription to read, and maybe even branching off into books, television, and film.

And, years from now, when you complain about all this and say "I read it when", you only have one person to blame.

Our fan in Grays, Thurrock, United Kingdom.

To you, fan, I hope you're proud of yourself.

(Note: The Gravelmen is the nickname of the local football club, Grays Athletic. I'm planning on ordering a t-shirt.)

Guerilla Marketing

Okay. Another pithy, "Wow-I've-never-heard-that-before!" statement:

Having a baby is expensive.

It's almost like opening up a store. (Ah, retail as a simile for parenting.) The start-up costs are huge. You have to buy fixtures (crib, dresser), gussy the place up (painting), stock up your merchandise before the first customer comes in the store (onesies, bedding, toys), and advertise (this blog [which doesn't cost anything, per se, but it does take up some of my time]).

And then, when you finally have your grand opening, people flock to the store and buy stuff.

Okay, the metaphor ends there, but after all the things that we've bought (and have been bought for us), we don't really have to buy anything else for a while -- except for diapers and other poop-related products. It's more of a wait and see so that maybe we'll need this or we definitely don't need that or I can't believe we ever lived without the other.

Either way, our bank account will be happy once we stop having to buy everything in preparation and start raking in the bucks (remember, we're selling photo rights).

When Weeks Go by Like Days

Just over a month ago, we had our baby shower (you can read about it here if you haven't already), and because we're so on the ball, I'm finally posting a few pictures for you who weren't there to see (and for you who were there to say "Look at that stain on my pants!").

We held the party in the back patio of our building, and we had just enough chairs (with me and our friend J.-P. standing about most of the day) for everyone to sit down. For the most part, this summer has been great weather-wise (with only a few really hot days), and this was no exception. (I don't know if you can see it, but the deviled eggs are on the table there. I ate 2.)


Our friend Katia really did a bang-up job of organizing the shower, and here she is with her really cute daughter, Zoe. (Katia informed me that Barnabas will likely have to take Zoe to her senior prom 17 years from now, so I'm having Kristen start the designs on the corsage this weekend.)


Of course, there were two other little girls there, Lily and Eva, who will also have their eye on the monkey in the years to come. There will be some tears, I'm sure, but in the end, they'll all be great friends. At least on Facebook.

We got a lot of really nice gifts from everyone, and our friend Rob (whose wife, Jenny, just had a baby 10 days ago, sure to be Barnabas' best pal), took some pictures of them. Actually, he took all of the pictures (and well, too), but because he's an Art Director, he felt compelled to better compose all of the bags, boxes, packages, and ribbons on the gift table. Jenny just shook her head. That's what wives do, I think. Watch their husbands do silly things and then shake their head.


Either way, I think he did a great job.

So that's it.

And if you still haven't gotten your thank-you card, they're on their way. I'm serious. Really.

Tick Tock

I have no clue what more has to be done in preparing for Barnabas. We're just waiting.

Everything is set. The painting, the constructing, the washing and folding.

Right now, the only thing that we need is Barnabas, and unlike most of the packages we get in the mail, there is no tracking number. Kristen went to the doctor's yesterday for her now-weekly checkup, and there is no change width or thickness or size or any of the strange ways doctors measure how soon someone should be giving birth.

So although Kristen would really like to have the monkey arrive right-now-this-instant-thank-you-very-much, it's not going to happen, and we still have those three weeks (or more) to go.

(I do love how so many people say conflicting things about childbirth: it's not that bad/it's the worst pain I ever felt; first-time mothers are usually late/first-time mothers are always early.)

I guess we need to think of things to do for the next couple of weeks, especially now that Twister is out of the question.

Organizamation

I'm going to type something now that most people are going to laugh at (and not the ha, ha-type laugh, but the scoff-type of laugh):

Having this baby is going to help me get a lot of my unfinished projects on track.

And I'm not talking about baby-related projects either (although I'll be doing plenty of them). I'm talking about all of those things that I've started and not finished or never started to begin with.

I think following through with things is one of my biggest challenges in life (and I'm pretty sure it's up there with everyone). I'm not saying that I have all these great ideas and just don't have time for it. I'm saying that I waste too much time on things that I really don't need to be doing.

We bought one of these for Barnabas. Basically, it's a machine that tells you when you last fed your baby or changed your baby or napped (parallel construction, people) your baby, and it makes it so that you can (as much as possible) keep everything on a schedule.

Yes, yes, I know. Having a baby isn't that easy. Feeding should be every 2 hours, but it may be every 1 1/2. Naps should be an hour, but maybe they don't last that long or happen at all.

But at least there's a semblance of a schedule going on, right?

And maybe that's what I need. So now, after I come home from work and finish dinner, maybe I should do some writing or cleaning or organizing instead of watching television or surfing the Internet. Sure, I won't be able to do them for hours at a time -- and certainly less when Barnabas arrives -- but maybe a half hour, a scheduled half-hour. And just so you don't think I'm being selfish, I want Kristen to have this time, too.

There are too many things to get done, and maybe we all need a grown-up Itzbeen to help us get them completed.

Note to Self: Recharge Daily

On Friday, I thought I lost Kristen.

No, not in the medical-drama sort of way ("Doctor, we're losing him!"), but in the where-the-heck-is-she sort of way. And it was not pretty on my part.

Here's how it went down (I sound really "street", don't I?):

During the summer, my company lets its employees leave early on Fridays; unfortunately for Kristen, her company isn't as nice (overall they're nicer; in this instance, however, they're not). So I usually take the 2:34 train home, do whatever errands I have to do (eat ice cream, think of trades for my imaginary baseball league, ponder exercising only to decide that it's best to eat more ice cream), and then pick her up from the train station.

Most times, Kristen will call me from the office and tell me which train she's on (usually, it's the 5:21); sometimes, though, she's in a rush, so she'll call me from the downtown station or while the train is moving. It's no problem, because we're only a 5 minute drive away from the Rogers Park stop. (Are you taking notes? There will be a test.)

By 5:30, I hadn't heard anything from Kristen, but I decided to drive over to the train station anyway, and park with all the other picker-uppers. At 5:45, when the train rolled into the station, I didn't see Kristen. No big deal. I call her cell phone. It goes straight to voicemail. I call her work. After a few rings, it, too, goes to voicemail.

I figure that she missed the 5:21 and is now sitting on the train in the station downtown (where cell phone reception isnt' very good), waiting for the 5:43. So I, too, wait, and read my book. I try her cell a couple of more times, but it always goes to voicemail.

Hmm.

So, the 5:43 arrives at just before 6, and no Kristen. Now I'm starting to freak out a little bit. I mean, she's nearly 9 months pregnant! So I start driving around, going up and down the streets between the train station and our house (it's about 8 blocks -- maybe a little more; I've walked it a few times, and it takes me around 20 minutes). So I drive up and down, back and forth, looking for her.

Nothing.

It's a hot day out -- a humid, Chicago summer day. It had rained earlier, so it's even muggier than usual. Up and down, back and forth.

Now I'm getting a little frantic.

(I'm still calling her cell and her work, but now I'm adding our home number to my list. Still just voicemail.)

It seems like I've been driving around for about a half hour, and I'm starting to panic. (A side note: during my drive, I'm listening to NPR, and they have a story about the best BBQ place in Texas that has been creating something of a sensation in this small town. Listen to it. It'll make you drool. This however did not placate my fears.)

As I turn off Clark and onto Albion for what seems like the fiftieth time, my cell phone rings. It says "HOME" on it, but I still answer, not with "How are you?" or "Are you okay?", but with "Where are you?" (I'm not so good under pressure it seems). Of course, Kristen, being a normal person, answers, "I'm at home. Where are--", but I cut her off.

I then begin cursing. Yelling. (I'll censor myself because we know of some of your sensibilities.) "*#($&*@!!! Why didn't you call me? How did you get home? Don't $%@^^& do this! Are you okay? %$%!@^!" And then, suddenly, I'm a wreck. I'm in tears, bawling like I haven't in probably 30 years. I speed home.

What happened was this: I missed her when she came off the train. Her cell phone ran out of battery. There are no taxis in the area (it's too residential for there to be cabs at 5:30 in the afternoon). There are no payphones anymore (can you find one if you really need to?). So, Kristen walked. And I panicked.

And not only did I panic, but after I spoke with her and found out she was okay, I became a complete wreck. I mean, Kristen was fine (if not a little tired and overheated). Yet I was this bawling pile of flesh. As soon as I heard her voice, all the things that could've gone wrong (and didn't) came flying into my mind. Strangely, I wasn't really thinking about those things while I was driving around looking for her. I was thinking more of "gotta find her, gotta find her, gotta find her", like I was a bloodhound searching out an escaped convict. But it wasn't really anything specific or overly terrifying. But when I finally spoke with her, all I could think of was "what if she's hurt, what if there's something wrong, what if Barnabas is hurt". It was this rush of every horrible possibility.

I don't know what this says about me. Maybe I have to toughen up or something. Maybe I have to be a bit more rational. Maybe I have to panic more when I don't know what's happening and less when I know that everything's okay.

In any case, it was scary, but ended happily and with no one worse for the wear.

And, best of all, we had BBQ for dinner.

Things I Worry About -- #5 in a Series

I worry that we're going to call him Barnabas instead of his real name.

I'm Crazier Than You Think

I've determined that every parent (or parent to be) has one somewhat irrational thing that makes them go crazy. For some people, it's going organic. Everything has to be organic. OH, MY GOD, POLYESTER JUST TOUCHED MY CHILD'S SKIN! PUT THEM IN THE SCRUBBER!

For other people, it's CIA-like monitoring of the baby's every move. (The woman who sold us our sheets confided in me that she hooked up a video camera so she could watch her baby constantly in the crib.)

And for others, it's complete and utter foolishness in not vaccinating them for fear of autism. (Autism is extremely scary; not vaccinating your child is scary. The fact that vaccinations do not cause autism means that not having your baby get those shots is child abuse.)

For me, it's bumpers. What are bumpers, you ask? They're the plush crib "wallpaper" that they say prevents your baby from hitting their head. Do they cushion the blow? Of course! Do they also cause babies to smother to death? YES! And no child of mine is going to smother next to a crib bumper!

(While that is a bit of a wild exaggeration, but the American Academy of Pediatrics says not to use them, and if you can't listen to an academy, who can you listen to?)

Bumpers were first introduced in the good ol' days when the crib bars were so far apart, kids could get their heads through them. So, instead of moving the bars closer, they added another thing for parents to buy. Well, eventually, everyone got smarter, and the bars are now all a regulation distance from each other. They haven't, however, stopped selling the bumpers.

Sure, they now have very thing ones and mesh ones that are breathable, but really, why take the chance for anything to possibly tangle, strangle, or mangle Barnabas? (Nothing is supposed to be in the crib when they're an infant. No toys, no pillows, no blow-up dolls. Nothing.)

Of course, buying a crib set was more difficult. You see, they all come with bumpers. Kristen volunteered to use the fabric from the bumper to create some sort of curtain accent, but I figure she really wouldn't have much time to do crafty stuff in the near future.

So I went the whiny route. Those Lions sheets I linked to earlier? The ones that were stupid expensive? Well, I went to a local shop (one for crazy organic people) and asked if she would be willing to order the set without the bumper. You'd think these companies would like a customer's money regardless of what they were buying, but she had to cajole them into breaking it up.

But they did (and at a nice discounted price, seeing as how the bumper is the most expensive thing in the set). The set, sans bumper, should be arriving soon and will be that nice final touch to Barnabas' room.

His safe room.

I'm Half the Man I Used to Be

I can be, at times, an emotional guy. If there's a seeing eye dog leading a blind person down the street, I'll likely start to well up. It's a mixture of me being sensitive and a little bit nutty.

With the upcoming (one month until due date!) arrival of Barnabas, I think that those tear ducts are going to get a workout. I've promised Kristen, however, that I will try to limit the number of times I get weepy. Those times are as follows:

1. His birth. This may be the one with the most water works. I'm not saying I'm going to be crying so hard that I'll lose consciousness or anything, but I'm sure I'll be wiping my face with the nearest baby blanket.

2. The first time I kiss his toes. Have you seen a baby's toes? I mean, have you ever really seen them? Priceless. That's a weepy moment.

3. The first time he grabs my finger/thumb. Touching moment for even the most hardened man. That's a no brainer.

4. His first smile. What? Are you calling me a wuss!?

5. The first time he hugs me. My God, I'm getting a little weepy right now.

6. "Dad-da." Here. Take some of these. You'll need them.

7. His first crawl. Thankfully, this one will probably be hidden by the video camera stuck in front of my face. When possible, avoid others seeing you cry. It's just not manly.

8. His first comic book reading. I'm thinking Donald Duck. I'll make sure it's a short story. I don't know if I'll be able to hold out past 6 pages.

What? Eight already? I'm barely at 9 months! This is no good, no good at all.

Somebody toughen me up. You have 30 days.

48-Hours of Fun

This was a really good weekend. Why, you ask? Let me elucidate:

1. I put the crib and dresser together. This is a momentous achievement seeing as how, if Kristen were to give birth to Barnabas today (which is not a good thing and we don't want to happen), he would have a place to sleep. (Note: we have yet to buy a mattress for the crib, but that'll happen soon. I promise.) From carrying the pieces up the three flights of stairs to final assemble, it only took about 4 hours (and that included a break for lunch and a short nap -- look, it was a hot day and I was tired and I deserved a nap). And, while I've complained a lot about Wal-Mart in the past, the pieces didn't turn out so badly, with only a small blemish on each thing (which was easily remedied by just turning things around).

2. The weather was fantastic. As many of you know, I loathe the hot, humid summer days that haunt this city. I'm wont to sweat... a lot... and when I sweat, I become cranky and ornery. The past couple of months, however, have been decent, and while I still get a good sweat on now and again, it's been quite reasonable. Oh, how I long for those cold winter months where I can bundle up instead of trying to shed as many clothes as possible.

3. It was Kristen's birthday. Sunday we went to the Museum of Contemporary Art to look at the large Jeff Koons exhibit that's in town. (A note on Koons specifically and modern art in general: I really like art, all kinds. At one point in my life, I was very much against stuff that was too modern -- silly installations, ridiculous video productions, a small red dot on a large canvas -- but I've come to enjoy a lot of it if, when I look at it or hear it or watch it, it makes me feel something. But I think that art really fails when you need a monograph to tell you what the artist meant in different situations. If so, if the art really doesn't speak for itself and needs someone to promote it, then I don't think it works. Also, I think that an artist should be the person who actually creates the art. In Koons' work, he conceptualizes it, and then someone else builds it. To me, that's missing the point of art entirely.)

Anyway, we walked through the museum and then wandered along Michigan Avenue for a while. We sauntered through the Macy's and were mere feet away from seeing a would-be shoplifter get tackled by store security. If only we had our camera. We had planned to go out to a favorite place for dinner, but it was closed on Sunday (closed? how dare they!), so we went to another favorite place instead.

You say you forgot to wish Kristen a happy birthday? Get on that, people!

4. We washed, folded, and put away Barnabas' clothes. Let me tell you something, people. There is nothing that will melt your heart more than folding baby clothes, because they are a) very cute and b) very tiny. Cute + tiny = knee-buckling adorableness. (You will find that noted the inside cover of most math books right below the quadratic equation and the Pythagorean theorem.) Especially cute were the newborn items, because they were so small, it's inconceivable how anything could even fit in them. I'm not sure if we'll ever be folding these things again, of course, as soon, with a crying baby and little or no sleep, the onesies will be tossed willy-nilly into the dresser drawer.

So that's good. The only thing not good about the weekend was that, as we were driving around yesterday, Kristen found and plucked out several gray hairs from my head. My worrying has finally begun my inevitable transition into old-manhood.

Goody.

At Least He Won't Be Sleeping on the Floor

Still no pictures of the green walls... Kristen is lax in her duties.

But in the meantime, I'd like to continue my tirade against Wal-Mart.

You see, I'm going to admit something that I'm not proud of. It has torn my insides apart and keeps me up at night in fitful contemplation. Okay, here it goes...

We bought our crib at Wal-Mart.

Yes, yes. I said it. After proclaiming many times that we would never shop there again, we turned around and bought the Barna-bed and dresser from them. The thing is, we did research, we read reviews, we looked at safety, and compared prices, and the cribs there are what made sense. (We bought this one -- I don't know if it's "mod" [most businesses don't really understand what modern is, I think], but it will look cool in his bedroom.)

There are some very neat and hip cribs out there that cost more than $1,000 (for example, this one is quite cool, but my god it's $1,700!!!), but I'm not sure why you'd want to buy that. Cribs are pretty much universally safe nowadays (they have to be, with the cost of lawsuits and recalls), and this is not an heirloom that we're going to pass down from generation to generation (in fact, it's probably not a great idea to do that anyway).

Back to Wal-Mart, or as we like to call it, the eigth circle of hell. You see, they don't actually sell the crib at the store. You order it online and then they ship it to the nearest store and you can pick it up. This "site-to-store" program should, in principle, work. It does for other businesses, such as Blockbuster or Borders or whatnot. Of course, at those places, they usually hire people that usually have some sort of customer relationship skills.

No, not at Wal-Mart.

So, on Tuesday, after work, we drive out to the store (right near the Leaning Tower of Niles, remember?), head back to where the site-to-store pick-ups are to be made, and press the appropriate button.

And then we wait. And wait. And wait.

Occasionally, people would pass by us and page for the appropriate person to arrive, but they never actually showed up. The "back room", as they all referred, seemed to be a vast and desolate place where employees can never truly escape. At least that's what I think, because nobody seemed to want to come out of the warehouse door. (Now the break-room door, that was used quite a bit. Slackers.) We called the store number to ask for a manager, but were put on hold, and after 5 minutes, we just hung up.

Here's the crazy thing. The same people would pass by us time and time again, and they would just ignore us or smile. A couple of people couldn't help us because they were going on their break. But instead of getting someone who wasn't on their break, they just kept on walking.

Eventually, we left because Kristen nearly passed out from hunger (a slight exaggeration). We drove over to a slightly creepy restaurant, ate some sandwiches, and returned to Wal-Mart. This time, Kristen and I split up, me in the back of the store paging and paging for help, and she at the front in the customer service line.

Eventually, someone came and helped me (and another couple -- who had twin infant girls), but even then, it was nearly a half hour until the packages came out from their warehouse. (I was also told that someone would be available to help me put the boxes in the car, but they, too, never arrived, so I did it myself.)

So as we drove away -- at 9 o'clock -- we made a blood oath to never, ever, EVER, shop there again.

Unless, of course, one of the things we bought was defective. Then we have to go back and do it all over again. God help us.

That's Really Green

I love the idea of painting. I like clean walls and new colors. Heck, I even don't mind the smell that much (if I'm in a well-ventilated room, of course).

Actually painting a room, however, is a real pain. There's the taping. And the taping. And did I mention the taping?

This past weekend I cleaned out Barnabas' room, Swiffed, washed some walls, taped, covered floors, and went to town. I have to admit, this was the best painting job I've done since we moved in a couple of years ago (the fact that we painted this room before we moved in meant it was a little easier since there weren't any crazy holes or cracks or stains to cover up). Kristen rewarded me with some ice cream. She's great like that.

The problem, however, is that the color is really not what either Kristen or I was expecting. I mean, we KNEW that it was a lime-ish green by the little swatch thingy you get at the hardware store. But once it got on the walls, it was more of a WOW, THAT'S SOMETHING! as opposed to a wow, that's something. You know?

We have to determine if we're going to stay with it soon, though. It's a fun, exciting, and bright green, but we're not sure if it's the right green for the room or the situation. The crib is here, and I'd like to put it together and set the room up, but I won't do it if I have to repaint (which I'm more than willing to do, especially if it means Kristen lets me eat more ice cream).

Because not only do I like the idea of ice cream, I also like the act of eating it.

Soft Meats or Diapers: You Decide

The whole idea behind a registry is a little strange to me. When Kristen and I got married, we registered at a few places and ended up getting all of 3 things from it. (The fact that we didn't have a proper wedding may also have had something to do with it.)

In fact, we even had a couple of people ask us if we were going to have a wedding registry who ended up not even using it. Craziness, I tell you.

The reason I find the whole thing strange is that people (and I have to include the Chelis here) put stuff on their registry that they don't need in the least bit. Some things we have on there (I'm looking at you plush wiener schnitzel) are completely wonderful, yet also ridiculous. I mean, I'd love it if someone bought that for us, because it's so silly and I'm sure Barnabas (and Kristen) will have hours (minutes?) of fun playing with it, but I have to say that if it's not purchased off the list, we're not likely going to buy it ourselves.

There were things on there that we need (high chair, bathtub, bottles, etc), but much of it is just semi-expensive junk or frivolously ultra-cute. The scary thing is that Kristen pruned it down a lot. It used to be almost all silly stuff.

I really don't know what I'm saying. I like it all. I'd like to get it all. But if we don't, we'll either buy it ourselves or forget about it and live our lives no differently.

Except for the plush veal sausage. My god, do we need that.

Things I Worry About -- #4 in a Series

I worry that he won't love me as much as I love him.

Beware of Falling IQ

I don't like Wal-Mart.

This is likely a good thing since there are no Wal-Mart store in Chicago's city limits. (Chicago is a very strong union city and Wal-Mart is a notoriously bad company when it comes to workers' rights. If you don't believe me, read this and watch this.) The closest Wal-Mart to our house is located in the city of Niles, know best for their water tower, the Leaning Tower of Niles. (You'd think that they could come up with a better name.)

Of course, right next to that Wal-Mart is the closest Babies 'R' Us. Now, I don't particularly like that store either, but seeing as how they have a lot of things that we will need (ie, baby things), we've been there a few times. Each of the four times we've gone to Babies 'R' Us, we've also gone to Wal-Mart. On three occasions, we left without buying anything, each time one of us muttering, "We don't ever have to come back here, okay?"

You see, the store is dirty. It's disorganized. It's full of crazy people filling their carts with things that only crazy people want. (Pop Tarts, Kool Aid, and Velveeta seem to be required items.) They sell cheap products at a not-so-cheap price. And, worst of all, it's full of screaming children whose parents feel should be disciplined by being told to "shut up." (I hate that. I hate it when a kid is told to shut up. Today, when I was waiting in line at the DMV to get a new license plate sticker, a young girl pinched her finger when she was playing with one of the retractable belt stanchions; her mother's response, "That's what you get." Sigh. I mean, who needs compassion? Certainly not a 5-year-old girl.)

But I digress...

You see, as we entered Wal-Mart, there was a display that was overflowing with the greatest foodstuff Kraft has ever invented. That of course is the StrawberryMallow. We discovered this strawberry-flavored marshmallow a couple of years ago and they make the most wonderful Rice Krispy treat. Unfortunately, they're as elusive as leftover kibble in Cecil's food dish. Since buying them in '06, we've never found them again. (I bought a couple of bags of chocolate marshmallows, and while good, they weren't anything to write home about.)

So, knowing that we may not see these wonderful treats for another 24 months or more, we bough six bags. That's right, six bags.

Last night, while Kristen was in the office researching video cameras (what? you think we're not going to tape every waking second of our son's life?), I made a batch of strawberry krispies.

And they were good.

Maybe Wal-Mart's not so bad after all.

Things I Worry About -- #3 in a Series

I worry that he's going to have my artistic talent and Kristen's singing talent. (If you've seen me draw or heard Kristen sing, well... I'm very, very sorry you had to experience that.)

I'm Not Exactly Sure What Lumbago Is, But I Bet She Has That Too

Here's a broad generalization for you all: expecting fathers tend to think that they understand everything their ladies are going through. That is, when there's a particularly tough kick to the innards, the men nod their head and say, "I know, I know, it's horrible." They dutifully pull over to a McDonald's when there's a necessary bathroom break. They wake up in the middle of the night and massage the charley horse out of her calf.

And I probably fall into that category. I think I know.

Well, I don't. I mean, Kristen is going through a lot physically -- more than just the growing Barnabas. She can't sleep well. Her back hurts. She's getting twitchy. She's always hot. She's always hungry, yet can eat less than someone who's undergone a gastric bypass.

And I sit there and try to help, but I can only do so much. I think the only thing that is really going to help her is giving birth. And let me tell you, from the videos I've seen in baby class we're taking at the hospital, that is some cure.

Of course, after that painful experience is over, and after nine months of discomfort, there is more crap she has to deal with (maybe it's just me, but breast feeding doesn't seem like a walk in the park).

So this is what I'm suggesting. Let's all just make her feel better, or at least let's not make her feel worse. If she drops a fork, you pick it up and wash it off. Not her. If you haven't seen her for a few weeks and you notice that she's gotten a bit bigger (because, well, that's what happens when you're pregnant), don't immediately say, "My God, you look huge!" If it's 100 degrees out but she's cold anyway, get her a blanket. And if icicles are growing off the tip of your nose but she wants the air conditioner on, turn it on.

I don't like to beg, but if I have to, I will.

Friends, Family, and Me Sweating Most of the Morning

The baby shower was Saturday, and a fun time was had by all (most?).

The morning was filled with me bringing chairs out to the back patio from our basement storage, running to two different grocery stores to find properly ripe avocados, and cleaning dog feces off of the side of our building.

Bringing up the chairs wasn't that much of a hassle (Kristen's brother Jay helped, and he was also kind enough to clean them off). But, as many of you know, physical activity on my part, especially when in the spring or summer, leads to perspiration, usually about a bucketful for each degree above 78 degrees. As it was 82, it did not look good.

When I do physical things and sweat, I also tend to overheat, which also causes me to get extremely testy and crabby. It is why I'm meant to live in Alaska (like the kid from Into the Wild, but without the starvation part, of course), but I digress...

After the chairs, I walked to the front of our building and noticed a pungent smell accompanied by a swarm of flies. Flies and a smell. Not a good thing.

I love dogs. Love them. I can't wait to get a dog (I want a Bernese Mountain Dog, whereas Kristen wants a Bulldog; I'm winning this arguement, I'll tell you what). But while dogs are fabulous, their owners really aren't. So a dog made a horrible mess not two feet away from our building's side entrance (said entrance where people would be going to get to the shindig), and that meant I had to clean dog diarrhea off of brick.

It sounds a lot more fun than it really was, I'll tell you what.

So then, after scrubbing a wall for 15 minutes, I washed my hands and arms with scalding water and ran out first to the grocery down the street looking for guacamole ingredients. They had everything except for avocados. Well, they had them, but they were about 5 days from being ripe. (I tested this out by throwing one at another customer's head. He dropped like a sack of dirt. If he had said "ouch", they would've been 2 days from ripeness; if he had shrugged it off, it was ready to go.)

So I dropped off the other ingredients at home and drove off to Dominick's, where I threw some avocados at a shopper (I got a cross between the "ouch" and the shrug -- something like a "guh", so I figured I was close enough), and came home. (I won't even mention that I forgot a lemon and to run out again to the local shop.)

So, during this time of my running about, Kristen was boiling eggs, so when I returned, I deviled them up, and then started in on the guacamole (which Kristen finished so I could take a shower; did I mention that I was sweaty?). About this time, our friend Katia, who was so kind to help us host the event (she sent out really great e-invitations and brought over fruit and snacks, more of which I'll talk about later) arrived, allowing me to jump in the shower.

During my craziness, Kristen was cleaning up the place, just in case we were rained out and had to bring the party in from the back patio, and her brother ran out to get us lunch (yummmm... chicken with green mole).

And just like that, everything was done. The guacamole. The deviled eggs. The hot hors d'oeuvres. The soda chilled. The plates and plastic utensils and cups all out. I stopped sweating.

And right on the dot at 1:30, people arrived. Nearly everyone that said they were coming actually made it (although illness and a broken-down car kept some away). Barnabas got plenty of wonderful loot, and, thankfully, the rain never came.

And the cake was the topper. See, as most of you know, Kristen and I both grew up on the East Coast, she in New Jersey and me in Pennsylvania. There we were treated with Carvel ice cream stores, which would produce the most wonderful and fake tasting cakes, often times formed into the shape of an alien or a whale. (You had to be there, I guess.) Well, Carvel is slowly expanding, so a shop opened up in the northern suburbs. Our friend Barb was kind enough (on direction from Katia) to go out and get us a huge Carvel cake.

Good, good times.

Kristen will post some pictures of the party soon, and if she doesn't, be sure to bug her about it.

Again, thanks for everyone who came, and to those who couldn't make it, you missed some good eggs.

Things I Worry About -- #2 in a Series

I worry that he's going to hate cats and/or the cats will hate him.

Things I Worry About -- #1 in a Series

I mentioned in an earlier post about how I'm worrying all the time about Barnabas. I figured it'd be worth it to start listing these completely irrational and inconsequential worries here, so you all can see how nuts I am. So here it goes...

I worry that he's going to grow up with a Chicago accent.

When Things Get Busy

There is such a thing as a public intellectual. These are people who merely are there to rouse up a dialog among the people of the community, whether it's about global warming or slavery reparations or Arby's horsey sauce (the latter which should be removed entirely from the planet, mind you).

I would like to be this person. Sitting on a large pile of pillows as people come up to me and ask me to form intelligent, well-thought opinions. I reckon since most people don't really want anyone else's opinion (their misguided ideas are fine), I wouldn't be too busy. Which is really the point.

Over the past 3 weeks, I've been busy. Very, very busy. I was in San Francisco for almost a week. My very good college friend came up from Austin to visit. I've been extremely busy at work. I have my writing class and our "oh my God, is birth really that painful?" class. Plus, I've been trying to get everything together with our place in preparation for Barnabas.

This weekend will get no less busy as we have the baby shower on Saturday, and Kristen's brother is coming Friday morning.

And while I really like having all these people come and visit and the shower should be a blast (I'm making deviled eggs, don't you know), I sort of want there to be four or five days in a row where I can just sit and contemplate and plan.

Hence my urge to be a public intellectual.

I've been looking on monster.com, but no luck so far, but I'll keep you all posted.

Cross-Country Barnabas Love

I'm currently sitting in a hotel room in San Francisco, dreading having to walk over to the Moscone Convention Center. You see, I'm here for this year's American Diabetes Association's Annual Meeting, which means I get to look at slides explaining incretin mimetics, beta-cell preservation, and dyslipidemia over and over and over. Usually, these slides are presented by a low-level academic hoping to get tenure, and usually, the slides are read word... for... word... It's like nobody actually knows how to present anything anymore.

But I digress...

This will likely be the last time I'm away from Kristen until the arrival of the prince, and it's certainly the longest I've been away in years (I arrived yesterday, Friday, and won't return until Wednesday evening, just in time for our...)

Getting Ready for Baby Class!

Kristen and I signed up for a birthing preparation class, and the first session was last Wednesday. It was interesting to say the least. There were about a dozen couples there, and we learned such exciting things about the different phases of labor, how large Kristen's cervix is going to dilate (10 cm is a lot larger than you think, my friend), and some relaxation techniques (including massaging, which Kristen quite enjoyed).

We also watched a film about the different stages of natural labor, meaning that without drugs. Now, I've tried recently to be less judgmental about people. I'm trying to give them the benefit of the doubt. No more snarky comments about people's characters.

Except for in this case.

Why in all that's holy would you want to go through something so incredibly painful if you didn't have to? I mean, it's like saying, "Doctor, when you're extracting those 4 wisdom teeth, could you do it without any Novocaine or not allow me to take any Tylenol for the next 3 days." Why would you do that?

Of all the couples in the room, only one said that she's going to do it au naturale, but frankly, after that movie, I hope she changes her mind. If not, I'm allowing myself to judge and, after our final class, I'm likely to go up to her and yell, "You fool! It's the 21st century! Get with the program!"

And then run, because her husband's a big guy.

Gut Check

There's a new Mexican restaurant close to our neighborhood that we checked out the other night. Many non-Chicagoans don't realize this, but Chicago has a) one of the largest Mexican populations in the country (second only to LA, according to the 2000 US Census) and b) one of the best restaurant scenes as well, including a ton of great Mexican places. These range from super high-end meals (like Topolobampo) where you're likely to spend $400-plus on a meal for 2, to great taquerias (like La Pasadita, with 3 locations within 100 feet of each other) where you can get stuffed for under $5.

The place we went to the other night was called Mixteco Grill, a small place which served really fresh, tasty food. I had the pork; Kristen had the grouper.

And this interests you how, you ask...

Well, one of the sauces that came with my pork was habanero-based, and I have to say that it could possibly have been the hottest thing I've ever put in my mouth. I drooled. I cried. I smothered my poor tongue with refried beans. Nothing worked, and I just had to grin and bear it as the pain eventually (although not quickly) subsided.

While I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the meal, I knew that later that evening, I would be in some discomfort. How much, however, I couldn't have guessed.

That night -- after I carried up an air conditioner and a new (used) television, and carried down our old television -- I found myself in a prone position on the couch, moaning and groaning. (That lifting of appliances only exacerbated my stomach pain.) I could hardly breathe. I was sweating uncontrollably. It was not a pretty sight.

Kristen, however, had little sympathy. She checked in on me a couple of times, but every time I let out a wail of "ohhh, my poor stomach", she merely shot me a look and then pointed to her own stomach which has grown quite large over the past seven months.

You see, dear readers, you cannot get stomach sympathy from a woman who is pregnant. It's just not going to happen. And I should've realized this. Kristen has had gastrointestinal issues practically from day 1 of the pregnancy, and it's only gotten worse as the weeks and months go on. She pops Tums like they're going out of style, she's started to get heartburn (forcing her to stand upright for a while after eating), and she burps. A lot.

Kristen is what I like to call a delicate flower. At least she was. Now, we'll be walking down the street, and she'll be burping like a sailor. At first, I used to comment on them: "Nice one!" or "That was loud!". But now, it's old hat.

(The only time I do comment is when Kristen makes her burps come out of her body sounding like the word "burp." That really annoys me. I mean, when I sneeze, I don't yell out "sneeze," do I?)

So what's the moral of the story here? Certainly beware of hot sauces at Mexican restaurants. But also, if you're suffering from a physical malady -- whether it is headaches, back aches, or stomach aches -- your 7-months-pregnant wife likely doesn't care as much about it as you'd like her to.

And rightly so.

Shower Power

As many of you know, it's something of a tradition to have friends and family get together a few weeks before the big event and have a party. Usually, it involves games, tasty food, gag gifts, sexy lingerie...

Wait? What? Oh, right. Wrong type of shower...

Sexy receiving blankets I meant to say.

And as Kristen and I are big fans of tradition (at least traditions in which gifts are given), we're having a baby shower. Our friends Katia and Tara are helping organize it, and Katia sent out the announcements via e-mail a couple of weeks ago. Many of you reading this are likely saying, "Wait, I received no such e-mail!" And, really, that could only be because of one of three reasons.

Reason one: Spam filters. As much as we love that all the African royalty or penis enlargement e-mails go straight into our junk folder, sometimes legitimate messages also go in there (like, for example, did you know I can get name brand watches for under $50? My spam filter sure doesn't want me to!). And we reckon that a lot of people that were sent e-mails never actually saw them.

Reason two: You live too darn far away. We have friends and family all across the country, and in many cases Kristen and I figured that you couldn't get here and didn't bother inviting you. (Actually, this was a point that I was against. I told her, "Look, we know that they can't come, but if we invite them, maybe they'll send us stuff anyway!" Kristen, being the kind one of the couple, gave me that face that said, "Be good." I'm trying, honey. Really, I'm trying.)

Reason three: Uh... we don't really know you. It came to my attention recently that there may be people who read this blog who have no idea who we are. I mean, they know of us tangentially. That somehow either complete strangers or friends of our friends or relatives are reading this. And that's fine. I'm a ham, and I love the attention. But we're not going to invite you to the baby shower. That would just be a little creepy. You can still buy us gifts, of course. (And if the gift's nice enough, maybe we'll invite you to Barnabas' first birthday party. That won't be nearly as creepy.)

The shower is in a couple weeks -- June 21 -- on the patio in our back yard. The highlight of the afternoon will likely be cupcakes and deviled eggs, two of my favorite foods. (Not at the same time, of course, but they're safe if you wait a half-hour between eating each. Kind of like not swimming right after lunch.)

So, if you didn't get an invitation or you think you should've gotten an invitation or you're one of those creepy cyber stalkers and want to convince us to give you an invitation, drop one of us a line and we'll give you all the gory details.

Remember: cupcakes and deviled eggs.

And sexy receiving blankets.

King and Queen of the Garage Sale

We live on the top floor of a three-story building. Not having to listen to people clomp above you is really a beautiful thing, and I can only imagine how much better it will be once we're trying to keep Barnabas asleep. We also have a nice view -- well, not that nice, but it's better than those on the first or second floors. There are a few other benefits, but at the moment, I can't think of any.

Why, you ask? It's because my body is so sore and I'm so exhausted from carrying junk up and down those stairs I can hardly think straight. I started to haul things down on Thursday night and continued Friday and Saturday morning. I wasn't carrying anything too heavy (the worst was this secretary Kristen bought from Ikea a decade ago), but it was the frequency that killed me. Up and down, down and up.

But it was all worth it.

We set things up in the back courtyard of our building and also in our garage. The area was full of all the things that we no longer wanted and were sure that other were. Bookshelves, clothes, that heavy secretary, curtains, odd computer junk (a printer, a scanner), a shredder... you name it. And, amazingly, it nearly all sold. By the time I carried what little remained back up to the apartment, down into our storage locker, or (best of all) out to the garbage, we had racked up $382 in sales. Amazingly, that was without selling our biggest ticket item, the boomerang coffee table (which we were hoping to get $125 for). We'll put it up on Craig's list this week, and if you add that in, our sales should top $500.

That's at least 3 days worth of diapers, no?

Not to toot my own horn, but I really worked for a lot of that money. I delivered the secretary to a family a few blocks away. I got a nasty case of sunburn on my neck. I nearly dehydrated myself. I forced Kristen to go upstairs and sleep for a bit, so I went solo for a couple of hours. And, worst of all, I had to deliver some things to an older woman's apartment a couple of blocks away. With the woman in tow. Who could only walk 4 steps at a time before she stopped and began making conversation.

"How old are you?"

"Do you travel a lot?"

"Did I tell you about my young boyfriend?"

"My brother lives in Morton Grove. Have you ever been to Morton Grove?"

This woman -- Faye was her name -- also told me all about her second husband (from Holland), her friend who lives outside of Las Vegas, and her refusal to fly in planes. It wouldn't have been so bad if not for three things: 1) she had only about 5 teeth in her entire mouth and it was very distracting watching her; 2) her bra was unattached at the back, with the various fasteners flying out the side of her house dress (I'm not sure how this was effecting in its bra-like duties); and 3) those questions and comments were repeated about 400,000 times.

What should've been a 5-minute walk to deliver the goods lasted about 30. We all had a good laugh (at my expense), but by that time, it was already 1:30 and I couldn't even muster the energy to complain.

Either way... $382, people! That's a lot of cash! Worth every hassle!

Our Stuff Can Now Be YOUR Stuff

Most of the people reading this have visited the Cheli home at least once. (And if you haven't, well, you're always invited so long as you bring some cupcakes.) And you all know that Kristen and I have accumulated a lot of wonderful crap over the years.

Although not so much lately, we've been going to antique shops, estate and rummage sales, and thrift stores for as long as we've been together (and individually for years before that) and picking up anything that we deemed to be fun or funky.

I love most (if not all) of it. I love our old pink and black Formica kitchen table (with matching chairs). I love our lamps. I love the old paperbacks and comic books, and I know Kristen loves her vintage clothing.

Even with an extra room (or two) and plenty of closet space (and don't forget the storage room in the basement), we were filled to the brim. And now, as we're combing two rooms into one to make room for the "Barna-palace", we have to get rid of some of it.

A lot of it, actually.

So this weekend we're having a garage sale (yet another benefit of actually having a garage). Details of which you can see in this wonderfully put-together Craig's List ad that Kristen wrote. (And how about that cute picture of Cecil on the table. He's quite the kitty.)

If you're in the area and are looking for some 1950s tablecloths or curtains or clothing or whatnot, stop on by. There will even be things from (*gasp*) the past 10 years for sale.

I know, I know. Shocking to say the least.

Lovable Losers? Not My Son!

One of the great challenges of living in an area where you didn't grow up -- especially being of the male sex -- is that because people don't necessarily know your history, there are plenty of assumptions about what sports team you root for.

For example, I am not a fan of the Chicago Cubs. Nor am I a fan of the Chicago White Sox. And, just so that everyone is clear, I will never be a fan of those two teams. Or any Chicago-area team. But most people assume that I love them all, love the teams, their histories, their ballparks, etc, just because I live in the city where they play.

But, no. I'm not one of their fans. And I never will be. It just doesn't work that way.

This fact is undeniable: You choose your teams (or your teams are chosen for you) at a young age. In fact, the latest you can become a fan of something legitimately is 21. This is a rule that, while possibly not written in the penal code of every municipality, it known to one and all. And those who choose to ignore it should be routinely harassed. (Is there anything worse than a bandwagon jumper? I think not.)

For example, my uncle, who was living in Brooklyn at the time of my fandom assignment, set me up with the Yankees and the Giants (for baseball and football, respectively) when I was six. And I have been fan ever since. When I went to college in Pittsburgh, I became a fan of the Penguins (at 18, I was still under the line), because I had yet to really choose a hockey team.

Yet when I moved here to Chicago as a 29-year-old, I was past the point of no return. I was not a fan of any of the local teams by then, so I could not become one. It's quite simple.

You don't just change alliances willy-nilly because you've moved to a new place. Sure, I'll go to a Cubs or Sox game, and I'll cheer and applaud with the rest of the attendees when the home-town team does something well, but I'll never -- EVER -- buy something with that red "C" on it or that Old English sox. I have principles, people.

With Barnabas, though, things could get challenging. Will I impose my fanaticism on him, forcing him to root for the Yankees, the Penguins, the Giants? Or will I allow him to choose on his own volition? He will be Chicago born, and he may actually want to be like the other kids in the neighborhood and wear that atrocious royal blue of the Cubs instead of the regal, navy blue of the Yankees.

Well, the answer is clear. He will do what I say and will root for the teams I tell him to. As his father, it is my right. (He will also not eat cream-based soups or watch Star Trek. Them's the rules.) He will be a fan of the teams that I root for, and so help me, if anyone dares... DARES... give us a Cubs onesie or a White Sox bib or (heaven help us) something baby-related from any Boston-area team, friendships may end.

It's that simple.

North Star State

Kristen and I spent the past long weekend in Minnesota for my cousin Abby's wedding. It was a lovely affair, and only a few things happened that likely signify the end of the world:

1) Mosquitoes were abundant and hungry. On Sunday afternoon, a couple of hours before the "I do's" were about to begin, the mosquito swarm was out in full force. Kristen was bitten quite badly (they love the pregnant blood, I hear), and was constantly swatting at the disease-carrying insects. Someone from the Outing Lodge (where the wedding was held and where we stayed) came out and fogged the place. Thankfully, he did it without warning anyone and in total disregard for the health of those around him, and within 30 seconds the area looked like a Molly Hatchet concert, the dry ice in full affect, and everyone went running (except for the smokers, who instead breathed it in deeply, noting its charmingly sour taste).

2) There was hail the size of golf balls. I kid you not. The ceremony was supposed to start at 6:00 PM, and at around 4:45, tornado sirens were blaring in the distance. Ten minutes later, the heavens opened up and began pelting everyone with very large, very hard, and very frozen hail stones. There were several professors and scientists in the group, so they ignored the masses bleeding from their heads and instead made careful note of the precipitation. This is why the infantry isn't full of PhDs. "Ohhh... look at that lovely flesh wound. Why that reminds me of the species *guh*!"

3) I almost ran over a turkey. Driving from beautiful downtown Stillwater, MN, back to the lodge on Sunday, a large female turkey sprinted out in front of the car. I screamed a combination of Holy and a bad word that I won't type here (this is a family blog), but the turkey felt it didn't find it necessary to stop. It made it to the other side safely. My underpants, not so much.

4) At the wedding, Kristen and I sat at a table with two families (cousins of the groom) who lived in Barrie, Ontario. You're saying to yourselves, "This is Biblical how?" Well, I've been to Canada twice in my life, both times in an exchange program with the high school in Barrie. Our friend Amanda's family is from Barrie. Now these people. I mean, how many towns are there in Canada anyhow? Fourteen, fifteen, maybe? And to have it all Barrie-related seems strange. (The woman sitting right next to me -- whose name I regretfully already have forgotten -- told us all about how whenever she comes to the states, she regularly goes to grocery stores to buy all the different Campbell's soups that they don't sell in Canada. Screw those tourist traps! She needs to stock up on Won Ton Soup!)

End-of-the-world predictions aside, we had a good time. Thankfully, nobody touched Kristen's stomach (something she was fearing), and the flight wasn't too long to cause her greater discomfort than what was expected.

The room at the lodge was so-so. No curtains on the windows (only blinds), so the sun shone in quite brightly at around 5 AM. Just means we started the day early, I suppose. It was good seeing the entirety of my (very small) family and speaking with those members who are still willing to acknowledge my presence. It was also nice to hear from some people who read this, that even though we're a lot that isn't as close as some other families, they can keep up with Kristen's Barnabas journey here in my semi-regular posts.

The name poll was something of a dud (only 8 votes, people? I know there's more of you out there), so I'll be putting something up tomorrow, and I except a better turnout this time.

Aches and Pains (and did I mention aches?)

I finished painting the new office/guest room combination, and I have to tell you, I'm quite sore. I was able to do the first coat last night, and I touched up the edges and some spots this morning before going to work. True dedication on my part, if I don't say so myself, although my knees are killing me from getting up and down the ladder and squatting.

(It's times like this that I wish I was 2 years old again. Have you ever seen the toddler squat? They do it so effortlessly. It's like they see a bug/plant/shard of sharp glass and they immediately settle into their squat to do a more thorough examination. For me, that squat would involve several groans, at least one "help me get up", and cracks and pops of my knee, back, and ankle joints. Which was what happened the last two nights.)

I stopped in to get an English muffin at a local sandwich shop for breakfast, and the woman took one look at my pathetic tiredness and told me that I should take a nap. It was 8:22 in the morning. Never before has a complete stranger known me so well.

Zogby

I've added a poll to the blog -- one I'll try and update every once in a while. I've contacted a statistician friend to see if he can get us a margin of error.

We're nothing if not anal when it comes to numbers here at Barnabas Monkeypants Headquarters.

Paint, Paint, Paint Your Room, Gently With a Brush!

To the four people who read this blog, I'm sorry for not updating it recently. I've begun a few posts, but then don't finish because of work getting to be, well, work, and home life getting to be crazed.

On Sunday, I taped (my least favorite part of the painting process). Tonight, I spackled the office. Tomorrow I will prime, and Wednesday I will paint. That room will now become the office/guest room combo, and when everything is done in there and things are moved back in (or, like the guest bed, moved in for the first time), I'll start in on what will be Barnabas' room.

We never painted the office before moving in -- a decision I've been quietly cursing the past few days -- so that desperately has to get done, and the old guest/new Barnabas room has to be painted because, while we did put a nice coat on it two years ago, it's a very peaceful lavender.

AND NO SON OF MINE IS GOING TO SLEEP IN A LAVENDER ROOM.

(It's actually going to be very light turquoise, which, in a manly sense, doesn't seem much better.)

Another apology has to go out to family and friends who have sent us baby gifts who we haven't gotten around to thanking (or not thanking as quickly as we'd like). We certainly do appreciate everything you send us -- I have no shame and will gladly accept any and all handouts -- and I promise that we very much appreciate the stuff and will get a lovely card out to you shortly.

I'll try and finish up some of those old posts soon, too.

Pre-Natal Mother's Day

Although Barnabas won't be coming for a visit for another three months, it's still appropriate to wish Kristen a Happy Mother's Day. I've asked Barnabas for his present to his mother to not kick so much. He said he'd think about it.

Stubborn kid.

But Kristen's going through a lot -- did you know that being pregnant is tough? I had no clue! -- and I think we all should (probably when nobody's looking) give her a nice round of applause.

Ice, Ice Baby?

Kristen and I met a long time ago -- 12 years ago last month, to be exact -- and from the first time she took off her shoes and socks and pressed her tootsies against my leg, I knew that she had the coldest feet on the planet. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she'll slyly place them on my thigh or calf or shin, and I'll wake up screaming from the shock.

Screaming. Usually a shrill scream, not unlike an 8-year-old girl.

And it's not just her feet. It's her hands, too. Frigid.

When the power went out in our neighborhood for 12 hours last year (during the hottest stretch of the summer, mind you), we saved our frozen foods by placing them around Kristen's feet and hands. What could have been losses totaling nearly $40 (that's right, four-oh), were greatly limited. For the one and only time, I thanked God for her poor circulation.

Well, that's all done now. Kristen's heart, now doing double-duty, is pumping the blood through all of her body now -- not just stopping at the wrists and ankles -- and instead of the Arctic grip, it's now strangely warm. Instead of giving me a heart attack when she slaps her paws on my flesh, it feels all nice. Comforting even. No more squealing from me. I'm all man now. And I can tell it's annoying her a bit, that I'm no longer on the edge. I don't have that feeling of impending doom any more.

I think she's on to me, though. Last night, I saw her holding several ice cubes in her hands and heard her muttering "This isn't over..."

Gulp.

We Like to Call It Being Frugal

As many of you who read this blog know, I'm very cheap. Extremely cheap. I know of only one person more cheap than me (a co-worker, who I admire more and more each day as he rails on the fools who pay full price). Yet when it comes to baby things, there aren't that many inexpensive things, and when things are cheap, you question their quality. (A onesie for only $4? Well, it's obviously a strangling hazard, unlike this $30 one that has cute monkeys on it and will allow my child to breathe freely.)

And not only are there not many cheap things, there is only about 8,833,281 expensive things to buy, some necessary (crib, diapers, an Xbox), some not so necessary (PS3). But you also don't want to be the only one not to get your child the best, most innovative thing around.

I'm somewhat heartened by the fact that the Chicago neighborhood we live in, the beautiful Rogers Park, is not particularly class/stuff conscious. About 30 blocks to the south of us, in the frou-frou hoods of Lincoln Park, Lakeview or our old (and vastly changed since we lived there 7 years ago) stomping ground of Bucktown, you wouldn't be caught dead without the most top-of-the-line stuff. (What? Organic booties? Too bad. Our son's wearing organic, free-trade, low-impact dyed, carbon footprintless booties made by the disenfranchised Kow-Kow tribe of upper Mongolia. We're saving the world's most fascinating indigenous tribe and protecting delicate tootsies at the same time.)

I think, eventually, my cheapness will win out, however, and by the time Barnabas reaches the ripe old age of 2, his toys will consist of rocks, twine, and apple cores. I say, spoil them when they're babies, when everyone is taking their picture, but when they lose that baby cuteness and start looking like a kid, the cameras will go away, and there won't be any permanent history of our son wearing the most flammable and unsafe clothes.

You just have to pick your battles.

Nesting? It's Called Preparing!

I've heard a lot about how pregnant women "nest" -- the idea that they get all crazed by decorating like mad during the last trimester. And, frankly, like so many things I've been reading in books, websites, and in tea leaves, I think it's a little overblown.

It's not nesting, you crazy experts, it's called preparing. Painting rooms, buying furniture, preparing for the arrival of a new human being into your house is not that out of the ordinary. I mean, if your Aunt Lulu (who really can't look after herself anymore, not with the dizziness and all) was going to move in with you, wouldn't you try and make her room her own? Maybe throw a coat of paint on the walls. Buy a new comforter. Stock up on the adult sanitary underpants.

See what I mean?

So Kristen has been doing that. Unfortunately, because I had to work the last two weekends (once here in Chicago and this past one in Phoenix), I wasn't able to really help. But when I came home yesterday, I saw that she had tackled (and beaten) our various closets into submission, cleaning and organizing them to the point where we actually now know where everything is. The mop? Hallway closet. The winter coat I never wear? That's in the foyer closet. Seventy-five different ointments, balms, and salves that all smell worse than the next? Bathroom closet.

The one thing Kristen couldn't do, however, was Swiffering under the bed.

(An aside: I hate that term, Swiffering, when it's used as a verb. That's what they say on the commercials, but it just seems like terrible word construction to me. You should Swiff a room. With a Swiffer. Like you blend something. In a blender. You're not blendering. But I digress.)

You see, with Barnabas growing ever larger, Kristen's having a tough time getting up off the couch or the bed, and her having to get on the floor to reach all the vastness of under the king-size bed would be too much.

So yesterday, I go to the hall closet (where the Swiffer was waiting for me in its correct spot) and reach for one of the disposable dusting sheets. And there, on a shelf in the closet, is not one package of Swiffer sheets... not two... not even three... BUT FIVE PACKAGES OF SHEETS. All just waiting for us.

So what I'm saying is, the moral of this story, that nesting (or whatever it's called) is not only good for getting the place ready for the arrival of our new son, but also allows us to not have to buy any more Swiffer sheets for another 3 years.

Barnabas just saved us about $20! What a kid!

Gut Shelf

Last night, as we were watching 30 Rock, Kristen went to the freezer to grab a treat -- some raspberry sorbet. So as she's devouring the tastiness (moans and yums abounding), I turned to her and noticed that she was resting the container of sorbet on her stomach.

If she wasn't officially pregnant before, she sure is now.

I'm Getting the Band Back Together

Although the monkey is still months away from being born, I think it'll be one and done with having a kid. We have the right to change our minds, of course, so don't hold it against us if we decide that Barnabas needs a playmate (or something to terrorize other than the cats). But for now, he's likely our only one.

Which is fine by me, because as I've said many times, we either have one, three, or five (Kristen, honey, if you're feeling faint, lie down).

You're likely thinking, what's wrong with two? They'll always have someone to play with, the younger one will be protected from bullies by the older child, hand-me-down clothing... But, in my eyes, if you're going to have two, you may as well have three, if only to

(suspenseful pause)

have enough to form a band.

Guitar, drums, bass (with the guitarist singing). It's always been a dream of mine to have a Hanson-style group (the Chelis? ChillChel? Cha-cha-Cheli?) to tour around the Midwest playing state fairs and high school dances. I would be their manager, brow-beating them into practicing all hours of the day, eschewing their own childhood so that I can become famous. I'll be the Murray Wilson of the 21st century! (Murray Wilson was the father of Brian, Dennis, and Carl Wilson of the Beach Boys.)

Now I would never want four kids, because that would mean war at all times -- two against two. You always want to have an odd number of kids, you see, so there can always be a tie-breaker. Do we play in the mud or do we throw rocks at squirrels? Let's take a vote!

So that leads us to five, which, of course, is a basketball team. Hopefully with our tall genes (I'm around 6'2" and Kristen father's around the same height), we could have a barnstorming team (with me as coach), like the Harlem Globetrotters, going to state fairs and high school gyms (you see a pattern here?).

Now, sure, seeing as Kristen has to actually be the one to be pregnant for these additional 4 children, she'll have a say in it. Maybe.

But really, can you fault a guy for having a dream?

(And seven kids? Oh, man, that's a team with a bench! Oh glorious day!)

Going Blue

I like the posts here on the Barnabas Monkeypants blog to be all-ages. We don't want to offend our 8-, 9-, and 10-year-old readers now do we? But that's going to have to change a little for this post, so stop reading if you're faint of heart.

Okay?

This post is about urinating. You see, as any pregnant woman, former pregnant woman, or friend/relative/partner of a pregnant woman knows, bathroom breaks increase in frequency when you're knocked up. Kristen, on average, pees 45 to 50 thousand times a day. After leaving one bathroom, it's not a half hour until I hear the same reprise of "gotta go, gotta go, gotta go".

So, in her honor, I will now rank the various area bathrooms, taking into consideration both the number of visits (I, of course, am leaving off our house bathrooms and her work one, as that's just not fair to the rest of the field), its location, as well as quality (cleanliness, frequency of being out of order, etc).

1. Nordstrom at Old Orchard Mall. There are two "lounges" (as they like to call them) in this location, one on each floor. One of the reasons we go to this mall more frequently than any other is that two clean, relatively quiet bathrooms are always waiting for her.

2. Macy's at Old Orchard Mall. Situated smack dab in the middle of the mall (Nordstrom is at one end, while Bloomingdale's is at the other), the Macy's is a popular spot mostly because of its location. The bathroom is also right near the candy counter, so that's a bonus for me.

3. Target in Evanston. There's a strip mall on the border of Chicago and Evanston where we do our grocery shopping (at the Jewel). The other stores are an Office Max, a Best Buy, and the aforementioned Target. Kristen refuses to go to the bathroom at the Jewel. On two occasions she went, and both were accompanied by a very unhappy face when leaving. If the women's bathroom is anything like the men's, I don't blame her. She's tried the Best Buy a couple of times, but also was not so happy with it. Target seems to feature a) the most number of stalls and b) a cleaning crew that visits the bathroom more than monthly. I'm pushing for her to try the Office Max, but so far, she's said no.

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8. Borders in Evanston. Let me tell you a little story about bathrooms at Borders. (This specific one I have no complaint about. Not so terrible, not wonderful.) When Kristen and I met, we were both working at a Borders in Bridgewater, New Jersey. It was one of the top 5 or 6 busiest locations in the entire chain, and on Friday and Saturday nights, it was always really crowded. Crowded bookstore + coffee bar = bathroom mess. At the time we were there, Borders was going through a union problem, where several stores were trying to organize and the entire company was freaking out. As a manager, I was told to not have our booksellers do anything out of the ordinary or not in their job description. So, when a bathroom amiss occurred, it was up to the manager on duty (or doodie in this case) to remedy the situation. Oddly enough, the problems usually happened in the ladies' room. So, when a calamity was brought to our attention, I would have a female bookseller make sure the coast was clear, and I'd storm into the bathroom, face covered by a wad of paper towels, and try to do my best to make the situation bearable until the cleaning crew came the next morning. Only sometimes was I able to succeed. Good times, good times.

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17. Century Cinemas. We used to go to the movies all the time. Sometimes twice in a weekend. Whether it's because I've been gone a lot of weekends because of work or the lack of good movies coming out, we've cut down a lot. A year ago, this would've been in the top 10 easily. The biggest problem with movie bathrooms, though, is that after the movie's done, you have to be one of the first people out the door or you're going to be waiting in line, especially if it's a sold out movie. We've tried to help out this situation by a) going to the bathroom as soon as possible before the previews begin, b) not drinking anything during the movie, and c) sitting in an aisle seat so that as soon as the credits start to roll, Kristen can be up and out of her seat, shoving her purse at me as she runs out of the theater.

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33. Carson Pirie Scott at the Lincolnwood Mall. Do you see a trend here? Malls. Malls are a good place to get out, walk around, buy ever important onesies and ice cream cones, and never be too far away from a bathroom. The Lincolnwood Mall is the closest indoor mall to our place, but it is ... how do I put this nicely ... not that high class. It has a Kohl's (aka, the Saks Fifth Avenue of the K-Mart set), an Old Navy, and about 33 places that cater to 13-year-old girls. It also has a Carson's (where 80-year-old women can buy a polyester cardigan for hubby and a new flowered housedress for herself). It seems that the cleaning people in that particular Carson's have decided that a once-weekly delousing is enough.

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84. Food Court at the Lincolnwood Mall. You're in rural Louisiana. Off a dirt road, you notice a pile of dead opossums which likely have been rotting there for well over a week. Next to that pile is a dirt hole in which the local folk have been using to go to the bathroom seeing as how indoor plumbing still hasn't made its way to that neck of the woods. That would be 83 in our ranking. I'm warning you all. Stay very far away if you value your health.