It's my birthday, too.

Tonight my sister, brother-in-law, brother and Keely took me to dinner for my birthday. At the end of the meal my sister and Keely left to "go to the bathroom" but really went to go tell the waiter it was my birthday. When they got back to the table my sister was whispering to Keely, whose eyes were huge. Keely sat down next to me and said, "Amy. I do NOT have a secret to tell you. I just don't." Then she started mouthing the word "cake" over and over again until the waiter brought the cake.

Patience is a virtue, I guess.

Almost ten years ago while living together in the most awful apartment in Boston, Eric Pliner and I had this conversation:
Eric: I have an idea for a play. It would be like "Scooby Doo" for adults.
Amy: Can I play Velma?
Eric: Obviously.
Amy: I'm in.

Eric wrote the play and together we built a free standing door in our driveway which we spray painted bright green. The paint didn't really take and the door broke during our first show, at a tiny dance studio on Green Street. We moved the show, and ourselves, from Boston to New York. This time, we paid someone else to make the door for our run at The Kraine Theatre in The East Village. The show ran for over a year in New York and, like any good, gritty, get-your-nails-dirty theatrical venture, the experience was filled with laughter, tears, frustration, fights, late night rehearsals, applause and lots of drinking at East 4th Street Bar. The show we grew up watching on Saturday mornings became the inspiration for the show we became grown ups while working on.

Now, there is this.

Eric still lives in New York but was in Los Angeles last weekend. We had plans to go to dinner on Saturday night. Saturday morning, I opened my mailbox and found an advance check from Samuel French for the publication of "Spooky Dog." Now, if that isn't perfect timing, I don't know what is.