So, we really have to live here now, huh?

Big news this week- (Okay, I do realize it's all very self-importantly "big" news to us...but I'm kinda longing for a week where I whine about being bored and say inane things like "I just painted my toenails. Again. Went with pink." And hopefully we'll get a week of that before the kid joins us)- we have a BED and FOUR WINDOWS. We actually have about thirty windows, but FOUR of them are NEW and UNBROKEN.

Where to start? The bed. We went to Ikea last Sunday- a fabulous venture with a pregnant woman, I think P.J. can assure you. We got about six plates of food from the cafeteria and paid under fourteen bucks for all of it. BEST DATE EVER. God bless Sweden! And meatballs! We entered with the notion of getting JUST A BED, we only NEED A BED, we're not even gonna LOOK in other departments...and left with a bed, some curtains, those scuff pads for under furniture (they were on sale), a lampshade and parts for a desk (that later ended up getting put back as the desk was on too high of a shelf for Ikea employees to reach. What? Isn't that your JOB? Isn't that what Ikea is all about? Warehouse prices and warehouse storage? And it's too high? Couldn't we have planned this one a little better? How did it get UP there?) SO. We left Schaumburg, IL, (God bless our car as well), and headed back into the city- P.J. dropped me off at the house with the implicit directions to NOT do anything strenuous. He had to go downtown and pick up his mother, who would be visiting us until Wednesday. (Side note- she came for a number of reasons, among them to see the 'Snapshots' Festival at Strawdog...my Chicago premiere as a playwright! That is, for a show that I wasn't involved in the production of, the direction of or required by law to participate in the ensemble. And it was so cool! My piece was hilarity incarnate- I can say that with all modesty as the two girls cast were comedic powerhouses. And Peej was superb in two of the plays- and played the ukelele...exceptionally well!)

Back to the bed. I stared at the departing car. I stared at the couch still wedged in our hallway. And, walking upstairs, I stared at the two huge Ikea boxes of BED-ness that would soon replace the mattress on the floor. It was hot as hell, I was hungry enough to eat two pickle jars, I desperately needed a shower...but what I wanted most in the world was a nap. On a big kid bed. It was clear what had to be done. Grabbing a screwdriver, I sat on the floor and opened the box that I assumed would have the directions. Wrong box. Opening the OTHER box, I found "directions" that weren't in English. Heck, they weren't even in Swedish. They were pictures. Of screws. And big x marks over what screw NOT to use and how NOT to go about making this bed in seventeen easy(ish) steps.

The first picture featured one man wielding a screwdriver. For some reason he had a big ol' x over his body. The next image featured the same man (I imagine) next to another, identical man. This picture was circled and the men were smiling. They like quality furniture, too. Now, I took from this that I wasn't to embark on this project alone, that instead I should find someone who looked like me to hold certain frames at 90 degree angles while original me fastened the pieces together. Now, I don't know how men operate in SWEDEN, but I know a few things for sure; the toolkit and screwgun are mine, I'm an exceptional grouter of tile, and one pregnant American more than equals two bald Swedish men.

But it was frickin' hard. Turns out, some of that "90 degree angle holding" would have made things a little smoother. No matter. What should have been a five hour project (some lame-o on the website suggested that. I bet they were French) took me a mere 1.5 hours. That's right. And this is a honkin' bed. Not some particle board frame with slidey drawers, no sir. Solid...wood something or other...with a heavy, slatted headboard and a frame that could kill a cat. (I almost did. Twice.) And did I mention that it took five separate tools to assemble this bed? (The Ikea instructions didn't!) That stupid metal l-shaped thing they give you, a phillips-head, a flat-head, a screwgun for tightening the deep-set screws and an adjustable wrench for bolts. Thankfully I own all of these, but as the instructions made no mention of the items before their helpful images appeared on pages twelve and above, it required many trips up and down the stairs. P.J. and his mother arrived back home right before I lined up the supports- I informed P.J. that maybe we should see other people. Starting immediately. But the bed was mine. He asked if I needed any help but wisely retracted the comment mere seconds before a ratchet hit his head. (Because, yes! Those all-too-critical last ten minutes of a project are when the help is needed!)

But good God, is it glorious. And it works! It's all beddy and cozy and was pushed right up against the...broken window. No matter. Because yesterday our window guys FINALLY came! (There was some worry that they wouldn't come, or would try to reschedule because we had failed to speak with some entity known as "Monica...") But three weeks later, here they were! And they brought window-like and functional windows (two hours late, but NO MATTER. Because they were physically in our sidewalk area!) Three hours later (and two freaked out cats later- look, cats, this is the new order of importance: bed, windows, cats' feelings) we had two windows in our dining room and two windows in the BEDROOM that had, days before, been an ATTIC, with a MATTRESS and PINK STYROFOAM staple-gunned into the plaster! (House of dreeeaaaams...)I immediately hung these rad sage-green silk and rattan curtains, pushed bedside tables into place, made the bed, plugged in some reading lamps and...GOOD GOD, I could LIVE here!

P.J. came home, took one look at the bedroom and [wisely] told me, "I don't deserve you." This is, at times, truth.

But everyone deserves a glorious bedroom.

Check.

It's kinda like camping.

Shameless self-promotion: the 'Snapshots' festival that 20% Theatre Chicago produces every year is this weekend! One of my better one-acts is featured, as are two pieces that P.J. gets to rock. Come play! Thursday through Saturday at 8pm, Sunday at 7pm. Strawdog Theatre, 3829 N. Broadway, Chicago. Email at twentypercentchicago@yahoo.com for reservations (and a good time.)

Business done? Yes? (Not even remotely.)

Yes, we have a new house. Yes, I'm wildly pregnant. But no, I don't feel like blogging about the movers who spoke only Spanish, the boxspring stuck in the door, the sectional couch stuck in the hallway, the more nights we've been away than present in the new place or my ever-expanding belly button shelf. At least not right now.

I AM intrigued, however, by opinions. Strong ones. Ones that people have had since childhood and cannot be swayed by other opinions, science, medical facts or divine intervention. For example (and this is just an example): The truthful OPINION that Nessie, the Loch Ness Monster, is a dinosaur. I used to think that she was a Brontosaurus, but since that's no longer a valid dinosaur (another OPINION, like the demotion of Pluto), I'll jive with Apatosaurus, Paleosaurus or whatever the going long-necked variety is now called. No one in the universe could convince me otherwise...and I won't even entertain statements to the contrary. Unless you're suggesting a different dinosaur that Nessie could possibly be. Then that's just fun conversation.

Do you have an opinion so strongly rooted that the absence of mere "facts" doesn't even register? I bet you do. I asked my sister Kate for her strongest held opinion...and waited. And waited. Finally, I heard the intake of breath that meant an OPINION was about to be offered. (Hah. That's a joke. No one ever "offers" opinions. Opinions are thrust! And demanded to be taken! And if not, something else is taken: offense.) Anyway, the payoff opinion was this:

"I think tamales are overrated."

That's it? That's your 'take it or leave it' view of the universe? There's only one noun in that statement! When I showed displeasure in her opinion (unfair, I realize), she amended it to use stronger words. It was still about tamales, however. I'll give her some more time.

And now back to the delightful slice of life I call "going to work and collecting a paycheck." (I'm enjoying a brief respite from doing something along the lines of gluing colorful things to other colorful things and also sanitizing rooms smeared with poo. This respite comes in the form of a savior I like to call "Sesame Street.")

Wednesday already?

I barely know where I live anymore.

(But it's easily identifiable by the large furnishings stuck in small spaces. Come visit sometime! Seating will be hilarious.)

Soon I'll need time to process the end of 'Harper's Island.'

We'll keep this one brief, as I've got a few pressing things on my plate. And my "plate," I mean "bladder." (How's THAT for mixing metaphors?) But I am indeed alive and well...well-ish...(Welsh?) and figured I could afford the time to jot down a few funny things of late...

Pregnancy (something I like to acknowledge between the all the goings-on with the house, apartment, car and, you know, work):

The baby has hiccups! Or I have rhythmic gas bubbles! Either way, it's really cute, but still not something I'd like to have happen for more than nine months at a time. Imagine being an elephant (this is a fun exercise anyhow) and being pregnant for eighteen months! I mean, I feel like I've been in a "delicate condition" for about three years now, but still. It could be longer. Like pachyderm long.

The cleaning lady of one of the fams for which I nanny told me DEFINITELY that I'm having a girl. "Really?" I asked. "Absolutely," she confidently told me. "A girl makes you tired and steals all your beauty." THANKS! I informed her that I've got a bit going on now and haven't really slept all that well lately, but she remained unconvinced. Perhaps my "beauty" is so far gone that even sleep couldn't restore it? Thanks, daughter.

However, a lady in the park came up to me and opened the conversation like this; "A boy. You are having boy, yes?" When I told her that we didn't know, she nodded and told me BOY, for I am out to HERE large. THANKS! She also told me how pretty I'm looking, so there. (Thanks, son!)

And some kidisms from work (that thing I try to do at least once a week):

Julia, 6 1/2, after rolling her eyes at how bossy her baby sister is becoming; "She just has to have her own way ALL THE TIME." I laughed and said, "Now who does that remind me of?" She thought for a minute and nodded sagely. "My friend Carl. He's from camp."

Chance, 4 1/2, completely out of the blue; "Kiki, I love you and don't want you to die." After thinking this through VERY carefully, I thanked him and asked why he didn't want me to die. He looked at me like I had three heads and replied, "Because I LOVE you."

And Lily, 2, grabbing my chest and saying, "Are these babies like in your belly?" I told her that was my chest and she has one, too. Laughing hysterically, she patted my back and said her new favorite phrase; "Kiki, you are so cute."

So the next time I post I will (God willing) have a new car, a packed-up apartment, an intact marriage and a house with floors, doors, windows and beds!

Some people just know how to live large, I guess.

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.