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Yes, this IS a book report.

Last Christmas, Ned's Aunt Irene recommended The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo to me. Ned's Aunt Irene has a very distinct way of speaking that makes me hang on to every word, and kinda wish I was best friends with her. She lives in Chicago and travels a lot, and is awfully busy with Uncle Wes, so I don't think it'll happen, but I do like listening to her talk when she comes to visit.  She's borderline hypnotic, in the sense that when she's gone, her strong influence is gone too. When she was telling me, I desperately wrote the name down on a Post-It note on my fridge. When she left, I glanced at it every few days, and tried to summon the effect Aunt Irene has on me. It took me a few months to get it.

  I had always imagined it to be about some Chinese girl flitting about a garden somewhere with a magical dragon tattoo. Lisbeth Salander is far from Chinese. Or flitting. She is the character I have always wanted to read about. You don't want to be her, exactly, or even friends with her. You just want to read about her. And Mikael reminds me of my dentist (who just fathered a love child), who has become a bizarrely huge part of my life, much thanks to Kiwi H. The characters are brilliant. The only reason I could put the book down is because I am in my 1st trimester (!) and keep falling asleep. When Ned comes home from work, I barely glance up from the couch to ask him how his day was, and pray to God for a one word answer. I hit ignore on the phone yesterday when Kiwi called. Might be a first time thing. (Except for when she was socially depressed in '06). I took my 2 youngest to the Science Museum yesterday, with reading as my sole motivation, and read for 2 glorious hours.
It's safe to say that the transition from not pregnant to pregnant has been made smooth by Lisbeth Salander. It ain't easy bein' queasy. All. The Time. But with Mikael (Dr, Walker?) and Lisbeth, and peppermint tea, all seems fleeting.

Ned might have a substance abuse problem.

So, remember when I said that my blog misrepresents my actual life? That Ned is not Negative, and I am not a booze hound? Well, it may be harder (and more humbling) to prove this theory than I thought.
On Fat Tuesday, I didn't stand a chance against 6 vodka tonics, 4 Sam Adams, a shot of Jameson, and a hand rolled cigarette. (Numbers may or may not be accurate. Who's counting?) I also didn't stand a chance against the awfully respectable Meg McCardle. And it didn't help that Ned was living up to his blog reputation by sitting on the very end with one eye on the Sabres game the entire night.  I'm pretty sure Ned told them he calls me "skank." I'm also pretty sure it wasn't apparent that he was kidding. I'm wondering how distorted or accurate my blog version of my life is.

Kiwi asked me the next day how it went, and I said "Fun. For me, anyway. I may have caught Ian (Meg's husband) off guard on more than one occasion. Overall, a little 'FML' but whatever.'  Kiwi's response? She asked if I had Meg's husband eat a maraschino cherry off of my (nursing) bra. I think she was trying to keep things relative, but the thing is-  I may or may not have. I did threaten to punch him in the face. I was kidding. LMAO?

Anyway, I am enjoying not drinking. And Ned is thoroughly enjoying me not drinking. He said today that beer can be just as expensive as cocaine, if you don't watch it. Ned? Who are you, anyway. He does honk when he blows his nose. Is that a sign of a coke habit? Not drinking has really given me an almost divine ability to discern substance abuse problems.

Maybe someday, Ned won't honk when he blows his nose, I'll wear cleavage-less cardigans (forgot to mention the cleavage part. I'm feeling like a real tranny these days), drink Sprite, and we'll both wake up real respectable-like. Until then, thanks for the sympathetic smiles.

My last (really) hurrah. Plus some taxes.

My version of Fat Tuesday. Plus some good Irish beer.

It's 9 A.M. and I am celebrating Mardi Gras. With a McSorley's Irish Pale Ale. Alone. Ned just left for work, and I am happily guzzling away.
Ned and I have plans tonight for beer and wings with Meg and her gloriously Irish husband at 7:30. He calls her 'darling'. Ned calls me Joe. Just sayin'.

In true Ned fashion, he made an appointment to get our taxes done at 6. On Fat Tuesday. When I've made it all too clear that I'm giving up drinking for Lent, and today is my last (of many) hurrahs. Ned gets me every time. But he was pretty cooperative about it, after me asking him to be, and he left the house texting the tax guy.

Ned's version of Fat Tuesday.

He might have been cooperative because he finally has something to look forward to. Those Buffalo blues strike Ned more than anyone else I know. So I booked us a beach house for 2 weeks at the Jersey Shore. Positively glorious 2 week stretch of sun, sand, and....Kiwi Herman. She's looking into it, folks. And my sister will be an hour and a half away with the cousins and, of course, Mimi is coming with us. Vacation ain't vacation without the little ones' beloved Mimi. And Ned and my beloved escapes. Ned stared at the sky last night, nodding his head, listening distantly to me chattering away about the beach, and said "Yea. should be sweet." If it weren't for him nodding his head the entire time, I wouldn't have caught on to the intensity of his emotions. Ned is looking forward to vacation.

And I am looking forward to tonight. Ned's always been a little more long-term than me.

Ned's losin' me till Lent

Ned came home from a long day at work the other day, looked at me, and said "I'm concerned about you." He meant it. I was at the kitchen table littered with beer bottles and snuff, with Dan the D-bag and my cousin. My cousin is a gambler from Vegas (actually a small town by Vegas, but we tell everyone Vegas), who gets Dan and me addicted to snuff every time he comes to visit. Snuff is pulverized tobacco that you inhale through your nose (in other words,  blow. That's kind of Ned's point.). It makes Ned's sinuses hurt, but Dan and I took to it immediately, and have had one hell of a week. On day 2 of his trip, my cousin said incredulously, "Most people don't take to snuff this fast!", turned slowly to me, "Especially girls." Welcome to Buffalo, Bret. I even overheard Jackie asking for it in a high, clear voice.
     Top my cousin coming to visit with the fact that there was one week left till Lent, and I'm giving up drinking. For 40 days. I wonder if Ned and I will still get along. I wonder if anyone and I will still get along, for that matter.
So, of course, I have been on as much of a bender as I can pull off while still taking care of Ned and the girls. I informed Ned yesterday that, since not only will I not be going out without him, but since I will be his cheerful DD for the entirety of Lent, the next 5 nights are to be spent at my discretion. As amiable and supportive as Ned wants to be, this kind of stuff does not sit well with him. He is the nicest chauvinist you'll ever meet. Last night was the 1st night I had plans to go out. My friend and I were waiting for Ned to come home so we could leave, when he texted me that he was going out. "LOL!!!" I wrote back, trying to keep it light. That was Ned's way of asking if he could watch the last 15 minutes of the hockey game. Sure, Ned. You're being so supportive of my bender, and all. He made it home, asked Jessica all the right questions (Ned's great in social situations) and warily showed us to the door. We drank beer and after my 'mild' periodic suggestions, Jessica agreed to split nachos. They filled a void. Ned better really love me, cuz somehow my unhinged pre-Lent boozin' has come to include unhinged eating as well. Is my Lent Ned's Penance? I'll have to ask Ned tonight, in between him coming and me going.

The truth of my life

At the risk of losing the tone of my blog, there's a few records I have to set straight. First, my mom and I generally get along. While I find her utterly confusing at times, she's a 'nice enough gal' (quick Jackie quote). And she's unusually good with little ones, which I happen to have three of. There tends to be some tension between our parenting techniques, mainly that I think she applies emotions to kids that I don't really think are there. Or at least as strong, with such long lasting effects as she does. But, really, that's small potatoes. Ned and I have a pretty slammin' social life, all thanks to Mimi. Ned knows that he can call on his way home from work, say he wants to go out, and if Mimi's home (and unless she's "baking like a potato" in front of the Blessed Sacrament, she usually is, or will be soon. She flexible as all get out), Ned and I head wherever it is that Ned wants to go. Not a bad setup for being together 10 years, not to mention three kids. We still have a lot of fun together, just the 2 of us. Someone once said that their therapist (or some sort of figure like a therapist) told them that their relationship with their husband should come before the kids. At the time, I was matriarchal and stubborn, and disagreed, thinking the kids should come first. I don't think I really even thought about if Ned was happy. My focus was entirely on the kids and I thought Ned could take care of himself. Somewhere along the line, I was (thankfully) set free of that mindset, and Ned and I are now proud frequents of Charlie O'briens.
Which brings me to my next point. My sister said, entirely inoffensively, that my blog could make me come across, if you don't know me, as "alcohol fueled." Ugh. I thought everyone knew my blog is blank pages for me to pleasantly exaggerate my life. My main focus is Ned, and my kids, etc. etc. But who wants to read that I'm working really hard at not yelling at my kids anymore? Or that at the moment Ned is cooking steak and my oldest daughter is making salad?  For realz, yo, no offense to my life, but it's really not worth writing my daily adventures. I thought I was doing my readers a favor by veering from the monotony of my actual life and taking you for a trip down Lois Lane. (My sisters used to call me Lois, and I think it's this character that illustrates my blog posts.) It's much more fun to turn 4 drinks to 12, and drinking at 7 pm to drinking at noon. And to make Ned constantly grumbling and Kiwi Herman a bit of a Mad Hatter. And Jackie as mentally ill as they come. I can't believe I have to clarify on my own da*n blog, but for the record I don't wake up to a wall of beer cans next to me. And my mom, to those under 21, is a spectacular figure of grace and virtue.

The Steubenville Syndrome

Things is lookin' up. For one thing, it's like 50 degrees. And Ned and I went out to dinner last night, to a bring your own wine Thai restaurant, and ate courses for $5.56.   Restaurant.com, baby. And I hung out with Megs McCardle, and remembered why having friends is fun. (I got myself involved in a Mean-Girls circle that ain't making too much sense lately. So Megs McCardle was a breath of fresh air.) Jackie is another breath of fresh air. She's slim-hipped and wise. She sleeps in till 10:30, and is always ready to read my blog and make sure it's post-able. I think my blog truly would be disturbing (quote, unquote) if I didn't await Jackie's groggy affirmation every morning.
Okay, I'm annoyed. I feel like I'm the suspect in a witch trial. And another friend, moreso than me, but since I have anonymous readers, I'll lay low on name dropping. A witch trial in the sense that one ring leader is pointing her (presumably Egyptian) finger and getting everyone all riled up and self-righteously angry and paranoid. I've never really been involved in anything like this. My old friend's behavior, while not entirely surprising, is entirely embarassing. Like, actually EMBARASSING. (For her, not me:)) If I remembered doing this in 2nd grade, I would be beyond humiliating. I can't imagine reflecting on this behavior in my 20's or 30's. The wierdest thing of all is that no one will talk about it. Don't they want to know the truth? No one is addressing any problems. It seems like they just want an excuse to be mad. I can't see people acting like this in a secular group, and it's depressing that we're supposed to be Christian. But in the end it's not all that surprising. I call it the Steubenville Syndrome: Where people are super Catholic, identity wise, but they fall for every trick in the book.
The only other possibility is that I'm being Punk'd. I feel like everyone is planning a surprise party for me, and trying to inflate the surprise by acting like they hate me and think I'm a questionable (to say the least) friend, for the month or so preceding the party. If you guys are trying to keep me in the dark, you're doing a damn good job. I ain't got no clue what I did!
But alls well that ends well. Jackie's groggy voice was extra groggy today, when I called, incredulous about the lowest of the low events that took place last night, (sorry for the vagueness, readers, but there are some things that just shouldn't go public) and Jackie, in true form, gave a charitable read, a simple solution, and a calm response. Good ol' Jackie.

Tag, Maggie. You're it.

A few months ago my brother (Dan) suggested that I become friends with one of his friend's wives.  I'm not sure if it's my a result of the "outrageous" behavior I've been indulging in (Ned flinches when he passes me in the hallway), or a reckless freedom that got ahold of me, or the fact that her name is synonomous with too many shots of Jameson and live Irish dancers (Jackie, who is terrible with names, called her Megs McCardle. Same idea.) but I left behind all sound reason and invited her over. Kiwi Herman, Megs McCardle, and I drank mimosas till the wee hours of the...afternoon. I thought we got along swimmingly. So did Kiwi Herman. A few nights later Ned went out with her husband on a pub crawl. Her husband randomly broke out into breakdancing. Sweeeeet. And they only live two streets away. Even sweeter.  I thought a fab friendship had blossomed. Except I never heard from her again. For a month or so, I was tempted to re-invite her over, like the mimosas never happened. This time, I planned on being perched at an L shaped desk when she arrived, snap shut a notebook, and briskly usher her in to my sterile, alcohol free home. Rather than whistling to get her attention (yes, I really did whistle to get her attention her first/last time over), I imagine myself asking all the right questions (not "were you pregnant when you got married?" I thought it was normal till retrospect. Retrospect sucks.), serve a homemade frittata, and at the end calmly and efficiently walk her to her car.

Not what Megs McCardle expected? I think this is how she remembers me seeing her out the door.

But that really ain't my style. And I ain't givin' up on Megs McCardle yet. I refuse to admit to Dan that it didn't pan out. You can't pull off Outrageous and Rejected all in one person. That's mental hospital material. Although, according to MY MOTHER, that's my next stop.

Goin' to San Diego?

I think I'm being manipulated into moving to San Diego. I'm certainly being coaxed into somewhere, and if it ain't San Diego, I don't know where the hell it is. I may have family there- if I knew exactly where S.D. was, I might know (my unexercised mind prevails.)
     Kiwi Herman sang a song to me this afternoon, when I mentioned the suspected offer to America's Finest City, that went something like this:
"I left my heart and soul behind

Is it calling or cunning?

with the clubbers in San Diego..."
     Although I always fancied myself more of a street urchin, I'm pretty sure, had I stepped foot down a more glamorous road, I would have ended up a clubber in San Diego. But one year while on vacation at the Jersey Shore, Jackie and I spent the entire trip home staring dismally (and ungratefully) out the windows of the van, pondering the fact that no matter where you are, it always ends up just the same old you in the same old small town. While our mother soaked in the history of every single small town we went through, Jackie and I sat slumped in the back seat, thoroughly depressed by the fact that all we are were two small town girls living in a small town world.  By the time we made the 7 hour trip home, we didn't even see the point in unpacking our suitcases.
     I think it was that realization that stopped me from taking the inevitable 18-years-old-and-just-graduated-from-highschool trip to California.  I knew, since that trip to the shore, that it would just be me  (and probably Jackie) out in the beautiful west.
     Or maybe I've just always been depressed?

The Weather Becomes Her

I was listening to  blasting "Last Dance with Mary Jane" tonight (my outrageous behavior continues) and had the ghastly realization that if I want to smoke pot, I could. I could chart it in with what Dan calls my "outrageous" behavior that began in early November, and add pot to the list of familiarities people associate me with. Add it to the list of prayer intentions that my mom mentally (and verbally, actually) composes for me when we are together.
The problem is, I don't really feel like smoking pot. It just seems like it would make life a little more interesting to have my kitchen smell like it, when it should smell like, oh, I don't know, chocolate chip cookies? I imagine Dan the D-bag walking in and asking with a semi-startled, bordering on concerned if he wasn't too cool for concern, laugh if I'm stoned. And when I confidently say Yes, daring Dan to challenge me, he narrows his eyes briefly, says "Hmm."  and heads to the computer.  He won't address it till he leaves, when he'll look at the baby and say "Well, have fun getting stoned...?" Ah, funny scenario, but not really worth the paranoia that ensues when you are not an actual pot head.
The urge to do drugs in my kitchen is interesting, though.  Am I craving excitement? I'm not the kind of mom who doesn't get out, Ned makes sure of that, so I don't think I have cabin fever. And my kids are normally behaved, whiny and tempermental, but they are sweet and cheery little girls. So I have no crazy stress there. Ned and I are fine. (Really.) He would probably ask if there was any weed left if he smelled it in the kitchen, but we're Fine.
I think I need a change. I'm always wary of giving in to needing a change, because it seems like a slippery slope, like I'll end up needing a new house every 6 weeks by the time I'm 40. But I think I need a change. I think I'm bored F-ing stiff by humanity and life. I think the Buffalo freeze has entered my brain and I am not longer allowed to be stimulated. (It was 5 degrees this morning.) I might need a new friend. I might need a new car. I might need a new couch. Somehow a new friend seems like the easiest accomplishment.  A huge, angry, authentic African American woman seems like a great match for me right now. I don't take her s*hit and she don't take mine. Everything on the table and no holds barred. No Neds for her, she would show me the silly little white girl that I truly is. I really think that would thaw the anti-humanity freeze that has attached itself to my mind. Maybe I'll tell Ned he can smoke pot freely in the kitchen if he finds me a nice, sensible, angry as hell, big as hell, black as hell Woman to be my new best friend.

Misery loves company. Wanna come over?

I'm pretty sure that my identity crisis has become a full fledged, albeit incredibly functioning, depression. It might be because I stopped washing my hair every day. It might be seasonal. It might be just me. But all I want to do is drink beer, eat chicken wings, and watch movies. I joined Netflix, and am cramming as many movies as I can into my free trial. I ate chicken wings and didn't count them. Or regret it. Or make sure Ned had his fill before I dived in (almost literally.) I never thought chicken wings would make me happy, or movies, (I would say beer, but...) but these days it's a whole new ballgame here on Roanoke. Or at Charlie O'briens. Or in (as Jackie, who ain't the happiest camper herself, and I dream about on the phone together, yelling over screaming children in the background) "a dark room with movie after movie, calorie free food, and addiction-proof cigarettes." Yes, this is what Jackie and I collectively yearn for. No wonder our sister Ro calls us the Simpson sisters.)
It's so bad that this morning I asked Ned to drop my latest Netflix flick in the post office box before dropping the girls off at school, so it would go out at 8, and hopefully my next movie will come tomorrow. I told this to Kiwi Herman today, and she gasped and called me "alarming". Well, fudge. What the hell am I supposed to do? Although a practicing Catholic, I'm an "atheist at heart" (some call it practical. Who knows.), and a lukewarm soul at that.  My mind is not being exercised, and my big decisions are in truth trite moments pulling me through the day. There are too many addicts in my life, and just when I think I've got it all figured out, my MOTHER (damn her) tells me she thinks I'm having a break down. I don't like Ned anymore, and my nieces and Bff's kids are being enrolled in a 4 hour a week kindergarten called "Holy Cherubs".  Hello, semi-homeschooled kids around 24-7. So long, shopping excursions and lunches. I don't even like shopping anymore, anyway. I do like lunch though. Which reminds me that I don't like Ned anymore, because today when I told him I was gonna buy a Groupon (in which I would pay $10 for $25, mind you) to an Irish Pub by our house, he snappily said "why don't you invest in some spoons instead. I can never find any spoons. You get all these good deals, why don't you get a good deal on silverware."  Holy freakin cow.  Charlie Sheen may know a thing or two about how to live. Goodbye, wholesome. Hello, bender.

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Snowboarding With Stacy

I forgot to mention, in the throes of excitement over my flannel pajamas, that for Christmas, Ned also got me a one-day pass for....snowboarding. Did I mention that I Am Not Athletic? At All? I could look at this situation kindly, and think that Ned sure does have a lot of faith in me. Or I could look at this suspiciously, and wonder if Ned knows the 1st damn thing about me. Positive Pig is going with the former.
So, tomorrow is the big day. I'm going with my friend, whose name I would love to cleverly disguise, but, as Jackie says, is just SUCH a 'Stacy'. And Stacy she is. She drives a red Bronco and drives it like it's a RED BRONCO. I have never felt more safely unsecure in my life. I think her car is one of my favorite places to be. She's also the daughter of a cop, so she glides through intersections with no glance back, and signalling is optional. I feel like I'm in the cool kid's club when I'm in her car.
She's picking me up around 9:30 tomorrow morning. Ned is watching the baby (Toddler. Okay, I get it. She's not a baby anymore.). Yes, Ned babysits our kids. No, I am not a feminist. He loads my bank account and I keep house. F-ing sick. Works for me.
Ned stared at me a second too long when he got home tonight and said "I hope Kazy's okay tomorrow." That's what he calls the baby. (Toddler.) My sister Ro has pointed out the irony more than once, since, really, there's "nothing crazy about her." I think Ned is fully competent of dealing with uncrazy Kazy.
NDW commented today that after my roller blading scenario, she doesn't even want to know about my snowboarding experience. Well, me either. But I think I am going with the right person. Stacy is Nice. Just like Ned is Nice. (We have been together 10 years and he is still the nicest person I have ever met. Does that throw you for a loop? You can be negative and nice. Ned is.) I haven't exactly tested her yet (besides always making her be the DD), but I'm pretty sure she won't leave me on the Bunny Hill. If she does, I'll blog about it. That'll show Stacy not to F&$k with Postive Pig.

The Beginning of Me and Ned

When Ned and I were first dating, he took me roller blading. I hadn't been roller blading in about 6 years, but Ned acted so cool, and excited about it, that I couldn't say no. He obviously thought this was the next natural step in our budding relationship. And I duuuug Ned, so off I went.
He picked me up and drove me to the bike trail by his dad's house. We walked into the kitchen, where Ned critically eyed my roller blades. (Yes, they were unused. No, they were not just purchased. I ain't pretending to be athletic, people.)  "Brakes?" he said scornfully. (I replied with an apathetic shrug. I didn't  know the right answer. "Yes, those are brakes, Ned.") "You don't need brakes, do you?" How do I answer that? "Uh, I guess not." Ned efficiently popped the brakes off my blades and happily handed them to me. "Now they're sweet. That's frickin sweet that you don't need brakes on your roller blades. You're such a cool girl. They're like hockey skates now!" Yippee, Ned. I DON'T F-ING PLAY HOCKEY.  I felt like I was in a movie where the dweeby girl gets singled out by the football captain. That's how Ned was acting. He had found his area of expertise and suddenly I was faceless, nameless, and opinionless. Ned was the leader of the cruel game called Sports.
Anyway, I put them on, trusting that I would be able to follow Ned's instructions on how to brake by using the inside of my foot. (Just like all the hockey players. Because I play hockey.) Next step, Ned? I wobbled after him across the street (and yes, I did wait until there was not a car in sight. Not chancing getting run down walking on roller blades in front of Ned.) Ned naturally went ahead of me, and was skating on one toe, waiting for me to just cross the damn street. Did it occur to Ned to cross with me? No. Ned glided in hockey stance across Main Street, assuming I was next to him, and when he realized I wasn't, yelled across the street "Come on! What're you doing?". It occurred to me, with Main Street between us, that communication might not be our strong point.
When I finally got across, Ned led the way. He took one turn, leaving me in the dust, which I really didn't mind, because I was getting the hang of it. Staring at my feet the whole time, but getting the hang of it. Ned would periodically (this was in a time span of about 30 seconds. Ned covers a lot of territory on wheels in 30 seconds.)  make laps around me, chuckling dismally at my weak smile. He looked almost deceived when he found out I couldn't make eye contact, or talk for that matter, while roller blading. His disappointment in me was not allieved when the next turn Ned took me down was a sudden, great steep hill that I took at full speed, arms flailing, all pride deceased as I desperately grasped at anything- trees, cars, Ned himself- to ctach me from this terrible fall.  Nothing caught me, and I fell. And ripped my jeans and skinned my knee. And finally told Ned that I can't stop without brakes, and that I don't play hockey, and that this whole day was a terrible idea. A terrible, terrible idea.

Happy Belated New Year

Well, hullo. If you haven't guessed, it's been a hell of a new year. Blogging took a back burner as some very important things occurred. Relatively important, anyway.
Monie moved back. 10 minutes from me, into a room with a view. So fun. * Ned and the girls are addicted to ice skating. (They only started yesterday, but even my perpetually freezing 5 year old never asked to leave. For 2 and a half hours. Very Big deal.) * I have realized that mothers make or break your emotional well being, and am hoping to lose weight in the process. Sometimes stress= weight loss. I think it's a pretty even trade.  * I started cloth diapers. * Dan the D-bag got a puppy, aptly named Yeats. Not really aptly, but he's named Yeats. He's a husky/lab mix and has turned my seven year old into Responsiblity and my 5 year old into Anxiety. (I have never seen anyone more aware that a puppy can escape in my life. She literally pushes you out the door to keep them closed, all with a frozen smile on her face. )

I am not a dog person. I used to feed our family dog chocolate so he would have a heart attack. (I was young, okay? And... unstable, in retrospect.) But Yeats is...different. He is actually Cute. And smells like a puppy. And is under the ownership of someone who firmly believes in training dogs (and people), so he is starting school soon. Hopefully a trained dog will change my perspective on dogs in general.  The dogs we had growing up were TERRIBLE. They begged under the table for food, they ate off the stove, they chewed everything in sight, and any time you had friends over you had to yell out the window to "Get away from the door!" If anyone opened our door they would be trampled before they knew what hit them. My mom's response to my complaints? "Oh, lighten up, Joey. You're just not an animal lover. Why don't you pray that you like dogs?" WTF? Seriously, WTF? Are we talking about the same thing here, Mom?
Anyway, Yeats has promise. The girls love him, and even Ned gave him a half nod the other day, and called him "little guy." Between Monie, ice skating with Ned, and Yeats, I think I will be able to ride out this ache called Mother, and have myself a Happy New Year.