Anyone have a Tums?

So, in roughly the amount of time it took to BUILD a new (and smallish) house, we managed to PURCHASE one! For crazy amounts of Monopoly money that I was briefly allowed to touch before it was snapped up in the hands of Lawyers. (Would someone like to buy me a sandwich? I feel that to make this purchase work, we may have to forego "food" for a while.)

It's totally worth it! No apartment number EVER AGAIN!

We sat on the floor of our new place (in one of the three living rooms, mind you) and marveled at the fact that this mammoth money pit was now ours. Ours! As we looked around at the extraordinarily barren rooms (sans appliances, fixtures, some doors) we wondered if perhaps we should have alloted a bit more money to actual "furniture." Eh, that stuff sorts itself out.

I had a grand moment at the closing table (after my aching hand forgot how to write the n in Schoeny- a few less than legitimate documents are out there penned by one Keely Schoey- wherein I had to sign a Social Security statement that proclaimed me to be a "home maker." (Long story.) I gleefully looked at P.J., who promptly turned back and mouthed "No."

"I'm gonna tell people I am, anyhow."

"That sounds fun. Go nuts."

"I'm not going to work anymore."

"Yes you are."

"I won't sign."

"You already did, Mrs. Schoey."

I might just be the home maker who wins the Out of the Actual Home the Most award. But I make it, baby. (And shall until at least 8.1.39. That's right. My mortgage goes to 2039, which isn't even a real number.)

In other Just How Much Do These Fools Have, Anyhow news, we just got back from a week with Peej's family in Myrtle Beach. Which sounds very old-peopley and Southern, which it also is. It does boast, however, 85 degree salty waves that do not care how pregnant you are or what SPF of baby sunblock you are wearing. And that is why we had a torrid, weeklong affair, that stretch of the Atlantic and I- regardless of that time I may or may not have been stung by a baby jelly-like creature. The sea let me float and I let my kid stop pressing directly into my kidneys. (Relationships have been based on less.)

It was a lovely week with two parents, eight siblings and in-laws, six nieces and nephews and two second-trimester gals. Plus, LOTS of tacos. Pivotal vacation food, especially if you are the second-trimester gals.

And, aside from the our friends' wedding that we were part of the weekend prior and the car that we are about to purchase (today!) and the show of mine that is getting produced in a festival in which P.J. was cast...not too much else is abuzz.

And the uppercut to the bladder that little Bitsy Pickles is now handing out means that it's either time for a nap or a snack. Hopefully I can have a little of both, as all of the non-internal children in this house are napping and my scenes are done for this week! Also, doesn't little Bitsy Pickles sound like a vaudeville name? (I have left the fear that this child will be part taco. That was very first trimester. This kid is all dill pickles and onions. But "Onions" seemed inauspicious for a baby. Did you know that "Chicago" is a Native American word for wild onion grass? Coincidence? Probably.)

Until later, I wish you love, pickle slices, and red onions dipped in horseradish. I'll save the kisses 'til next trimester.

Why yes, those ARE little daisies on my toenail.

We are almost at 5000 hits, people. Let's do this. (And yes, I realize that people who get Google Reader updates and the like don't necessarily count in the overall tally, but...I'm a very tangible person. Tactile, even. Some might say tangential.)

Last Tuesday was the 20 week appointment wherein we got to see Bitsy Baby Schoeny. And P.J.'s chin, my nose, and the feet belonging to someone awfully antsy. It was wild to see the kiddo's jaw opening and closing and to see the legs fully extend and cross at the ankles, a la Huck Finn. And, though this part should be terribly obvious to anyone who has ever even CONTEMPLATED creating life...it occurred to me while watching my kid onscreen that I actually GREW A RIBCAGE. And a heart with four chambers. And toenails!

The kiddo is measuring a week ahead of schedule, which means...absolutely nothing. I guess. I, however, am terribly proud of the Bitsy's growth and neverending backflips. (The other night at 1am I put my Bose headphones on my belly to calm the little flipper with Enya on shuffle. Yes I did. And it worked.)

Last night our fabulous friends Ari and Elana (plus their 4-month old son Asher and pup Orli)stayed over en route to Denver for a lovely evening in the 100 degree weather. And miraculously, my ever-awesome husband agreed to install the a/c for the season...a month and a half earlier than last year. (I do not delude myself into thinking this is for any reason other than the trip we're taking next week- thusly, leaving the cats in this heat.) Superbly good to see our pals, even with the three attempts that our [usually on top of things] landlord took to show our apartment to potential renters. We ALLLLL got up and took a walk so that people could see the house- three times- and the third time the family actually showed. (Yes, I realize that I could be one of those people that stay in the apartment when people see it...but I've been scarred by homeowners. See previous posts. Maybe around last Fall?) Went to Turquoise and quite possibly ate more lamacun and hummus than was wise. Slept like a baby (with a baby) in my AIR-CONDITIONED BEDROOM. (Are you reading this, P.J.? Your heroic actions do not go unnoticed by the townspeople.)

And tonight is Instant Theatre at Chicago Dramatists! 8pm, free, featuring a one-act of mine that I'm rather proud of. (Kate gave me the one-liner to start it off. She ALWAYS gives me the one-liner to start plays. There. I said it. My dirty little secret is...every epic piece of theatre I've ever created has come, in some form or another, from something my sister Kate has flippantly said.)

Everyone wants their nickel.

Off to Myrtle Beach for a week with Schoenys (Schoenies) starting Saturday a.m...after a rehearsal din Thursday in Naperville for two of our pals and their wedding on Friday afternoon. (Plus various scenes that need to be finished up, contractors to finalize, mortgages- well, just one- that need be IN MY HAND to prove their validity, a new closing date of July 7th, a rad 2005 Volkswagen Passat to purchase and anything else mammoth that we can manage to fit into the month of June, let alone this year.)

I hate boredom. (But LOVE the pile of Nora Roberts and Charlaine Harris novels that will be accompanying me on a South Carolinan inner tube alongside a fruit-filled fruity drink.)

Holding the vodka is as far as I go for "roughing it."

Vous voir la semaine prochaine!

Does anyone else smell that?

First off, a big ol' thank you to the city of Chicago for hosting eighty-seven festivals and events this weekend. (I witnessed four this weekend: RibsFest in Lincoln Square, the Old Town Arts Fair and St. Mike's Festival in Old Town/Lincoln Park, plus we kinda waltzed past Midsommarfest in Andersonville while waiting for a non-existant Damen bus.) That, plus a nice jaunt over to Foster Ave. beach (perhaps sitting a TAD too close to raunchy teens and/or breastfeeding mothers of three-year olds- quite the combo, no?) left me pleasantly freckled, stuffed to the gills with fair food (and that I mean superior corn dogs and the ilk, nothing "fair" about it) and more than a little drowsy.

And a big NO THANK YOU to HBO's True Blood. Which I now love. But have no business loving. (Pushing Daisies just left me- it's TOO SOON.) However, watch it I did (that was very Yoda) last night with Peej- it's so rare to find a show we like to watch together, and rarer still to find a vampire show that I like. Okay, that last part isn't true at all. I love vampire shows and movies. Have I ever told you about my second favorite vampire trilogy, behind the Blade extravaganza? It's Underworld 1, Underworld 2 and Van Helsing. Sure, the last one has different characters, names and plot points, but they rank the same in my mind. Exceptional.

Where does one go from a topic like that?

Random musings.

a) Esquire just had a great article on what it takes a be a real man- it was hilarious, apt, and cliche-free. That said, P.J. and I both decided it would be awfully hard to do from a female's point of view- the ones we've seen have either been in the Sex & the City camp (Being a woman means you can get away with murder- in Manolos!)or the Feminazi school of thought (Men are evil. And dumb.) And while both of these are, [ahem] at times, true, I think they usually do a disservice to the lovely grey (pink?) middle ground. Perhaps I'll work on this.

b) My iTunes has a rad feature wherein it loads the CD cover image when a song plays. Usually it's spot-on, but these days it phones it in when a genre or song has it stumped. For instance, Alice Cooper's "Poison?" [Awesome song.] Why, it's labeled as part of the compilation "Unity" CD for the 2004 Olympics. With the cover art from a cartoon movie called "Doogal." Neither is correct, nor is either choice remotely close to Vincent Furnier's 1989 horror-show spectacular. (And it IS spectacular.)

c) Finally, this morning I kept smelling burnt toast, which as everyone knows is the first sign of a stroke. Or being poisoned. Or maybe that's the smell of almonds. But I was fairly certain something terrible was going down- that is, until I realized that the scent was wafting in and out as I commuted. Sometimes I didn't even smell it at all. And once I got to work it was gone entirely, leaving me to believe...that today is a horrid day for toasting toast in Chicago.

This is all for today. Except for the fact that two-year old Lily and I depleted Home Depot's paint sample supply ("More squares!!!") and that I've finished another section of the play and am doggedly onto the next...and that tomorrow is the 20-week appointment to see Bitsy Baby Schoeny and determine, once and for all, just how many Schoenys (Schoenies?) are kicking me in the ribs. And nether regions. Plus, as I typed this, two more contractors called me back and set up appointments to "fix" the "house," hinging of course on the ludicrous notion that the JP Chase Morgan will ever let us "buy" this "property."

And that is absolutely ALL that is going on.

For the next ten minutes.

Starin' down the business end of 29.

Or as my sis Kate tells me- The Beginning of My 30th Year. (Not helpful. Accurate, but still unneccessary.) And my youngest sister Emma insists that '30' is still technically one's late '20s. "I mean, it's 30, but whatever." Okie doke! 

But that is for another year. This is the era where '28' passes off the baton to '29'- more like '28' shoves the baton into '29's' reluctant palms like it's covered in a swine flu/strep amalgamation (currently running rampart in Chi's private schools, trust me.)

Not to be all VH1 (I love you, VH1- or I did when you played music, pop-up videos and only the occasional "reality show") but this has been the Best Year Ever. Disregard what I may have personally told you about last year, THIS one has been the Best. 

Some highlights: 

After that whole marriage/Virgin Islands trek/throwing out anything "pre-registry" awesomeness, I got heath insurance. And saw a primary care physician for the first time since my parents had to bribe me with Ben & Jerry's. (Sadly, it wasn't as long ago as that may insinuate.) Health insurance is amazing! So is dental. I have become one of those people that stubs a toe, overflosses and decides that a prescription Vitamin C sounds fun. Better go to the doctor! (Sure, P.J.'s monthly rate has gone up, but they take that outta his check! For me, it's free money. Free cash doctor money.)

My family has managed to graduate four out of the four Flynn girls in some sort of East Coast college! (Well, Em's graduation is on Sunday, but I have the highest of hopes.) I was also lucky enough to see my family, roughly 865 miles away, an average of roughly 57 times. Give or take. 

Which brings me to...trips. Boston, Pittsfield, Cape Cod, Cincinnati, Miami (for like a day and a half, but it was delightful), Los Angeles and various points Midwestern. I have discovered that I am an exceptional passenger. I passenge superbly; radio deejay, instant Google fact-checker, restroom alarm, quiet-snorey-napper, silent crossword puzzler and, when the mood calls for it, Ugly Cry-laugher at your jokes. (P.J. drives. That is why our marriage is so rock solid. That is the only reason.)

People are catching on to the fact that I've been writing since 1988! (Sure, I was eight years old, but truly. Some people start- or peak- early. Would you like to read my early Star Wars/Quantum Leap scripts?) This year alone I've been lucky enough to be featured in Instant Theatre at Chicago Dramatists about ten times, had a play picked up for workshopping by Local 75, finished about ten one-acts and [almost] three full-lengths, had two plays chosen for production by 20% Theatre (one at this summer's Snapshots at Strawdog Theatre and the other at the Pilsen Arts Festival this fall!) and had my first novella win a major competition in Los Angeles. It's just a matter of time before the rest of the money will [start to] roll in.

I met Scott Bakula. He hugged me. 

I have fine-tuned my group of bestest friends into stellar people who happen to have marketable skills that I can enjoy for free (massage therapy, Pilates, shoulders meant for crying) and that have somehow not yet tired of my incessant demands for movies in Grant Park, tacos & spicy tuna rolls and ginger vodkas. Sigh.

P.J. and I had a 4br, 1ba housing deal fall through...only to score one with 5br and 3ba. For 25k cheaper and a mile closer to the glorious neighborhood in which we now reside.

We got pregnant! And while this was not a mandatory "28" goal, it was most definitely on the "Can we try for pre-30?" checklist. P.J. gets major points for staying ahead of my Life Worksheet. (It seems unfair to simultaneously blame him for my unnerving weight gain, but sometimes I still do.)

We celebrated a year of marriage over Memorial Day weekend. That whole thing about the first year of marriage being the hardest? All lies. The first year consists solely of weekend brunch, Mario Kart & Mortal Kombat on the Wii and picking strawberries in the backyard. (Now, the first year of LIVING together was essentially a plate-throwing fest and copious amounts of tears. Phew! Glad THAT'S done!)

And while I'm fairly certain that 29 will have its share of "high points," (meeting my kid, actually living in the house that we're buying, making a year-end list for '29,') I'm still going to state for the record that '28' is the best that could possibly happen in a year. 

Until the Def Leppard concert this summer. Then this year will totally be disregarded.

And you can follow me on Twitter for more pivotal updates!

So, good news and bad news. 

The good news is that, as of today, the house we wish to purchase is not haunted. So far. Insomuch as we know. 

The bad news? A little hauntin' and the subsequent exorcism may have proved cheaper financially. (Not spiritually. You can't put a price tag on otherworldly security. Besides, I'd be a horrid "post-haunt" interview. Lots of tears.)

Turns out, we need a new roof. Not immediately, but soon. Ish. So we're probably going to replace it before we move in, sparing us that awful "We have a new baby and it's winter, how are we supposed to tear off the roof NOW?" conversation. Also, the boiler is original to the house, as in 1959. (It looks like a time machine, complete with random copper pipes and what looks like a helmet that I most CERTAINLY will not try on.) And, um, appliances. There are none. Wait, that's not true- there is one dishwasher. It's broken and may or may not be causing a tense pipe situation. And there's a broken window. Okay, two. (It is our house of dreams!)

What is DOES have, however, is space. Lots of it. 3500 square feet to be exact, in a superbly non-falling-down brick structure that has all the correct appearances of not leaking. And three full floors, five large bedrooms (with goodly-sized closets) and three full bathrooms. With fans! We've never had a bathroom fan! A big ol' backyard that will make my thumb greener and a garage that will enable P.J.'s power tool collection to grow (and be sorted neatly on pegs.) Two ridiculously mammoth kitchens (one that seems to be begging for a bar) with room for our huge dining room table and all twelve chairs as well as new appliances, counter space galore and enough cabinets to sort all of my glassware, plates and various napkins that we are not supposed to use (Annie totally understands this).

My favorite part of the day came when our inspector did a "simple" drain test. As he was letting the water run, he turned to us and mentioned something he wanted to finish up checking outside. Okie doke! So out we went. About five minutes later I remembered that my awesome bagel was sitting on the counter (P.J. buys me a Dunkin' Donuts bagel with veggie cream cheese every time we make a run to the new house- at this rate I'm gonna be huge! Huger...) and I bounced back inside to get it. As I stepped into the living room and made my way back to the kitchen, however, I heard a sound. "I'll go investigate," I thought, like so many stupid female characters who get knocked off in the first ten minutes of any horror film. It was a bizarre, hollow sound, like crazy kitchen wind or a malevolent (and displaced) spirit or...a ridiculously full double sink mere seconds away from spilling onto the floor I'd already decided to hate. I batted at the faucet, stupidly hoping that would alleviate some of the water. It did not. Running back outside, I screamed for P.J., for our realtor and for the inspector. (Admit it, Peej, for a second there you believed that the house was haunted, too. It's okay.)

The water was shut off, but the sink refused to drain and we still heard that pesky "rushing water" sound. Opening the cabinet below the sink we found a nice trickle of water coming out of the side of a pipe- where the previous owners had conveniently ripped out the connecting dishwasher hook-up...leaving a big ol' hole. 

"Can you put your hand here over the pipe while I run out to the truck?" 

"Sure!"

Sadly, my hand wasn't doing the trick and so I decided to stick my finger into the pipe. (Those of you who know me also know what a huge deal this is. I don't like poking things and I have an X-File-sized phobia of things going down in drains.) Double sad, my finger wasn't the correct width and I had to jam it up to the knuckle in order to get any sort of seal. I also got a blue hand out of the arrangement so it wasn't a total bust. P.J., meanwhile, borrowed our realtor's car to drive to some mythical "hardware store" around the corner for buckets in case the [also mythical] ones in the inspector's truck didn't pan out. And they didn't. (Meanwhile, our realtor kept asking if I wanted to trade off with her, but as she was dressed for an open house starting an hour later and I was already soaked...it just didn't make good sense.) The inspector (it sounds like I'm talking about Peter Sellers here) took care of the situation- there were ziploc baggies and other fun things involved- and we got to move on to the rest of the house. (As for P.J.? There was an Aldi around the corner and about ten minutes later he returned, arms full of flower pots. "It was all they had!!")

The rest of the house was actually in good, nice, structural shape. It didn't register as such at the time since we were so tweaked out, but later on at a fantastic Persian restaurant up the street (Honey cakes! A real food and not just a pet name!), we sleepily discussed the merits of the house. When we got home we turned into stressed-out possums and fell asleep with blankets over our heads.

But we're going for it! A few really promising visits and quotes from contractors made us feel spiffy (since when does a roof quote of 8k when we expected a cost of 10k to 15k make us feel rich?) and we're stoked to get things underway. 

And this past weekend was our one year anniversary. Crazy! We decided to be tourists and stay in Chicago. Ever been to the Swissotel downtown? I highly recommend it. They have water dispensers in the lobby with MELON in them. Wow. And dinner at the Signature Room at the 95th floor of the Hancock (That's right, baby, WALTZ on past the hour and a half elevator line to get up to the lounge.  The name of the game is: Reservation.) We had a window seat and I thanked P.J. for arranging the fireworks at Navy Pier directly below us. (You DID do that, yes?) We also partook in a lengthy and fabulous architecture boat tour, had brunch at Flatwater Grill on the river and hung out at all the Grant Park parky things. Plus, we shopped. Oh, how we shopped.

Sadly, the end of the weekend was marred slightly by the loss of my filling, causing jaw pain unlike anything I've ever felt in the mouthy region. (The next day I went to the dentist: repaired filling, another cavity, removal of a faulty sealant and subsequent awfulness underneath and an exposed root. All on the same tooth! My dentist- "You may feel some nerve soreness tomorrow.") Regardless of my intense fear of dentistry, I was ready for emergency brick n' hammer surgery. The actual process was far more pleasant.

And that's all for now. Actually, it isn't, but this post is becoming ridiculous and my fingers are sore. (Remember, I did some plumbing recently.) But happy 17 weeks to our little kiddo! Keep cooking! Congrats on the recent acquisition of fingernails, ears in the correct part of your head and a little bit of fat around your ever-hardening skeletal system. Take a nap, you've been working hard.

And stop kicking. No one likes that.

Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?

No.

This past weekend (starting on Friday, really) I had the distinct privilege of heading to O'Hare at 4am. (Nat? "As you do.") It was the beginning of my Let's See All the Sisters College Tour '09. And in the nick of time, too- they graduate in a couple of weeks!

The flight was lovely, as I had drifted off to sleep right after takeoff...only to be nudged awake by an apologetic flight attendant. Would I care for a drink? (They didn't even have cranberry juice. Just a cran-apple blend with 8% juice. They should really call it "juice.") I was then informed of my in-flight movie selections: Bride Wars and Paul Blart: Mall Cop. Really, American Airlines? And to top it all off, the video wasn't jiving. Come ON. So, I held my "juice" and waited for someone to come get my trash (I kinda feel like Little Lord Fauntleroy- "collect my refuse!") Because, you know, you can't just fall back asleep after the beverage service. Nope. You've got to keep your tray down and hold your 'guilt cup' until it's taken from you. If you put your tray up and nod off, you'll spill a few drops of "juice" on your lap- or worse yet, your neighbor's...and she's already hogging two seats with her NY Times and she's not even pregnant. And forget about leaving your trash on your neighbor's tray so you can fall asleep- that is illegal.

So, once that harrowing leg of the trip was done I ended up at Harvard with Chelly, Kate, Quinn and Cole (my favorite Harvard student, big sister and little dude nephews) for a quick lunch before Rachel's luncheon award ceremony (yes, I pre-ate). Rachel won something cool, like the best actor to act, ever. Or something. (I think at this point, Harvard's just throwing accolades and money at her to thank her for enrolling.) Later I got to see her improv troupe and a couple of fabulous senior recital rehearsals...and then it was time for a ten minute power nap. She may or may not have been talking to me at the time. Then three plates of food at her superior dining hall (hush up, Chel, Quincy House has the best food- complain about it next year over your ramen. Besides, my college's dining hall was 90% vegan.) And then it was time for her mini senior showcase at the Signet, her lovely and exclusive club that has included the likes of Tennyson and Lithgow (John). Her voice was superb, the packed crowd ate it up and I got to party (soberly, seated) with Jen and Kate. Later, I passed out in the front seat of Kate's stylish and roomy new Routan. 

Up early with my nephews (although, admittedly, they let us sleep in), and off to see my sister's new house in Reading, 15 minutes outside of the city (awesome, porches, yards, fabulousness) and drove to Pittsfield to high-five my folks before Kate and I jaunted up to Williams College to see Emma for the five hours allotted to each town. 

It was a gorgeous day, and after a terrific meal of fake sushi (only 'fake' because I wasn't allowed to get a spicy tuna roll) and rad pad thai (a great name for a band) and eight other things, we stopped off to get a sandwich to bring to Em's boyfriend Dan. Eating Across Massachusetts '09. Walked for what seemed like five miles (Kate and Em assured me that this was not so) past tennis courts where wound-up dudes argued with refs about something or other in some important tennis match (I'm a sports fan), past where Kate used to play soccer, down to the baseball field to say hi to Dan for FIVE MINUTES...and then we walked back. It was a gorgeous walk, however, as Williamstown is one of the prettiest places in the spring, ever.

Home Saturday night with my folks, two of my sisters, bro-in-law and the little dudes (another great band name). My mom made about thirty of my favorite comfort foods, most of them Armenian, and I ate myself into a stupor. Sometime in the [early] evening, I was tucked in somewhere warm and allowed to drift off, content with the knowledge that I wouldn't be taking a boat, train, Routan, plane or cab for at least fifteen hours.

And then it was Mother's Day! I made my mom a decently sweet set of notecards with a dragonfly print and a fancy letter 'D' (for her name- I'm not COMPLETELY random) and my bro-in-law gave me a gorgeous pink Gerbera daisy for my very first Mother's Day. Does it count? I think it should count for at least a half. Walked with my mom and Kate (what is it with you people and walks?!) and watched a Nancy Drew mystery from 1939 with my mom- now that's cinema. Before too long, however, it was time to go back to the airport for an uneventful flight back to Chi. My awesomely faboo husband had cleaned the house, gotten me a sweet card that made me cry (it was the hormones) and had lobster tails chilling for the following night (when we could have din prior to 10pm.) I could possibly dig on this mother thing.

In other news, I am ballooning ("No you're not"/"Thanks, Mom.") and we may or may not have just bought a house! (We did.) Okay, well, they accepted our offer- but, as we all have learned, that means NOTHIN'. Inspection this Sunday, so more deets then. But it's superbly promising, as it has bedrooms, a roof, a floor and [hopefully] plumbing. 

Livin' the dream.

We're still having a taco. Just try to stop us.

13 weeks! I'm officially in my second trimester! We celebrated last night by eating a ton of tacos. This is only slightly different from the other three times we "celebrated" with tacos this week. Not to mention my Saturday afternoon "celebratory" tostada fix at the 'Famous Taco and Burrito King.' 

I've come a to very important conclusion thus far in the pregnancy; even though this is the coolest thing I've ever done, even though it's absolutely awesome to know I'm creating a child, and even though we're both thrilled beyond belief about meeting this kid...I don't much LIKE being pregnant. 

I know, I know. I'm almost afraid to admit this because of the reactions it will inevitably receive. I know it's a gift, a choice, a marvelous chance and it will CHANGE MY LIFE (and again, I've wanted to have kids since I was...oh, twelve), but actually being pregnant is one of those things it was impossible to visualize. So, apparently, I didn't. Maybe this will change immediately once I feel a flutter or get that next cool ultrasound (they are cool), but for now, I'm a little ready to put the nausea, ligament pains, hip and headaches, 'round the clock peeing and heartburn in the timeout chair. And, as everyone keeps telling me, JUST WAIT! Gosh. And the responses I get are invariably of two camps; the Let Me Tell You About My Horrid Experience folks and the Circle Of Life singers. 

Not that I'd wish this away for a million bucks, mind you, just a casual [and sleepy] observation. (Something I WOULD give up for a million dollars- or, let's face it, for free- would be the power of supersonic smelling. Especially on a Western bus that reeks of pee. Double especially if it's a breaky-down bus that can't rev above 5mph.) I'm quite eager to meet Baby Schoeny. Between the two parents, we're quite convinced that the kiddo will possess big eyes, crazy hair and a mile-wide grin. (We're already saving up for orthodontics.) And, given the career paths of the baby's folks, the child will most likely not be shy. Or conservative. (Although, who knows? How do you rebel against two left-wing actors? Become Alex P. Keaton?)

I love Michael J. Fox.

I HAVE managed to get a bit of work done with the infrequent but blessed bursts of energy of late; I've finished and formatted five scenes (in a week!) for the murder mystery, waaay trumping my previous goal of one scene. Per month. (I have been tiiiiiiired.) Formatting is easy enough- I've just been trying to get it into one type of document (usually FinalDraft) from whatever I've been jotting notes on: backs of receipts, triangles of construction paper, fake shorthand on my Blackberry (actual note for a scene: 'Rs sprsd trpz klr.*') I need to learn real shorthand. Or just stop being so darned lazy.

You know what this stormy, mucky, swine-flu-panicky day calls for? Besides a nap and a mask? A taco. The perfect pregnancy food (protein, dairy, carbs, SALT and veggies) and, dare I say, the perfect comfort food. Um, the perfect Mexican comfort food. 

Oh no...

*The shorthand stands for 'Rosie is surprised on the trapeze by the killer.' It's kinda going to be the best play ever.