A few weeks ago, I returned to Dalton. My beloved second home from K-12. The place where I learned to read, write, and play the trumpet. I went in on a Friday afternoon to speak to a fifth grade class. It was Sister I’s class. She invited me to come in and talk about LIFE AFTER YES and the publishing process. And of course I agreed. But I must admit something. Making a cameo in her classroom made me impossibly nervous. But I shoved the nerves aside and I arrived. Clutching an advance copy of my book in sweaty palms, smiling a shaky smile, excited beyond belief.

My sister was wonderful. She met me in the lobby. The same lobby where I used to meet my friends before soccer practice. She led me to the room where she spends her days educating smart and curious kids. And the kids were amazing. They were quick on the approach. They studied me with keen eyes and promptly declared that Sister and I look alike. And they were right. We do.

And then I sat in the front of the classroom, twirling nervously in a black desk chair, talking about my own life after yes. About stumbling into a dream I couldn’t deny. About working hard and writing hard. About traveling down dark paths to destinations unknown. And I also talked about less lofty, ephemeral things. Things that were presumably a lot more interesting to a pack of eleven-year-olds. Things like book covers and vampires. Yes, vampires. On that topic, I had little expertise.

I loved the questions. The raised hands. The kids asked the most intelligent, nuanced, searching questions. One girl told me that she loves to write and that she has started several stories that she can’t seem to finish. She wanted to know if I had any advice. And we all know that I am haste to dispense wisdom, but I was put on the spot and I said something. I told this girl to write when she felt compelled, to give her stories the space they need, to finish them when they were ready. Her young smile, sheepish and smart, was priceless.

One kid asked if I always knew I wanted to write and I said no. I said that I always loved to write, but didn’t know until relatively recently that I wanted to write. And then another student asked me if I came up with my own title. And I said yes. Because I did. And then another soft-spoken girl asked if the process was all that I thought it would be or whether there were surprises. And I told her both. That it was everything I thought it would be, but that of course there were surprises.

There always are.

But the best part of the day? By far? Seeing my own sister in action. My big sister. The leader of the Donnelley sister pack. Sister I has always been exceedingly smart (she learned to read at age two and skipped Kindergarten), but she is also exceedingly modest. I had heard through the glorious Donnelley/Dalton grapevine that she is a wonderful teacher and very well-liked and respected, but on that day I got to see it. How she handled her kids with a mixture of humor and affection and firmness. How she alternated between questions that had answers and those that were not meant to be answered.

The day was incredible. Going back to Dalton was without a doubt one of the best experiences I have had since inking my book deal. And I think I am too close to that day to know why exactly. Maybe that day was so big for me because when I stepped into that colorful classroom, I could picture myself as a fifth grader – a quasi-studious tomboy in a green wool Celtics cap – eager to learn and eager to live. Maybe because I was given the sweet opportunity to talk about the twists and turns of the past eighteen months, and a fascinating process it has been a tremendous privilege to enjoy. Maybe because the happiness I felt on that day confirmed for me that this is it. That I have arrived. That whether or not LIFE AFTER YES is a sparkling success or dismal failure, this, right here, is where I am meant to be.

Ultimately, I think the reason that day was so important to me is actually quite simple. I think that for some reason, for some foolish and elusive reason, I have been reluctant to call myself a writer. Which is plain ridiculous because the moment I began hammering away at the trusty keyboard is the moment I became a writer.

Those of us who write? We are writers.

But that day? Standing up there in front of those bright young things talking about my life and my story and my book? It made it real. Exquisitely real. I walked out of that classroom and out of that school and back into my city and I felt different.

I felt, finally felt, like a writer. A real writer. And this is good. Because I am one.

I am a writer.

(It feels good to write this.)

(It feels good to believe this.)

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• If you have any questions at all about writing or publishing, ask away.
• Have you ever been given a glimpse into the professional world of one of your siblings?
• What were you like in fifth grade?
• Have you gone back to visit your grade school?
• Why do you think so many of us who spend our days writing are so reluctant to call ourselves writers?
  
• What is the deal with vampires? Why are they so hot these days?
  

*Little experiment in generosity here: If you have a blog post you are particularly proud of, please leave a link to the URL in the comment box and (as long as it is not wildly inappropriate or offensive), I will Stumble It. I got this idea from a recent post on social media written by the lovely Scary Mommy. She “stumbled” a link of mine and I received a groovy boost in traffic that day so I am paying it forward. Hey, there’s nothing wrong with writers supporting other writers, huh?

I sit here. Alone. At my little table and my little Starbucks. Outside the vast windows, fat flakes of snow tumble down. Bundled souls amble by, wrestling mangled umbrellas, fighting impossible gales of winter wind.

And I am inside. And warm. But exhausted. Exquisitely exhausted. My coffee is gone. It’s time for another. But I will wait for my refill. I want to get this down first. And I apologize in advance for this post. I am not sure it will be that terrific. I have a hunch it will whip around in different directions like the snow that swirls outside. But that’s okay.

It is a deadline day. This morning, final edits for LIFE AFTER YES were due to my editor. And I have spent the last twenty-four hours poring through my own story, furrowing my brow, scrutinizing the splash of words. I didn’t sleep much last night. No. I couldn’t really sleep because I knew this was my last chance to coddle my creation, to caress its pages. This was my last chance to make sure it was perfect.

And you know what? It isn’t. Because there is no such thing.

Last night, I stood in the kitchen with Husband. Nervously, I clutched my book in my hand. And because he knows me and he loves me, he said what I needed to hear.

He said, “It’s okay if there are mistakes. You are allowed to have mistakes.”

And I fought him on this. I told him that he was wrong, that this is it. That it’s time for perfection. But then I thought about it a bit more and realized that maybe he was right. (He usually is.) Have you ever read a book and found a typo? Because I have. Many times. Even in books I love.

And then I realized something else. Maybe Husband wasn’t just talking about my book. Maybe he was talking about something bigger. Maybe he was talking about life. Because life is a story, isn’t it? And we can polish it and polish it, but there will always be pages that are better and worse. There will always be mistakes. And this is okay, isn’t it?

This is real.

But even after having this mini-epiphany about the futility of obsessing over the manuscript of existence, I worked furiously to make sure my story was just right. I dogeared pages. Made little notes in the margins. I reworked some sentences. I chose some new words.

But you know what? It is not just right. Because there is no such thing.

Minutes ago, I hit send. I let go. Of my story. Of a creature I have protected for years now.

And as I sit here watching snow dance, shaking from caffeine and pride and awareness, I realize something. Something simple and profound. Something hardly revolutionary. That something?

I am not good at letting go.

And I need to work on this. Because isn’t life about letting go of things? Of moments and hours and days and years? Of people we love? Of places that are no longer home? Isn’t life about progress, about stumbling along sidewalks slick with existential snow? We might slip, but we must walk anyway. We might fall, but then we will stand and keep going.

Lao Tzu said, “By letting it go it all gets done. The world is won by those who let it go. But when you try and try. The world is beyond the winning.”

And so. Today, I did it. I let go of something big. And I am scared and relieved and happy and sad. I am all of these things. Like those flakes, I am all over the place. Worried about the typos on my pages, the mistakes in my world, the cracks in my concrete. Inching toward acceptance of all these things.

And now. Instead of spending another thirty minutes combing through these words, these ones right here that you are reading, to make sure that they are perfectly punctuated and shrouded with the right level of metaphorical gloss, I will publish them.

I will let go.

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Are you a perfectionist like I am when it comes to your life or your writing? Are you good at letting go of things? Of people or the past? Do you forgive yourself when you notice mistakes in the manuscript of life? If we all acknowledge that there is no such thing as perfection then why do we strive for it so fervently? Is it snowing where you are?

While I was away this past weekend, I did something I haven’t been able to do in a while. Two things, actually. I read an entire book in one day. And I read much of it while spinning away on an elliptical machine. Now this multi-tasking? It felt good. For me, there is nothing quite like a physical and intellectual sweatfest. (Note: This is exactly how I studied for the New York Bar Exam; Notes in hand, on my trusty elliptical which has since bitten that proverbial dust. Much like my career in the law.)

The book? Elizabeth Gilbert’s Committed. Now, I am embarrassed to say that I only read the first fifteen or so pages of Eat, Pray, Love. But I will certainly go back and read it now because I enjoyed Committed. Now this book is an exploration of marriage and as a married woman and curious soul, I found this to be immensely interesting stuff and if you want to read a more thoughtful post about this book, please click here. But in reading Gilbert’s words, I found myself interested in something a bit more general: the question of commitment, of giving ourselves wholly to something or to someone.

Needless to say, the book got me thinking about my own life (and I think this is something good books tend to do). I thought about the things I consider myself committed to. And there are a few. More than a few.

First, the obvious…

I am committed to Husband. Five-plus years ago, we exchanged vows and traded rings. In so doing, we expressed our fidelity to one another. But this is not why I feel committed to him. It has nothing to do with the state or the law or paperwork that was filled out several years ago. I feel committed to him because I love him deeply and exclusively, because in the years we have been together, I have literally not looked at another man. (Not that way, at least.) I feel committed to him because he makes me laugh daily, because he swaddles our girls in the deepest of daddy affection, because he listens to me and holds me and knows me and loves me. I could go on, but I don’t want to risk further nauseating the cynics among you and this is really not the point of this post (although it is Valentine’s Day week and a little mush is perfectly apropos.)

I am committed to my girls. These little creatures mean absolutely everything to me. Every step I take, every decision I make, every question I ask, every tear I shed, is rooted deeply or more superficially in the soil of motherhood. I am a mother now. This is my most important role to date and it informs everything I do and every aspect of my evolution. I have said this before, but parenthood is the lens through which I now see the world. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. Those blue-eyed babes? They are it for me.

I am committed to my family. A couple days ago, I wrote a post about family. About how it is my number one. And it is. I hail from an impossibly large and loving family (four sisters; nine aunts and uncles; over thirty first cousins; you get the picture). I am incredibly close with my mother and my sisters and Husband’s family. (I know, I know, it is borderline criminal to love the In-Laws. But I do. Guilty as charged.) I had a rich and rewarding childhood, stuffed with family fun, and I am doing everything in my power to make sure my girls can say the same thing one day. Oh, and I’ve made no secret of it here, but I hope my own little family grows. When the time is right. (When is the time ever right? Alas, fodder for its own post.) Truth be told, if ever forced to choose between a bevy of kids and a string of best-sellers, I’d choose the former any day. (Sorry, Agent, Editor, Publicist, Readers.)

I am committed to my friends. I don’t know how I’ve been so lucky, but I have collected some absolutely incredible friends along the way. Friends who are interesting and quirky and accomplished and hilarious and talented and supportive. Friends who have literally been there with me from day one. Friends who stood by my side as I married my man and lost my Dad and welcomed my girls. Friends who I encountered more recently as I entered the wild waters of motherhood. Friends who I have met and continue to meet right here in this odd and wonderful ether of the thing we call the blogosphere. My happiness is hinged squarely on these friendships and I am deeply devoted to my friends. All of you.

Next, the more idiosyncratic…

I am committed to writing. I broke up with Mr. BigLaw several years ago and ever since, I have been committed to writing. Our relationship was tenuous at first. I didn’t really know what I was doing. I played hard to get. I suffered from dizzying bouts of writer’s block. But I persisted, clinging tight to my evolving craft. (I hate the word craft. It is mucho pretentious.) And now? My days are packed with words and ideas and chapters and posts. A day does not go by without writing. Each and every day, I say ‘I do’ to writing. These words, these simple words, never get old.

I am committed to dreams. Despite everyone’s (and I mean everyone’s) advice, I started my forthcoming novel LIFE AFTER YES with a dream. Per the experts, this is cliched and a telltale sign of amateur craft. Apparently, I am an amateur. And one who favors the big, bad cliche. I felt strongly about starting my book with a dream because that’s how important I think dreams – actual and metaphorical – are. I think they highlight what matters to us, what we want, who we are. By writing these words here now, by immersing myself in the precarious life of a writer, I am following a dream. And I am committed to chasing this dream and whatever others might arise.

I am committed to questions. I have recently concluded that there are two types of people in the world: Answer People and Question People. The former breed are people who keep long and efficient lists, who like to diagnose people and situations, who discern blacks and whites among life’s grays. Proudly, I fall in the latter camp. I love questions. I love how they echo. Like some of my beloved counterparts, I plan to live a life of questions.

I am committed to conversation. This one? This one is huge. Too huge for a fleeting mention. I have said it before and I will say it again (and again): For me, happiness is conversation. My fondest experiences and sweetest memories are of conversations. In the last couple of weeks, I have had a handful of conversations that have been absolutely amazing. Conversations that I will never ever forget. Conversations that will stick with me forever. I can’t wait to tell you all about them. And I will. Tomorrow.

So, there you have it. My many commitments. And as I write these final words, bringing this post to a not-so-tidy close, I wonder whether it is possible to be truly committed to all of these things? Whether each of us has a limited commitment capacity? Whether we spread ourselves and our attention and affection thin by saying I do to too many people and too many things?

(Told you I was a Question Person.)

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At this point in your life, to whom and to what are you committed? Are you crazy committed like I am? How do you define and recognize commitment? Are you a Question Person or an Answer Person? Have you read Elizabeth Gilbert’s new book? Would you like to? If so, please leave a comment here before 11pm EST tonight 2/10/10 for a chance to win a copy of Committed!

Yesterday was a big day for this literary rookie. It was big because advance copies of LIFE AFTER YES arrived. For the first time, my story was not a collection of loose pages, but an actual book. And I held it. I flipped through it. I ran my finger along the spine. I smiled. A lot.

But. Yes, there is a but. (Isn’t there always?)

But yesterday was not like I imagined it would be. Maybe I should not admit this, but I have been anticipating yesterday for a while now. Fellow authors had told me that the day on which galleys arrive is a Big Day, a day I would not forget, a day that would make everything seem real. This all made sense to me.

I don’t know what I expected. I didn’t expect the literazzi to congregate on my front stoop waiting to get their money shot. I didn’t expect flowers or balloons. I didn’t expect a whole lot of hoopla. I didn’t expect a glamorous unveiling. I don’t know what I expected the day to be like. I really don’t. But I do know that I expected the day to be a bit different than it was.

Enough about expectations versus reality. About my yesterday…

Today is Thursday. Which means that yesterday was Wednesday. And this is pertinent only because Wednesday is the day on which I am solo with the girls and when my flaws as a parent and as a person become exquisitely exposed. Yesterday was no exception. In fact, yesterday was the rule.

The day began like any other Wednesday. Baby and I stood by the front door and said bye bye as Husband and Toddler left for school. Once they were out of sight, Baby turned beet red and cried like her finger was caught in the door. To say that she is a bit of a Daddy’s girl these days is a severe understatement.

Moments later, her tears ran dry and our morning was underway. Together, we worked hard to create a cyclone of chaos and clutter. We scattered the contents of the diaper bag. We splattered apple sauce on the newly-cleaned rug. We ripped pages out of books and then said, “Uh oh.” We were busy. Working hard.

And then the doorbell rang. Baby and I looked at each other, locking blue eyes in a moment of curiosity and confusion. And then I realized what was happening. We ran to the door. I opened it. A nice man whose face I wish I remembered smiled and handed me a box. Medium-sized. I thanked him. I studied the print on the box. Sure enough, it said HarperCollins.

“They’re here!” I said to Baby.

And then I placed the box down on the floor. Right there next to the door. Baby and I crouched down next to it. I tore into it. Ripped it open. Baby pulled the bubble wrap from the top and played with it. I pulled something else out.

My book.

In my shaking hands, I held it. I showed it to my little girl.

“Booooook,” she said and went back to her bubble wrap. And I just sat there, on the hardwood floor, in a divine daze, looking at it. Baby pulled a book out of the box and studied it and flipped the pages like I had done moments before. And this warmed my heart. So I decided to take a picture.

And then Baby chucked that book and a few others on the floor. And then popped up and disappeared into the living room. In an effort to preserve order, I collected the books and the bubble wrap from the floor and put them back in the box. Baby reappeared by my side. Clutching a bag of Veggie Booty. She looked me in the eye and then put the bag in the box too.

And then we retired to the living room to play some more. She brought the Booty. I brought my book. Every few moments, I picked up the book and tried to read a bit. But Baby didn’t like this. Soon, my book was banished to the coffee table chaos where it would hang out with snacks and remotes and magazines. It ended up under a pair of Dora dominoes. Right where it belonged.

I tried to call Husband. To tell him that this monumental day had finally arrived! I could not reach him. I left messages. I left texts.

Baby and I picked up Toddler from school. And then we came back home. Toddler skipped into the living room. I followed, clutching a copy of my book. Toddler made herself comfy on the couch.

“Guess what?” I asked.

“What?” Toddler asked.

“This is Mommy’s book.”

Toddler ignored me. “I want to watch a TV show.”

“Okay, but in a minute. Look. This is Mommy’s book.”

Toddler glanced over and said, “Okay.”

“Mommy wrote the words in this book. All by herself.”

And then Toddler looked at me. Actually looked at me. And rolled her eyes like she was a teenager and said one word, “Good.”

Good.

The rest of the afternoon proceeded like most other Wednesdays. My girls giggled. And fought. And cried. And dumped small items all over the carpet. And refused to eat anything with a morsel of nutritional value. Toddler napped, but Baby refused. I put her in her crib, but she screamed Daddy over and over. Even though this was Mommy’s day.

And when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I declared defeat and retrieved her from her crib. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were wet. Her neck was sweaty. I brought her back to the living room, the room I had grand plans to tidy. We sat down on the couch next to my computer. I had planned to get some work done, to leave some comments on my favorite blogs, to cross some things off that endless list.

But Baby had other plans. She snuggled up to me and said “Mommy” and then nodded off to sleep. On me. Something she hadn’t done since she was weeks old. I shut my laptop. I sat there. Holding her. Staring at my book. Wondering if I could reach it without waking her. But then I decided not to try. I closed my eyes too.

And the peace was short-lived. Soon, Baby was up. And so was Toddler. Soon, they were back to their old tricks. Making messes. Making me crazy. The poetic crescendo came at the end of the day when Toddler told me she had to go potty. The three of us went to the bathroom. Toddler, my big girl, climbed up onto the toilet all by herself.

And I heard my phone ring in the other room. I knew it was Husband. Excited, I ran to get it.

Before I could answer it, I heard Toddler crying. And hard. “Mommy!”

I ran back to the bathroom. Toddler had fallen in the toilet. She looked up at me, panicked, arms and legs flailing like a bug. And I rescued her. Kissed away her tears. Dried her off. Flushed.

I got the girls situated in front of a television show. I surveyed the damage in my living room. And then I hopped up. I walked to the box. One by one, I pulled the books from it. I carried them into the kitchen. I shoved dirty plates and mail piles to make space on the counter. And then, slowly, methodically, I stacked my books up. One on top of another.

A tiny, tidy, triumphant tower.

And then I took a picture. So I would remember my day. A big day. Not the glamorous and grand day I’d secretly pictured. But a big day. A day filled with babies and books and booty.

A day filled with bounty.

When Husband came home, the girls were running wild. Naked. Wearing my necklaces. My shirt was soaked with toilet water and chicken soup. My pants were caked with diaper cream. With zero fanfare, I handed my man a copy of my book and said two words, “It’s here.”

And Husband smiled. And kissed me on the cheek. And then we went back to chasing our sweet girls.

Just another Wednesday. A rough day. A raw day. A real day.

A big day.

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What’s your hardest day of the week? Why? Have there been big days in your life that you foolishly assumed would be fabulous and flawless that turned out to be stuffed with mishaps and real life?

**Leave a comment here before 11pm EST on Friday, January 22 for a chance to win an advance copy of LIFE AFTER YES!***

My book has a cover.

No biggie.

Please hold a moment while I scour my sweaty palms with a baby wipe and do a little happy dance in my bare feet.

Okay, I am back. Totally calm. Impossibly collected.

Right.

To be perfectly honest (there is no such thing as perfect honesty, but I try), this quest for a cover has dragged on a bit. It has been a wee bit stressful for me. Almost as stressful as coming up with a new title.

But, alas, it seems that the good folks at HarperCollins are happy with this lovely cover.

And so am I.

When my editor sent it along at the end of last week, I delayed opening the attachment. I just sat there staring at her email with the menacing adorable paperclip. I was alone in my study. I started shaking. Finally, I mustered the bravery to click. And open said attachment.

And there it was. Striking. Gorgeous. Intriguing.

I felt those proverbial chills. They were multiplying. I tried calling Husband. And Mom. And sundry sisters. I tried calling my agent. My editor. I remembered that my publicist was on vacation. So then I did the next best thing. I hopped online. Trembling, I wrote the following words and hit that trusty return button scattering them in the odd ether of the Twittersphere:

I am staring at the cover of my book. Shaking. Guess this is really happening.

And there was a flurry of responses. People expressed their congratulations. People told me they couldn’t wait to read my book. And though I was alone in that moment, I felt surrounded. Supported.

And then. Today, I met a wonderful group of women for midday fondue in Midtown. (Does it really get better than that? Answer: No.) These are ladies I encountered on one magical September Saturday thanks to the lovely Danielle LaPorte. (Yes, I mention her a fair bit chez ILI. For good reason. Check her out.) What I love most about this group is its incredible diversity. Yes, I savored words and wine with women who spend their days (and nights) coaching creatives and professionals, writing books and blogs, inventing games, decorating homes, designing jewelry, selling art, writing plays, astrologizing (a word?), and trying out for roller derby. For two-plus hours (thanks, Husband!) we talked animatedly about life and love.

About the lives we are all leading. And the ones we hope to lead.

About the things we love. Because each of us is daring to do something we love. Or at least trying to figure out what that something is.

We traded tips and tales. I passed around my phone to show everyone an image of my book cover. There were Ooooohs. And Aaaahhhs. The consensus was that it is beautiful and strong. And yes. I am not 100% naive. (Only 83-96%) I know that it is very likely that people were spouting false praise. But I don’t know. The enthusiasm seemed too authentic. I chose to believe.

At the end of our time together, we went around the table and announced our dream for 2010. There were no restrictions. No rules. The dream didn’t have to be realistic. It could be wild and crazy.

When it was my turn, my palms grew clammy and I grew sheepish. I looked down as I gripped my glass of water and began to speak.

“My dream is that people buy my book and read my story,” I said.

I was met with a chorus of nods and smiles.

“People will. We will.”

Reality and dreams can collide. And, sometimes, they do.

If we let them.

And so. I am thrilled and, yes, petrified to be sharing this with you today. The cover for my very first book. Because I do have moments of jagged confidence when I believe and fervently that there will be many books. And many covers. And I have to relish these moments of foolish faith. Because they fade. And quickly.

More than anything, I feel humbled and happy to be doing this. This. Writing. Piecing words together into that impossible puzzle that is prose. May 18 will come and go. My book will sell or it won’t. But my words? They are here to stay. Mingling in my mind. Prancing on the page. Settling on your screen.

So, this is it.

I am proud. And scared. And excited. And overwhelmed.

But most of all? Most of all, I am thankful. Thankful that somewhere along the line, I stopped obsessively polishing my resume. That I allowed myself to be improvident. That I indulged in a little dream.

I am thankful to be married to a man who tolerates my permutations, who seems to savor my seriousness and silliness. Thankful to be the harried and happy mother of two tiny creatures who remind me – and daily – of the majesty of something that should not be relegated to our first years: imagination.

Thankful to have friends – who hail from childhood and adulthood and in-betweenhood, from worlds real and virtual and virtureal. Friends with whom I can share my fears and my fondue.

And as I write this, taking that laborious literary plunge into that beckoning self-centered sea, I realize something. In so many ways, in important ways, this is really not about me. This is not about one book I wrote. This is not about that ethereal image of a bride on the cover of my creation.

No.

This is about something bigger. Far bigger. This is about the commingling of hope and happiness. Of dream and reality. Of lust and love and life. This is about asking the big questions. Loudly. Proudly. This is about letting these big questions echo in our heads and our hearts and our homes. This is about giving perfection and prudence only the power they deserve.

This? This is about saying YES. To what we want. To what we need. To who we are.

This is about saying YES. Sometimes even before we know the question.

This about LIFE AFTER YES.

This is about chills. The good kind.

Mine. Yours. All of ours.

(Note To Self: This. Is. Happening.)

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Are you doing what you love? Are you loving what you do? Do you have some sense of what you might love to do? Do you love my book cover so much that you want to pre-order it?

No, there is no giveaway today. I am taking a breather from buying your affection. But Friday’s winner of the signed copy of Gretchen Rubin’s blazing new book THE HAPPINESS PROJECT was Ron!

[I take that back. Not that Ron was the winner. He is! The part about there being no giveaway. You might not have realized it, but there is a giveaway every day on ILI. I give you my words. My heart. Itty-bitty pieces of my hopes and dreams, my neuroses and insecurities. All for free. Not bad. Not bad at all.]