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.