Happy New Year. Some of you are on the east coast, or other continents even, so I can say that now and safely go to bed early.

We had some fondue tonight (bread! the forbidden fruit! er, carb!) and a mug of spiked chai and then, at about 9:30, some champagne because it was taking up room in the fridge and we thought we should even though neither of us likes it. We're crazy, I tell ya. We also watched Hellboy and Bad Santa and did the dishes. We're just not whooping-it-up types, although tomorrow we're planning to go to Monterey to see the shark.

Resolutions

I've only got two -- get our financial house in order, specifically by bulking up an emergency fund, and continue the shedding of the pounds. I've held steady over the holidays, keeping off the 10 I've lost so far, and I'll settle for that. But there must be a great lessening in 2005. Oh, and if possible, teach Timmy to sit. Gotta have a stretch goal.

Does anyone else's partner periodically flap their arms and run around the house screeching, "GRAWP!! I'm a pterodactyl!"?

I thought not.

For a pair of lesbians, Sarah and I have remarkably few lesbian friends. And those that we have, we don't get to hang out with very often. At our wedding, we stuffed most of them at just one table. What we are extremely short on is single lesbians. We have one, and she desperately wants to be set up with others. In this respect, we are failing her.

It's kind of fluky. Neither of us works with any who are single, that we're aware of. There don't seem to be any candidates in Sarah's soccer league. My local lesbian friends haven't come through with any friends who are on the prowl. And we just don't hang out with that many, period.

So I'm throwing it out there, Internet. If you know of, or are, a single, 30-something girly lesbian with an athletic bent, have I got a girl for you.

What luck! Our annual delivery of crappy weather coincides with our annual portion of days-to-stay-home-and-putter-and-do-nothing. We've been putting things away and tormenting the hounds. And playing a video game that Sarah got me against all historical evidence of what that sort of thing does to my brain.

The homeless thing went well -- we cooked for the 30 or 40 we were told would show up, and ended up serving just 10. I'm glad the rest had a place to be for the holidays.

And now, for a change of pace, I will attempt to make you cry.

So last spring, Sarah's neighbor-dad-guy died. He was sweet and had a huge family that lived next door to the Crawfords for more than 30 years, and cancer took him out way too soon. His name was Carl. A few months after he died, his youngest son and his wife had their third child, a boy they named Carl. He even looks like his grandpa. They had just sold their house and moved in with Mrs. Carl for a while. But Baby Carl has not been well -- they found out early on that he has spinal muscular atrophy, a degenerative condition that weakens nerve response and muscle tone. Babies with it lose their ability to move, they can't cough or swallow well, and they nearly always die by the age of 2, often from lung infections from fluid they can't clear. The result has been round-the-clock care from his parents and some close calls. He's in a Stanford-based drug trial and is responding well, but it's a day-to-day thing with a grim forecast. Friends, family and neighbors are trying to help where they can.

So here's the kicker. Baby Carl's mom's grandma flew in for Christmas. She got to hold him for a while. And she said to her granddaughter, "I'll hold him in heaven."

So far no one to my knowledge has been able to tell that story without completely choking up, me included. And if you got through it stone cold, I don't want to know.