Surprise, Surprise

The other night SJ and I were dead tired as we got ready for bed. He brushed his teeth as I used the adjacent commode. As I flushed and prepared to exit, I reasoned that I was about to put on my nightgown, so why bother pulling up my blue jeans at this point? I sleepily waddled to the closet with my pants around my ankles, and didn't give it a second thought until I noticed SJ staring at me, open-mouthed.

He blinked hard, shook his head and slowly said "w-o-w." His expression was a melange of astonishment, disappointment, and tired resignation.

Obviously, we have been married a long time.

We know each other very well and are almost always very happy, but we're past the era of smoke and mirrors. We've seen each other at our best and our worst and are well beyond any hope of pretense. We have boundaries -- which I appear to have crossed with my ankle jeans -- but we are very comfortable together. Still we manage to surprise each other, for better and for worse.

SJ surprised me when he phoned me last night.

"Where are you?!!" he demanded.

"I'm almost home," I said.

"Where were you?" he asked, still confused.

"The outlets," I replied. "Like I told you."

"I didn't know you'd gone."

"What do you mean?" I asked, surprised. "I told you I was going, and that I would be back to put the kids to bed. I came upstairs to kiss you goodbye. I kissed Serena on her head and said 'Be a good girl for Daddy.' Then I kissed you on your head and said 'Be a good girl for Serena.' We all laughed about it and then I left.'

"Oh. I thought you were just leaving the room," he said.

REALLY? Leaving the room??? I have not kissed that man goodbye when I left a room since 1997.

Granted, SJ was exhausted last night, and he has had a hard week. Nevertheless I am continually gobsmacked by the communication problems that can persist between us -- two seemingly rational, articulate people.

I'll admit that some of our misunderstandings are my fault (not often, but I'm attempting to appear fair and balanced.) I occasionally forget to tell him about an appointment or event, or I may leave out an important detail or request.

Sometimes he will tell you it's a terminology problem on my part. It's my fault that the new songs aren't on my iPod, because I asked him to "load the CD onto the computer," not "input or rip the songs into iTunes." (I can make the hairs on the back of his neck stand up by asking him to "Google" something for me [it's a BRAND, Sweetie, not just a search engine!])

In the case of the outlet shopping trip, though, I'm pointing the finger straight at him. I told him where, when, and why I was leaving, and kissed him goodbye. With the possible exception of tatooing a map on his forehead or carrying a GPS tracking device, I think I did the best I could to explain my whereabouts.

Perhaps the misunderstandings are part of our secret sauce; the reason God made us residents of Mars and Venus. Maybe unpredictability keeps the mystery alive as familiarity tries to breed contempt. So what if our resulting arguments seem more Dumb and Dumber than Hepburn and Tracy?

He surprised me again this morning. He played Will Smith's "Just the Two of Us" for Bennett and proceeded to get a little misty during one of the world's schmaltziest hip hop songs. The unexpected combination of absurdity and sweetness was irresistible.

Ironically, that's the kind of man that's worth pulling up my pants. Maybe I'll even kiss him once in a while when I leave the room.

BFG Meetup Tonight at BWW!

Come enjoy the beautiful weather with some buffalo wings!

Hope to see you there! The meet-up is from 5-7 at Buffalo Wild Wings, located at 21980 Colorado Drive, Dulles, VA 20166-2509. Phone: 703-444-3048.

Mention Bloggers for Good or the Loudoun Museum ALL DAY and BWW will donate a portion of sales.

Check out www.BloggersforGood.org for more info.

Fixing Our Kenmore HE Front Load Washer

or, Part 327 in a continuing series, "Really Annoying [stuff] that Happens to Me When My Husband Is Out of Town."

Our washer has always been somewhat problematic. Like most front-loaders, it has a persistent musty odor that seeps into the clothes if you leave them in for more than a couple of hours. (If you don't ever leave clothes in for more than a couple of hours, you're reading the wrong blog.)

Unfortunately an errant Pull-Up left in my youngest child's laundry put my washer over the edge last week. When I opened the washer door, I was assailed by the smell of sewer water. Even after I ran the load again, the clothes were stinky and soppy. I tried to run a "Drain and Rinse" load, and generated an "F" warning with two minutes to go.

Something was horribly wrong.

I searched the internet and learned that my "F" warning at two minutes was actually an "F2" warning that my washer wasn't draining properly. Another search yielded brilliant directions on how to clean out the filter, which is apparently a common problem.

These directions were clear, concise, and incredibly effective. I'll include them in a separate post with my photos and rough but hopefully helpful video.

Huge thanks to BigChiefM1 (really) for helping me out. I've probably saved $200 on a repair man, and I've spared myself the mortification of anyone seeing my messy laundry room.

Phew!

Eat and Meet - March 10

Bloggers for Good is sponsoring its next meetup and benefit Wednesday, March 10 at the new Buffalo Wild Wings in Ashburn near Wegmans.

Our event will benefit the Loudoun Museum, a great local resource that has suffered lately due to budget cuts and a mold issue. They will be reopening this spring in their repaired historic Leesburg location.

Buffalo Wild Wings will generously donate a percentage of all food sales to the Loudoun Museum all day March 10. Just mention Bloggers for Good or the Loudoun Museum.

If you haven't been to a BFG event before, you should come! They are a non-intimidating forum for meeting other bloggers. If you're a writer, a reader, or merely put up with those of us who are, it would be great to meet you in person. These bloggers are a friendly and interesting group!

Please spread the word and join us on March 10! See you there!

More Butter, More Better

I made good on my resolution to try some Julia Child recipes. My first endeavor: page 210 -- Filets de Poisson Bercy aux Champignons, or "Fish Filets Poached in White Wine with Mushrooms." I must say that Julia and I outdid ourselves.

Or was it just all that butter? Mmm...

I was very strategic about my fish dish for several reasons. First of all, I didn't know what the deuce I was doing, so I was treading lightly. Julia, though knowledgable and conscientious, mistakenly assumes that her readers have a clue. To my consternation she had left out a few key directions, such as what temperature to cook the fish. I read the fish chapter introduction and my recipe several times, then consulted guides from Wegmans and Google (one poaches fish in a 180 degree oven - thanks ComfyCook154!).

The friendly folks at Wegmans instructed me on the correct cheese, fish and wine to use. Some ingredients suffered from passing years and availability. As Julia warned me, it's hard to find true sole in the US, so we (Julia, the Wegmans fish lady, and I) agreed to use flounder. The Wegmans wine specialist made an excellent recommendation to use White Bordeaux Mouton Cadet, which was great in the sauce and with the meal.

Another reason for my careful strategery was the cost of the meal. The fish alone was $14. When you factor in the cost of wine, cheese, pounds of butter and other ingredients, the meal added up to a larger than usual culinary investment.

I warned SJ that I was going to be making kitchen miracles happen, so he fed the kids and stayed out of my way. By 7:00 the electric babysitter was entertaining the kids and we sat down to a delightful meal, if I do say so myself: well-cooked fish with a white sauce that butter, lemon, and wine flavors. Per Julia's instructions, the fish was paired simply with whole wheat couscous and the wine, so as not to distract from the main attraction. We skipped the planned salad course and finished with delicious Trader Joe's Lava Cakes topped with leftover whipped cream.

I'm daydreaming about the butter like a new lover (like on my honeymoon, Mom.) Like most health-conscious cooks, I try to avoid copious amounts of fats and sugar, but let's consider the facts. Butter tastes good. Really good. Butter scratches a primal itch like nothing else. A couple of bites of that sauce and I was channeling Tracey Morgan rather than Julia Child; I wanted to take it behind the middle school and get it pregnant.

And let's don't forget that Julia Child lived to be a buttery 91 years old. How could something so right possibly be wrong?

After this French food experience, I'm thinking like an ancient Greek: the key is moderation in all things. Part of Julia Child's cultural significance was to encourage Americans to embrace food, not fear it. Nutritionists today are coming back to this idea, and a lot of them blame the American obesity epidemic on the low-fat diet trend of the past thirty years. You're going to scratch your itch somewhere, they say. Better a little fat now and then than the processed crap we eat.

I'm no expert (I thought agave was a good idea only to find out yesterday that it's secretly poisoning my liver,) but I can say that having a rich French meal was a rare treat. After my first essay into Mastering the Art of French Cooking, I think I might start taking the road more buttered.

Manifest Destiny

Guy Ritchie gave a lovely -- if obvious -- compliment to his ex-wife, Madonna, in a recent issue of Esquire.

"She's a manifester, if there ever was one...First-rate manifester. Madonna makes things happen."

I like this idea of being a manifester. A manifester identifies a goal, states it, and then makes it happen. The process has to happen in this order; you won't reach your goal by accident.

I would like to be a manifester too. The problem is that I can occasionally be a bit flighty about my goals. I am easily caught up in the latest trend, which is usually introduced to me by Oprah. While this might make me an interesting blogger, dinner companion, or focus group member, it's not great for manifesting.

My husband describes this phenomenon with terms like "gnat-like," "ADD," and "look, something shiny!" I prefer to use the more clinical term of "Itinerant Enthusiasm Syndrome."

Despite SJ's occasionally insensitive terminology, he is actually quite adept in dealing with my IES. Much like dealing with a sleepwalker, a red wine spill, or an angry bear, there are best practices involved when dealing with an IES sufferer. Most importantly, one must never remind a itinerant enthusiast of her past interests; mentioning hot yoga, Dr. Oz's diet, or her partially-finished education degree (or her completely finished history degree, for that matter), will only provoke her.

I believe that through diet and medication I have my IES under control. That's why I am confident that my latest interest represents true love, rather than mere infatuation, and I am ready to start manifesting this goal: I am going to attend the Cordon Bleu school in Paris and pursue its Pâtisserie Diploma. While there, I will blog about my experience and ultimately publish my reflections in a popular and amusing memoir (thus both documenting the experience and enabling a tax write-off.)

Yes, there are obstacles in my way. The first is that I do not currently live in Paris, nor do I have any reasonable way of paying the pricy tuition for both my program and for the private international schools that my three children will require. We have nowhere to live in Paris, a mortgage to maintain in Virginia, and my husband has no Parisian job prospects.

Luckily I am only in step one of my manifestation process, so I will work on solving these problems at a later date.

As usual, SJ sagely agreed that this seems like a perfectly reasonable plan and that this was in no way linked to the fact that I just watched Julie and Julia and am somehow gripped by a blogging/French food/Julia Child frenzy. Or that I am influenced by cabin fever caused by two weeks of canceled school and forty inches of snow.

I love that man.

Pardon the mixed metaphor, but I know that if I manifest this, it will come. After all, nobody thought coupons and I would make it, and look at us now.

Paris, here I come.

Older, Wiser, Better

Jul

ie and Julia is an enjoyable, light-hearted movie with several things going for it. There are strong performances, compelling characters, and a talented writer/director - Nora Ephron who, despite some missteps along the way, has held my allegiance since I saw When Harry Met Sally in 1989. The secret sauce, though, is the life of Julia Child, luminously portrayed by Meryl Streep.

Before this movie (and the press surrounding it) I knew of Julia Child merely as a very tall, yodel-voiced, easily mockable PBS chef, whose recipes would clog your arteries simply by reading them. I didn't know about her fascinating life that started in Pasadena, California and took her all over the world as an OSS agent before marrying her devoted husband, Paul. I knew nothing about her passionate marriage, her influence on American cooking, or her role as a cultural icon.

I am struck by the way Julia found her professional calling by combining her interests, her talents, and her hard work without sacrificing her family life. With her husband's support -- and apparently a lot of nooners -- she was able to pursue both a happy home and a fulfilling career -- a career that transforming her passion for food into a vocation.

The hardest step is probably the first one: finding one's passion.

Julia Child didn't find her calling until she was lucky and wise enough to recognize it; she was a late bloomer. She arrived in France at age 37 following her marriage and foreign service. Searching for a pastime, she tried several hobbies before enrolling in a cooking class at Le Cordon Bleu academy in Paris. An ardent admirer of French cuisine and a natural teacher, she sought to bring French cooking to "servantless American cooks," and with two friends wrote her masterpiece, Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Ten years in the making, it was published in 1961, and her American television show premiered the following year, when she was 49 years old.

A few fortunate people know what they want to be when they grow up at an early age. I am the roughly the same age that Julia was when she arrived in France, and I'm only just getting a vague sense of it. Being this age provides the perspective, financial comfort (it's hard to wax philosophical when you're working three jobs to pay the rent), and self awareness needed to steer (nudge?) our lives in the right direction. After this long I know what makes me tick and what I never get tired of. Over time, infatuations fall away (whither thou, worm composting?) and the list narrows itself: I love to teach, perform, (try to) be funny, communicate, eat, and solve problems.

With any luck I'll soon solidify my list and move on to step two, Implementation -- I'll figure out how to get my career more in synch with these passions. Shouldn't take more than another forty years or so...

Julia Child's inspiring life represents the alchemical potential of combining passion with profession. Her life points out that when we combine our wisdom, experience, talents, and hard work, we may be just getting started.

Despite what you read in magazines and see in most movies, opportunity doesn't end at age twenty-five anymore. It never really did.

Julia, Betsy, and Moi

I finally watched Julie and Julia this weekend. It was, literally, great food for thought; the Julia sections, which focus on Julia Child, were inspiring. Meryl Streep's depiction of her is completely endearing; I didn't know before that Julia was such a lover of food and of life, with an infectious enthusiasm and positive attitude. It was easy for me to identify with parts of her story; like Julia, I loved living in France and tried hard to soak up what was good about French life.

I am also now the same age as Julia when she arrived in France. It was a turning point in her life, when she turned her love for food into a calling. She had been an accomplished foreign service agent and a loving wife, but it only when she applied herself professionally to her passion that she found her greatest success and fulfillment. It is fitting that her awakening happened in a country where cake can symbolize a revolution and a cookie can inspire classic literature.

I am also a fan of French cuisine, although my dietary restrictions (no red meat), slight squeamishness (I will not be deboning any ducks), and sweet tooth have focused my interest on desserts, and to pastries in particular. There is nothing like French pastry. Other countries may try, others don't bother (looking at you, Hungary), but nothing beats la pâtisserie française.

Watching Julie and Julia, I was inspired to try one of Julia's pastry recipes. I grabbed my laptop and was searching for her classic Mastering the Art of French Cooking on Amazon when I remembered the stack of cookbooks we inherited from my late mother-in-law. I ran to the cupboard and returned with a worn 1967 edition just as Julia/Meryl Streep was excitedly unwrapping her first edition on screen. It brought tears to my eyes as I held the same book in my hands, and thought of the three women involved in this moment.

For Julia, the book was the culmination of years of hard work, as well as the embodiment of her love of France, her talent, and the support of her adoring husband.

I wondered about my mother-in-law, Betsy, whom I never met. I assume that Betsy bought the book (the $10 price tag from Dayton's is still affixed to the cover) in an effort to please herself and her young family. Just like me, she optimistically reached out for this cookbook to experience something new and wonderful. The book is only slightly worn, so I'm guessing that practicality usually won over culinary ambition -- raising four children doesn't leave much time for gourmet cooking -- though the only handwritten notes I've found so far are modifications for Lobster Thermidor in her neat, penciled script. Her lobster effort underscores what I already knew -- Betsy was not intimidated by a challenge.

For my part, I had arrived at this book thanks to both of these predecessors, inspired by one and enabled by the other. How striking to hold a double legacy in my hands - evidence of their hope, work, and determination.

It is profoundly sad to have to get to know someone by the clues they left behind, yet I count myself lucky to be held up and pushed forward by these two amazing women, even after they are gone.

Lightening Up

SJ just read my last post and said, "Jeez, Sweetie. A little cynical."

Conan, I guess I failed you. In order to lighten the mood, let me add a postscript. This one's courtesy of the girl who got out of bed yesterday to tell us that she loves carrots.

I just caught my daughter up way too late. I went in and caught an extra snuggle. She read me a book and we chatted for a couple of minutes. As I got up to leave, she said, "Oh, Mama, I forgot to tell you. I love you one hundred."

Thanks, I said. Why one hundred?

"Oh," she replied. "It's 'tell your parents how much you love them day.' I love you one hundred. You tell Daddy I love him one hundred too."

Life is good. Sweet dreams. :)

Pants on Fire

Charles Phillips is handsome, successful, and a good singer - not great on harmony, but his voice is well trained and pleasant. I know this because I just listened to a recording of him singing karaoke with his mistress on her revenge website. Apparently Charles decided to reconcile with his wife, and the mistress is pissed. The kind of pissed that makes you spend $250,000 on some really awesome billboards.

The billboards show Charles and YaVaughnie in happier times. At the top is the heading, "You are my soulmate forever - cep." I'm sure that YaVaughnie created those billboards for many reasons - she felt hurt, abandoned, angry, jealous. She was also protesting the lies -- the lies that Charles told her, his wife, and the world -- and she wanted to tell her side of the story. On some level she was standing up for the truth.

The truth needs all the help it can get. Granted, the "truth" needs context to tell a complete story. I have no idea if YaVaughnie is the hero or the villain in this scenario. Also, the truth isn't always the best choice; sometimes there are good reasons to lie -- Lord knows I do from time to time, despite best efforts to the contrary. Still, I get weary from trudging through the steady stream of bullshit that I see in the news, at work, and even in my plain old life.

I'm extra fired up about this after having dinner with a dear friend who was dating someone living abroad. In October he asked her on an exotic vacation. In December he said they'd have to postpone the vacation since he was probably returning home in early 2010 - yeah! She asked him last week if he wanted to see a show later this month, and he fessed up that he'd decided on his own to extend his tour until September. No vacation, no reunion. Just a schmuck.

Unfortunately, this behavior -- call it a lack of integrity, misrepresentation, or just liar, liar, pants on fire -- feels like the rule, rather than the exception.

I've already spent enough time on the subject of John Edwards, but his story brings dishonesty to dizzying new heights. Apparently (read this fascinating article in New York Magazine,) John Edwards' image was so well-spun that he began to believe it himself, and his staffers put their professional and personal lives at risk in order to conceal his philandering. Elizabeth Edwards' public persona was also fiction. Even accounting for the horrific tragedies she has lived through, she sounds like a mean-spirited, imperious piece of work.

As with all political families, image and spin were part of their job. Elizabeth Edwards admits that she knew about her husband's affair even while she was campaigning for him, and John has recently admitted paternity of his lover's child, bringing his known total of daughters with crippling daddy issues to three.

Admittedly, I'm setting aside other questions of morality to make a point, but as I watched an interview with one of Tiger Woods' mistresses, I was surprised to feel sorry for her. A single mom, she admitted to making a mistake, and said although she had ended the affair years ago Tiger had continued to pursue her with sob stories about how trapped he felt in his marriage. She had no idea she was one of a baker's dozen of women consoling the golf legend. Now she's got a seven-year old son who has to answer for her mistakes.

Businesses lie all the time. Sometimes it's part of the job. They might lie to save their employees undue stress, or to keep trade secrets or to protect confidentiality. Sometimes they need to change their minds or break contracts for the greater good - just ask Conan and Jay. Sometimes they lie for what seems to be no good reason.

Conan O'Brien signed off the Tonight Show last Friday, and couldn't have been classier. He was hurt and angry that NBC had reneged on their promise to keep his show on the air. He took some potshots, but at the end of the show he thanked NBC for all they had done for him over the past twenty years. His last words were an earnest request - that despite all the pain and betrayal that he had felt over the past few months, he asked that people not use his experience as a reason to be cynical.

All I ask of you is one thing: please don't be cynical. I hate cynicism -- it's my least favorite quality and it doesn't lead anywhere.

Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard and you're kind, amazing things will happen.

So I'll follow Conan's lead. Now that I've vented my irritation, I'll let it go. And wait for amazing things to happen (after all, he promised.)

And I'll keep that billboard idea in my back pocket. You never know when you'll need to speak the truth, and maybe even post it on the side of a building.

Fixing a Kenmore HE Elite Front Load Washer

Tips* on Fixing a Kenmore HE Elite Front Load Washer

Original text from BigChiefM1 on Epinions

Symptoms

Foul Odor

F2 Error

Washer Not Draining

Tools
9/32 socket or T-20 torx head bit.
Bunch of rags you don't want when you're all finished.

Directions
*****UN-PLUG THE WASHER******

Lay on the floor in front of the washer and look under the lower panel. You will see three silver colored torx head screws, one on the left, right and center. Loosen these up with your socket or torx head wrench.

[Erin's note: apparently this is a torx wrench, and apparently we had one - who knew?]

Remove the lower front cover and set it aside.
See all the wires? Did you make sure to UN-PLUG the washer?
Good.
Now look at the center of the bottom of the washer. You will notice a white cylindrical contraption.

This is a drain trap where all of the junk from your washer gets hung up so it won't clog up the water pump that discharges the water from your washer. On the front of this drain trap is an access cap. BEFORE you open this place the rags under the trap, along the sides and under the washer. Trust me, you'll thank me later. Now open the drain trap access cap by turning it counter clockwise. Be prepared for some smelly water to come out, probably 1-2 cups worth.

Once the water is drained, pull the trap completely out. [Erin's note: this is when I picked up the video camera, since photos didn't do it justice. Check out the rough video.] You'll find the reason your washer stinks in the trap. We had a blob of black goo and a security label from an article of clothing we bought. That was the culprit. The drain trap was "trapping" all of this junk and getting real funky.

Now clean the drain trap out with hot soapy water and a little bleach. Clean out the cylinder where the drain was. Wipe it out with a rag soaked in bleach and soap. Once everything is clean, replace the drain trap and tighten it down. Do not over tighten this or the seal may leak.

Replace the front cover and the three torx head screws.
Plug the washer back in.
Run the washer through the SANITARY CYCLE with bleach.
Your problem is solved

* This post is not guaranteed to help. These steps helped me, so I wanted to share the 411.

::Sigh::

I'm not the only one.

My friend, Lauren, shares my perfectly respectable (and not creepy) married lady affection for Brian Williams. She read that he was appearing at a discussion and viewing of the film Absence of Malice at the Newseum and invited me to come along. I agreed, though primarily as a hard-hitting journalist/citizen blogger, rather than as a fan.

As the evening approached, there were two snags - one small and one large.

First, the day before the event, I was discussing Brian Williams with my BFF, who proceeded to make the meanest remark I've ever heard in our 35 years of friendship.

"You know, he really looks like your dad."

I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me, and my eyes filled with tears. Our completely one-sided but pure and beautiful relationship (Brian's and mine, that is) was hanging by a thread. Once the father/crush link has been established, all is lost.

"Take it back," I growled through the phone. She got the verbal hint/threat and backpedaled a little.

"I really only know him from Sesame Street," she admitted.

Just like that, BW was back on top. First of all, BFF's credibility was shot to hell - really? She hadn't seen him on the Nightly News? Or, as more suits my personal taste, on the Daily Show? Colbert? 30 Rock? Come on! Also, Brian Williams likes kids??? Somebody just earned another notch on the unrequited adoration belt.

The second snag was more tactically serious. Lauren herniated a disc a few days before the event. She was in excruciating pain, and devastated that she couldn't stay upright long enough to go.

It looked grim for our side. I was bummed that Lauren couldn't go, I wasn't sure if I wanted to go by myself, and the tickets were in Lauren's name. Thankfully, Lauren's husband, Pete, took it for the team and agreed to be my wingman. It takes a special kind of friend to stay up that late on a school night.

So there I was, abandoning my husband with a married man on the way to a movie with my imaginary boyfriend.

The event was very nicely done. The newly-constructed Newseum building is impressive, located on Pennsylvania Avenue next to the Canadian embassy (which was hosting a swanky affair that I accidentally tried to crash. Je m'excuse/I'm sorry!) We got great seats -- about twelve rows back, dead center.

The host Nick Clooney and Williams walked out amidst enthusiastic applause. They talked about the movie, which BW had apparently selected. He said it's one of his favorites; a flawed film about flawed people. Despite the disaster in Haiti, he was able to stay and honor his commitment (integrity!) to host the event, multi-tasking offstage while the film played and rushing back to the station once the event was over.

As expected, BW was handsome, charming, witty, and self-deprecating. So was Clooney, for that matter. The movie was good, and they let us bring our drinks into the theater. In all, besides some annoyingly self-serving audience members (how interesting that you've been a reporter for 11 years, and no, Brian won't sign your petition), I couldn't ask for more.

I called SJ on the ride home. He asked me if I was standing in front of the Newseum, blasting "In Your Eyes" from a boom box over my head.

I extolled the virtues of the evening, describing the scene (he was a firefighter, AND he has the most impressive side hair part I've ever seen!) and quoting pithy remarks (he goes to Costco!) SJ merely harrumphed.

"I love you, too," I told him.

"I find that a little hard to believe right now," he replied in a quiet but tolerant voice.

I could try to explain. Though a Twilight reference would be lost on him, I could try to make my husband see that he is the Edward to BW's Jacob. Both can coexist in my world, yet SJ will always come out on top.

SJ has no need to worry; my affection will remain unrequited. I couldn't even bring myself to ask for an autograph. Twelve rows away is close enough.

And really, it's not my fault; the man is irresistible. As we left the Newseum, I turned to Pete. "Admit it," I said. "You're in love with him now, too, aren't you?"

"In all honesty," he said. "I already was."

My Bad

Christmas is a great time for making amends, so I'd like to take a moment to apologize to you, Dear Reader.

In 2007 I blogged about the movie Dan In Real Life, with Steve Carell. I recommended it, calling it "Not as bad as you'd think," and "surprisingly enjoyable."

I remembered this impression more than the actual movie, so last week I coerced my husband into watching it with me on TV. It wasn't that hard; SJ is a relatively good sport about watching the occasional chick flick, though I suspect it's with an ulterior motive. Like most men, he sees this as an addition to his foreplay tally. The theory is simple: it won't get you a free pass, but it can tip the balance in your favor. See also: doing the dishes, foot rubs, "you look pretty today," etc.

Anyway, there was nothing else on TV, so he sat down beside me.

We missed the first twenty minutes of Dan, and the first sentence we caught was a sign of the schmaltz that was to come. Dan is apologizing for being a jerk.

"I'm sorry. I was way, way out of line." - Dan
"No, you're never out of line; you're my brother," replies Mitch.

Really? I can't remember that my brother was IN line. What kind of bullshit family is this? I refuse to suspend my disbelief for this!

Over the next seventy minutes, Dan treated us to the joys and pain of life according to Hallmark. There was saccharine sweetness - family aerobics on the lawn! a family talent show! - and the poignant moments of loss (Dan is a widower with three daughters. Yes, the youngest girl makes the requisite collage to her mother with the new girlfriend). No one ever bickers or complains that there are about twenty people staying in a small cottage with two bathrooms and no dishwasher.

When it was over, SJ didn't know what to think. I think he felt cheated, bored, and annoyed by the attempted emotional manipulation. As the credits rolled, his next three comments were:

"That @&*$ sucked," followed shortly by "Thanks, Sweetie. Now I'm going to make you watch me surf webpages," and "That's two hours we'll never get back."

I'm not sure that it was that bad, but it wasn't that good. I just want to retract my recommendation before anyone else gets hurt.

And maybe you shouldn't read movie reviews from someone who sees a non-animated movie in the theater about once a year. (Well, I'm hopeful; I've still got two weeks to squeeze on into 2009!)

BTW, just watched The Proposal on DVD. I liked it, and actually laughed out loud a few times. Look for my retraction in 2011.

Of Todd and Tiger

Everything I ever needed to know about privacy, I learned from Todd Jennings.

I've never actually met Mr. Jennings, but I have seen a photograph of him naked, handcuffed, and extremely excited. I suppose that with this much intimate information, I can call him Todd...

I saw this picture in 1988 thanks to his teenage babysitter, Melissa Bilson, who found this photograph while snooping in a drawer at his house. She subsequently decided take it and to share it with the student body of Middleton High School. I can still remember her holding court with the photo next to her locker; that girl knew how to draw a crowd.

These were the days before Photoshop, so I'm sure it was, in fact, Todd and his body. And his handcuffs. These were also the days before digital cameras, so unless he had a darkroom in his house, you'll have to count a photo lab attendant (mail-order, I'm guessing) in the total of people who have seen Todd Jennings in the buff.

I don't know if Todd ever knew that nine hundred (and one) people saw him tied up and naked. I'm not even sure whether he noticed that the picture had gone missing. It probably depends on how many similar photos he took -- if he was a serious porn/bondage hobbyist, one missing photo may have gone unnoticed. If the photo was one of a kind, or of just a few, then I imagine that Todd -- and possibly Mrs. Jennings -- went through an agonizing process of searching their home, casually questioning their children ("anything interesting happen last night, kids?"), and ultimately identifying a small, mortifying list of possible culprits.

I learned several things from what may have been the worst week of Todd Jennings' life:

1. Wow; I guess people really do do that!
2. Assume that what you do in private may become public
3. Assume that people -- especially babysitters -- will go through your things
4. Do not f*&% with Melissa Bilson, and do not EVER leave her unattended in your home.

If Tiger Woods had been a student at Middleton High in 1988, tales of his remarkable adultery might not be splattered all over the tabloids.

Todd would have taught Tiger that if more than two people know something, it won't be a secret for long. We humans have an insatiable desire to know and share dirty laundry. Melissa Bilson did it for free; imagine what she would have done for Tiger-sized money.

Unlike Tiger, Todd Wilson committed no "transgressions and personal sins." Presumably he was merely trying to spice things up with the missus. His only mistake was in not properly guarding his personal effects. Tiger made the same mistake (and more), but on a spectacular scale. Todd assumed that his babysitter would respect his privacy; Tiger left breadcrumbs of texts, receipts, and voice mails with half the "hostesses" in Las Vegas. (Side note: cue the sex addiction/rehab PR story.)

On the bright side for Todd, perhaps Melissa did him a favor - better that she and the entire population of fifteen to eighteen-year-olds of our small town should know than his own children. Certainly, that's a sight of dear old dad that NO ONE should see. Hopefully Todd learned his lesson, albeit the hard way.

As for me, as I reflect back on the image of that pasty, fleshy, grainy photograph, I am struck by conflicting emotions. The nausea is still there, but it's the gratitude that lingers; thanks to Todd, the students of Middleton High will never see a naked picture of me.

Hats off to you, Todd Wilson - bondage aficionado, amateur photographer, and spiritual guide.

Ruff

It's almost Turkey Day, but my contrarian nature inspires me to ruminate on man's best friend.

We don't have a dog any longer, since one of our spawn beloved children is allergic to dogs, but I still consider myself a dog person (I had a cat once, but I prefer a pet who at least looks up when I enter the room, and the constant carpet urination was a turn-off.)

My favorite dog story involves my friend, Riley and her dog, Mandy. A few years ago, Riley's sister and her family came to visit for the holidays. Riley went to work as usual, and asked her brother-in-law to keep an eye on her dog while she was gone. It was an easy job -- Mandy was a friendly, shaggy, black lab mix who simply required access to her food bowl and to be put outside once or twice during the day.

When Riley got home that evening, she asked how things had gone with the dog. Her brother-in-law reported that everything went fine, except that Mandy hadn't come back immediately when he called her inside. The brother-in-law went looking for her, searching the neighborhood for a good fifteen minutes before he found her and brought her home. Mandy was cheerful and hungry after her excursion, and polished off her food bowl when she got home.

"That's fine," Riley said, eyeing the happy black dog who had padded into the room.

"But that's not our dog."

It seems that the brother-in-law had inadvertently grabbed a similar-looking neighbor dog. The real Mandy was located soon afterwards, and the good-natured interloper went back home, slightly confused but well fed.

Mandy went on to live a long and peaceful life. My second-favorite Mandy story happened shortly after she passed away. I stopped by Riley's house and let myself in. When I found Riley in the kitchen, I told her that her interior door to the garage was open.

"Oh, yes. That's because the dog is still in the garage."

I was surprised and slightly taken aback. I was pretty sure Mandy was put to sleep at the vet's office. Were they planning to bury her at home? I gave Riley a quizzical look.

"Yeah, she isn't doing well, so we're just leaving her in the car."

I didn't know what to say. From Riley's tone, I didn't think that this was a symptom of crazy grief, but it had been at least a couple of weeks since Mandy died, and this was just plain weird. My expression went from quizzical to extremely confused.

"We just got her fixed, and she is feeling so bad that we're just letting her rest in the car."

She continued on as I tried to put all the pieces together. Apparently veterinary care was much more advanced than I realized.

"You know we got a new dog from the pound?"

Mandy and her successor, Molly, are extremely sweet dogs, but not all dogs occupy such a fond place in my heart. Our neighbor's dogs bark at dawn every morning are driving me nuts. This is unacceptable at five in the evening, let alone five in the morning. What's worse, the acoustics of our backyard -- which is built on a hill -- make the barks sound like they are coming from inside our bedroom.

A friend has a similar problem, and she shared an IM exchange between her husband and neighbor. It cracked me up, so I'll share it. Note that the neighbor is very sarcastic, and does not really intend to harm any animals, so please do not sick PETA on me.

NedNeighbor08
yt?
That dog on the next street is a pain in the ass.
HankHusband1234 9:13 am
Totally agree about the dog
NedNeighbor08
Don't let anyone know about this; I don't want them to think I'm going to kill the dog.
I AM going to kill the dog...I just don't want them to think it.
We should talk. This shouldn't be allowed to go on.
HankHusband1234
seriously....we need to do something
NedNeighbor08
I don't want to start a neighborhood fight if it can be avoided but it would be nice if it stopped. I guess you can inform the hoa or call the police.
HankHusband1234
yeah....probably hoa
I don't mind calling
NedNeighbor08
ok, let me know. I was almost ready to scream from the deck on Saturday.
"I'm Hank Husband and I'm mad as hell about your f'ing dog!!!! Shut that bastard up!!!!"
HankHusband1234
nice. thanks for that.
NedNeighbor08
another approach would be to get a recording of a dog barking and aim it directly at their house through a kickass sound system. Not only will it sex up their dog but they would "get it" after an hour or two of that.
I know you probably think I'm kidding....but....
NedNeighbor08
or find one of those classical composers that composes the sort of dissonant music that keeps you extremely tense as you listen to it and just doesn't resolve the way that the ear would like it to. We could easily create a worse-than-Guantanamo environment for these guys should we need to.
HankHusband1234
OK...will keep that in our back pocket :-)
NedNeighbor08
they won't even be able to sleep at night
and my policy is to water-board, early and often.
we need a game-changer to let them know we are serious
HankHusband1234
let's make them think their house is haunted
NedNeighbor08
I like that too.
HankHusband1234
they won't know it was us
and they will move out on their own
or maybe that their DOG is possessed
I don't mind them, just their dog
NedNeighbor08
I think you need to just handle things in a way that's scary. For instance, we go over and politely ask them to turn down the dog; they refuse. Instead of getting angry, we just laugh hysterically as we walk back towards our houses.

If you try any of these at home, please do not mention my name.

Happy Thanksgiving!